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
expressions 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.
The keeper now told her it was time for her to depart; and she
mournfully arose: but, first seizing her father's hand, she leaned for a
moment her head on his arm; then, bidding God bless him, walked to the
door with the keeper. But on seeing her about to leave him, Fitzhenry
ran after her, as fast as his heavy irons would let him, wildly
exclaiming, "You shall not go--you shall not go."
Agnes, overjoyed at this evident proof of the pleasure her presence gave
him, looked at the keeper for permission to stay; but as he told her it
would be against the rules, she thought it more prudent to submit; and
before Fitzhenry could catch hold of her in order to detain her by
force, she ran through the house, and the grated door was closed on her.
"And this," said Agnes to herself, turning round to survey the
melancholy mansion which she had left, while mingled sounds of groans,
shrieks, shouts, laughter, and the clanking of irons, burst upon her
ears, "this is the abode of my father! and provided for him by
me!--This is the recompense bestowed on him by the daughter whom he
loved and trusted, in return for years of unparalleled fondness and
indulgence!"
The idea was too horrible; and Agnes, calling up all the energy of her
mind, remembered the uselessness of regret for the past, but thought
with pleasure on the advantages of amendment for the present and the
future: and by the time she reached Fanny's door, her mind had recovered
its sad composure.
Her countenance, at her return, was very different to what it had been
at her departure. Hope animated her sunk eye, and she seemed full of
joyful though distant expectations: nay, so much was she absorbed in
pleasing anticipations, that she feebly returned the caresses of her
child, who climbed up her knees to express his joy at seeing her; and
even while she kissed his ruddy cheek, her eye looked beyond it with the
open gaze of absence.
"I have seen him again," she cried, turning to Fanny; "and he almost
knew me! He will know me entirely, in time; and next, he will know every
thing; and then I shall be happy!"
Fanny, to whom Agnes had given no clue to enable her to understand this
language, was alarmed for her intellects, till she explained her plans
and her hopes; which Fanny, though she could not share in them, was too
humane to discourage.
"But now," continued Agnes, "let us consult on my future means of
gaining a livelihood;" and finding that Fanny, besides keeping a
day-school, took in shawl-work, a considerable shawl manufacture being
carried on in the town, it was settled that she would procure the same
employment for Agnes; and that a small back room in Fanny's little
dwelling should be fitted up for her use.
In the mean while the governors of the bedlam had returned to their
respective habitations, with feelings towards Agnes very different to
those with which they had assembled. But too prudent to make even a
penitent sinner the subject of praise in their own families, they gave
short, evasive answers to the inquiries that were made there.
Mr. Seymour, on the contrary, thought it his duty to relieve the
generous and affectionate heart of his daughter, by a minute detail of
what had passed at the meeting; but he had no opportunity of doing this
when he first returned home, as he found there a large party assembled
to dinner. Caroline, however, watched his countenance and manner: and
seeing on the first an expression of highly-awakened feelings, and in
the latter a degree of absence, and aversion to talking, which it always
displayed whenever his heart had been deeply interested, she flattered
herself that Agnes was the cause of these appearances, and hoped to hear
of something to her advantage.
During dinner, a lady asked Caroline which of her young friends would
accompany her to church, in the capacity of bride-maid. Caroline
started, and turned pale at the question--for melancholy were the
reflections which it excited in her mind. It had always been an
agreement between her and Agnes, that whichever of the two was married
first should have the other for her bride-maid; and the question was
repeated before Caroline could trust her voice to answer it. "I shall
have no bride-maids, but my sisters," she replied at length with a
quivering lip; "I cannot; indeed I wish to have no other now." Then,
looking at her father, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears; and
unable to suppress, but wishing to conceal, his emotion, he abruptly
left the room.
There is scarcely any human being whose heart has not taught him that we
are never so compassionate and benevolent towards others, as when our
own wishes are completely gratified--we are never so humble as then.
This was the case with Mr. Seymour: he was about to marry his eldest
daughter in a manner even superior to his warmest expectations, and his
paternal care, therefore, was amply rewarded. But his heart told him
that his care and his affection had not exceeded, perhaps not equalled,
that of Fitzhenry; nor had the promise of his daughter's youth, fair as
it was, ever equalled that of the unhappy Agnes: yet Caroline was going
to aggrandize her family, and Agnes had disgraced hers. She was
happy--Agnes miserable. He was the possessor of a large fortune, and all
the comforts of life; and Fitzhenry was in a madhouse.
This contrast between their situations was forcibly recalled to his mind
by the question addressed to Caroline; and, already softened by the
interview of the morning, he could not support his feelings, but was
obliged to hasten to his chamber to vent in tears and thanksgivings the
mingled sensations of humility and gratitude. Caroline soon followed
him; and heard with emotions as violent, her father's description of
Agnes's narration, and her conduct before the governors.
"But it is not sufficient," said she, "that you tell me this: you must
tell it wherever you hear the poor penitent's name mentioned, and avow
the change which it has made in your sentiments towards her; you must be
her advocate."
"Her advocate! What would the world say?"
"Just what you wish it to say. Believe me, my dear father, the world is
in many instances like a spoiled child, who treats with contempt the
foolish parent that indulges his caprices, but behaves with respect to
those, who, regardless of his clamours, give the law to him, instead of
receiving it."
"You speak from the untaught enthusiasm and confidence of youth,
Caroline; but experience will teach you that no one can with impunity
run counter to the opinions of the world."
"My experience has taught me that already: but, in this case, you do not
seem to do the world justice. The world would blame you, and justly
too, if, while talking of the unhappy Agnes, you should make light of
her guilt: but why not, while you acknowledge that to be enormous,
descant with equal justice on the deep sense of it which she entertains,
and on the excellence of her present intentions? To this what can the
world say, but that you are a just judge? And even suppose they should
think you too lenient a one, will not the approbation of your own
conscience be an ample consolation for such a condemnation? O my dear
father! were you not one of the best and most _unspoilable_ of men, your
anxious attention to what the world will say of your actions, must long
ere this have made you one of the worst."
"Enough, enough," cried Mr. Seymour, wounded self-love contending in his
bosom with parental pride, for he had some suspicion that Caroline was
right, "what would the world say, if it were to hear you schooling your
father?"
"When the world hears me trying to exalt my own wisdom by doubting my
father's, I hope it will treat me with the severity which I shall
deserve."
Mr. Seymour clasped her to his bosom as she said this, and involuntarily
exclaimed, "Oh! poor Fitzhenry!"--"And poor Agnes too!"--retorted
Caroline, throwing her arms round his neck: "it will be my parting
request, when I leave my paternal roof, that you will do all the justice
you can to my once-honoured friend--and let the world say what it
pleases."--"Well, well, I will indulge you by granting your request,"
cried Mr. Seymour; "or rather I will indulge myself." And then,
contented with each other, they returned to the company.
A few days after this conversation Caroline's marriage took place, and
was celebrated by the ringing of bells and other rejoicings. "What are
the bells ringing for to-day?" said Agnes to Fanny, as she was eating
her breakfast with more appetite than usual. Fanny hesitated; and then,
in a peevish tone, replied, that she supposed they rang for Miss
Caroline Seymour, as she was married that morning:--adding, "Such a
fuss, indeed! such preparations! one would think nobody was ever married
before!"
Yet, spitefully as Fanny spoke this, she had no dislike to the amiable
Caroline; her pettishness proceeded merely from her love for Agnes. Just
such preparations, just such rejoicings, she had hoped to see one day
for the marriage of her dear young lady;--and though Agnes had not
perceived it, Fanny had for the last two days shed many a tear of regret
and mortification, while news of the intended wedding reached her ear
on every side; and she had not courage to tell Agnes what she heard,
lest the feelings of Agnes on the occasion should resemble hers, but in
a more painful degree. "Caroline Seymour married!" cried Agnes, rising
from her unfinished meal: "well married, I hope?"----"O yes, very well
indeed--Mr. Seymour is so proud of the connexion!" "Thank God!" said
Agnes fervently:--"May she be as happy as her virtues deserve!"--and
then with a hasty step she retired to her own apartment.
It is certain that Agnes had a mind above the meanness of envy, and
that she did not repine at the happiness of her friend; yet, while
with tears trickling down her cheek she faltered out the words "Happy
Caroline!--Mr. Seymour proud! Well may he be so!" her feelings were
as bitter as those which envy excites. "Oh! my poor father! I once
hoped--" added she; but, overcome with the acuteness of regret and
remorse, she threw herself on the bed in speechless anguish.
Then the image of Caroline, as she last saw her, weeping for her
misfortunes, and administering to her wants, recurred to her mind, and,
in a transport of affection and gratitude, she took the paper that
contained the gift from her bosom, kissed the blotted scrawl on the back
of it, and prayed fervently for her happiness.
"But surely," cried she, starting up, and running into the next room to
Fanny, "I should write a few lines of congratulation to the bride?"
Fanny did not answer; indeed she could not; for the affectionate
creature was drowned in tears, which Agnes well understood, and was
gratified, though pained, to behold. At length, still more ashamed of
her own weakness when she saw it reflected in another, Agnes gently
reproved Fanny, telling her it seemed as if she repined at Miss
Seymour's happiness.
"No," replied Fanny, "I only repine at your misery. Dear me! she
is a sweet young lady, to be sure, but no more to be compared to
you----"--"Hush! Fanny: 'tis I who am now not to be compared to
her:--remember, my misery is owing to my guilt."--"It is not the less
to be repined at on that account," replied Fanny.
To this remark, unconsciously severe, Agnes with a sigh assented; and,
unable to continue the conversation in this strain, she again asked
whether Fanny did not think she ought to congratulate the generous
Caroline. "By all means," replied Fanny: but before she answered, Agnes
had determined that it would be kinder in her not to damp the joy of
Caroline by calling to her mind the image of a wretched friend. "True,"
she observed, "it would gratify my feelings to express the love and
gratitude I bear her, and my self-love would exult in being recollected
by her with tenderness and regret, even in the hour of her bridal
splendour; but the gratification would only be a selfish one, and
therefore I will reject it."
Having formed this laudable resolution, Agnes, after trying to compose
her agitated spirits by playing with her child, who was already idolized
by the faithful Fanny, bent her steps as usual to the cell of her
father. Unfortunately for Agnes, she was obliged to pass the house of
Mr. Seymour, and at the door she saw the carriages waiting to convey the
bride and her train to the country seat of her mother-in-law. Agnes
hurried on as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her; but, as she
cast a hasty glance on the splendid liveries, and the crowd gazing on
them, she saw Mr. Seymour bustling at the door, with all the pleased
consequence of a happy parent in his countenance; and not daring to
analyse her feelings, she rushed forward from the mirthful scene, and
did not stop again till she found herself at the door of the bedlam.
But when there, and when, looking up at its grated windows, she
contemplated it as the habitation of her father--so different to that of
the father of Caroline--and beheld in fancy the woe-worn, sallow face of
Fitzhenry, so unlike the healthy, satisfied look of Mr. Seymour--"I
can't go in, I can't see him to-day," she faintly articulated, overcome
with a sudden faintness--and, as soon as she could recover her strength,
she returned home; and, shutting herself up in her own apartment, spent
the rest of the day in that mournful and solitary meditation that
"maketh the heart better."
It would no doubt have gratified the poor mourner to have known, that,
surrounded by joyous and congratulating friends, Caroline sighed for the
absent Agnes, and felt the want of her congratulations--"Surely she will
write to me!" said she mentally, "I am sure she wishes me happy; and one
of my greatest pangs at leaving my native place is, the consciousness
that I leave her miserable."
The last words that Caroline uttered, as she bade adieu to the
domestics, were, "Be sure to send after me any note or letter that may
come." But no note or letter from Agnes arrived; and had Caroline known
the reason, she would have loved her once happy friend the more.
The next day, earlier than usual, Agnes went in quest of her father. She
did not absolutely flatter herself that he had missed her the day
before, still she did not think it _impossible_ that he _might_. She
dared not, however, ask the question; but, luckily for her, the keeper
told her, unasked, that Fitzhenry was observed to be restless, and
looking out of the door of his cell frequently, both morning and
evening, as if expecting somebody; and that at night, as he was going to
bed, he asked whether the lady had not been there.
"Indeed!" cried Agnes, her eyes sparkling with pleasure--"Where is
he?--Let me see him directly." But, after the first joyful emotion which
he always showed at seeing her had subsided, she could not flatter
herself that his symptoms were more favourable than before.
The keeper also informed her that he had been thrown into so violent a
raving fit, by the agitation he felt at parting with her the last time
she was there, that she must contrive to slip away unperceived whenever
she came: and this visit having passed away without any thing material
occurring, Agnes contrived to make her escape unseen.
On her return she repeated to Fanny several times, with a sort of
pathetic pleasure, the question her father had asked--"He inquired
whether the lady had not been there;--think of that, Fanny:" while so
incoherent was her language and so absent were her looks, that Fanny
again began to fear her afflictions had impaired her reason.
After staying a few days with the new-married couple, Mr. Seymour
returned home, Caroline having, before he left her, again desired him to
be the friend of the penitent Agnes whenever he heard her unpityingly
attacked; and an opportunity soon offered of gratifying his daughter's
benevolence, and his own.
Mr. Seymour was drinking tea in a large party, when a lady, to whose
plain, awkward, uninteresting daughters the once beautiful, graceful and
engaging Agnes had formerly been a powerful rival, said, with no small
share of malignity, "So!--fine impudence indeed!--I hear that good for
nothing minx, Fitzhenry's daughter, is come to town: I wonder for my
part she dares show her face here----But the assurance of these
creatures is amazing."
"Aye, so it is," echoed from one lady to another. "But this girl must be
a hardened wretch indeed," resumed Mrs. Macfiendy, the first speaker: "I
suppose her fellow is tired of her, and she will be on the town
soon----"