The pleasure of a mother which Agnes experienced did not make her
insensible to the sorrow of a daughter.
Her parents had received the stranger child, along with a fabricated tale
she told "of its appertaining to another," without the smallest
suspicion; but, by the secret diligence of the curate, and the nimble
tongues of his elder daughters, the report of all that had passed on the
subject of this unfortunate infant soon circulated through the village;
and Agnes in a few weeks had seen her parents pine away in grief and
shame at her loss of virtue.
She perceived the neighbours avoid, or openly sneer at _her_; but that
was little--she saw them slight her aged father and mother upon her
account; and she now took the resolution rather to perish for want in
another part of the country than live where she was known, and so entail
an infamy upon the few who loved her. She slightly hoped, too, that by
disappearing from the town and neighbourhood some little reward might be
allowed her for her banishment by the dean's family. In that she was
deceived. No sooner was she gone, indeed, than her guilt was forgotten;
but with her guilt her wants. The dean and his family rejoiced at her
and her child's departure; but as this mode she had chosen chanced to be
no specified condition in the terms proposed to her, they did not think
they were bound to pay her for it; and while she was too fearful and
bashful to solicit the dean, and too proud (forlorn as she was) to
supplicate his son, they both concluded she "wanted for nothing;" for to
be poor, and too delicate to complain, they deemed incompatible.
To heighten the sense of her degraded, friendless situation, she knew
that Henry had not been unmindful of his promise to her, but that he had
applied to his cousin in her and his child's behalf; for he had
acquainted her that William's answer was--"all obligations on _his_ part
were now undertaken by his father; for that, Agnes having chosen (in a
fit of malignity upon his marriage) to apprise the dean of their former
intercourse, such conduct had for ever cancelled all attention due from
him to her, or to her child, beyond what its bare maintenance exacted."
In vain had Henry explained to him, by a second application, the
predicament in which poor Agnes was involved before she consented to
reveal her secret to his father. William was happy in an excuse to rid
himself of a burthen, and he seemed to believe, what he wished to be
true--that she had forfeited all claim to his farther notice.
Henry informed her of this unkind reception of his efforts in her favour
in as gentle terms as possible, for she excited his deepest compassion.
Perhaps our _own_ misfortunes are the cause of our pity for others, even
more than _their_ ills; and Henry's present sorrows had softened his
heart to peculiar sympathy in woe. He had unhappily found that the
ardour which had hurried him to vindicate the reputation of Rebecca was
likely to deprive him of the blessing of her ever becoming his proved an
offender instead of his wife; for the dean, chagrined that his son was at
length nephew, submitted to the temptation of punishing the latter, while
he forgave the former. He sent for Henry, and having coldly
congratulated him on his and Rebecca's innocence, represented to him the
impropriety of marrying the daughter of a poor curate, and laid his
commands on him, "never to harbour such an intention more." Henry found
this restriction so severe that he would not promise obedience; but on
his next attempt to visit Rebecca he met a positive repulse from her
father, who signified to him, "that the dean had forbidden him to permit
their farther acquaintance;" and the curate declared "that, for his own
part, he had no will, judgment, or faculties, but that he submitted in
all things to the superior clergy."
At the very time young Henry had received the proposal from Mr. Rymer of
his immediate union with his daughter, and the dean had made no objection
Henry waived the happiness for the time present, and had given a reason
why he wished it postponed. The reason he then gave had its weight; but
he had another concealed, of yet more import. Much as he loved, and
looked forward with rapture to that time when every morning, every
evening, and all the day, he should have the delight of Rebecca's
society, still there was one other wish nearer his heart than this one
desire which for years had been foremost in his thoughts, and which not
even love could eradicate. He longed, he pined to know what fate had
befallen his father. Provided he were living, he could conceive no joy
so great as that of seeing him! If he were dead, he was anxious to pay
the tribute of filial piety he owed, by satisfying his affectionate
curiosity in every circumstance of the sad event.
While a boy he had frequently expressed these sentiments to both his
uncle and his cousin; sometimes they apprised him of the total
improbability of accomplishing his wishes; at other times, when they saw
the disappointment weigh heavy on his mind, they bade him "wait till he
was a man before he could hope to put his designs in execution." He did
wait. But on the very day he arrived at the age of twenty-one, he made a
vow--"that to gain intelligence of his father should be the first
important act of his free will."
Previously to this time he had made all the inquiries possible, whether
any new adventure to that part of Africa in which he was bred was likely
to be undertaken. Of this there appeared to be no prospect till the
intended expedition to Sierra Leone was announced, and which favoured his
hope of being able to procure a passage, among those adventurers, so near
to the island on which his father was (or had been) prisoner, as to
obtain an opportunity of visiting it by stealth.
Fearing contention, or the being dissuaded from his plans if he
communicated them, he not only formed them in private, but he kept them
secretly; and, his imagination filled with the kindness, the tenderness,
the excess of fondness he had experienced from his father, beyond any
other person in the world, he had thought with delight on the separation
from all his other kindred, to pay his duty to him, or to his revered
memory. Of late, indeed, there had been an object introduced to his
acquaintance, from whom it was bitter to part; but his designs had been
planned and firmly fixed before he knew Rebecca; nor could he have tasted
contentment even with her at the expense of his piety to his father.
In the last interview he had with the dean, Henry, perceiving that his
disposition towards him was not less harsh than when a few days before he
had ordered him on board a vessel, found this the proper time to declare
his intentions of accompanying the fleet to Sierra Leone. His uncle
expressed surprise, but immediately gave him a sum of money in addition
to that he had sent him before, and as much as he thought might defray
his expenses; and, as he gave it, by his willingness, his look, and his
accent, he seemed to say, "I foresee this is the last you will ever
require."
Young William, though a very dutiful son, was amazed when he heard of
Henry's project, as "the serious and settled resolution of a man."
Lady Clementina, Lord and Lady Bendham, and twenty others, "wished him a
successful voyage," and thought no more about him.
It was for Rebecca alone to feel the loss of Henry; it was for a mind
like hers alone to know his worth; nor did this last proof of it, the
quitting her for one who claimed by every tie a preference, lessen him in
her esteem. When, by a message from him, she became acquainted with his
design, much as it interfered with her happiness, she valued him the more
for this observance of his duty; the more regretted his loss, and the
more anxiously prayed for his return--a return which he, in the following
letter, written just before his departure, taught her to hope for with
augmented impatience.
"MY DEAR REBECCA,
"I do not tell you I am sorry to part from you--you know I am--and you
know all I have suffered since your father denied me permission to see
you.
"But perhaps you do not know the hopes I enjoy, and which bestow on me
a degree of peace; and those I am eager to tell you.
"I hope, Rebecca, to see you again; I hope to return to England, and
overcome every obstacle to our marriage; and then, in whatever station
we are placed, I shall consider myself as happy as it is possible to
be in this world. I feel a conviction that you would be happy also.
"Some persons, I know, estimate happiness by fine houses, gardens, and
parks; others by pictures, horses, money, and various things wholly
remote from their own species; but when I wish to ascertain the real
felicity of any rational man, I always inquire _whom he has to love_.
If I find he has nobody, or does not love those he has, even in the
midst of all his profusion of finery and grandeur, I pronounce him a
being in deep adversity. In loving you, I am happier than my cousin
William; even though I am obliged to leave you for a time.
"Do not be afraid you should grow old before I return; age can never
alter you in my regard. It is your gentle nature, your unaffected
manners, your easy cheerfulness, your clear understanding, the
sincerity of all your words and actions which have gained my heart;
and while you preserve charms like these, you will be dearer to me
with white hairs and a wrinkled face than any of your sex, who, not
possessing all these qualities, possess the form and features of
perfect beauty.
"You will esteem me, too, I trust, though I should return on crutches
with my poor father, whom I may be obliged to maintain by daily
labour.
"I shall employ all my time, during my absence, in the study of some
art which may enable me to support you both, provided Heaven will
bestow two such blessings on me. In the cheering thought that it will
be so, and in that only, I have the courage, my dear, dear Rebecca, to
say to you
"Farewell! H. NORWYNNE."