THE DISTRESSES OF A FATHER.
HARLEY kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate daughter.
“Allow me, sir,” said he, “to entreat your pardon for one whose offences
have been already so signally punished. I know, I feel, that those
tears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more dreadful to her than
all the punishments your sword could have inflicted: accept the
contrition of a child whom heaven has restored to you.”
“Is she not lost,” answered he, “irrecoverably lost? Damnation! a common
prostitute to the meanest ruffian!”
“Calmly, my dear sir,” said Harley, “did you know by what complicated
misfortunes she had fallen to that miserable state in which you now
behold her, I should have no need of words to excite your compassion.
Think, sir, of what once she was. Would you abandon her to the insults
of an unfeeling world, deny her opportunity of penitence, and cut off the
little comfort that still remains for your afflictions and her own!”
“Speak,” said he, addressing himself to his daughter; “speak; I will hear
thee.”
The desperation that supported her was lost; she fell to the ground, and
bathed his feet with her tears.
Harley undertook her cause: he related the treacheries to which she had
fallen a sacrifice, and again solicited the forgiveness of her father.
He looked on her for some time in silence; the pride of a soldier’s
honour checked for a while the yearnings of his heart; but nature at last
prevailed, he fell on her neck and mingled his tears with hers.
Harley, who discovered from the dress of the stranger that he was just
arrived from a journey, begged that they would both remove to his
lodgings, till he could procure others for them. Atkins looked at him
with some marks of surprise. His daughter now first recovered the power
of speech.
“Wretch as I am,” said she, “yet there is some gratitude due to the
preserver of your child. See him now before you. To him I owe my life,
or at least the comfort of imploring your forgiveness before I die.”
“Pardon me, young gentleman,” said Atkins, “I fear my passion wronged
you.”
“Never, never, sir,” said Harley “if it had, your reconciliation to your
daughter were an atonement a thousand fold.” He then repeated his
request that he might be allowed to conduct them to his lodgings, to
which Mr. Atkins at last consented. He took his daughter’s arm.
“Come, my Emily,” said he, “we can never, never recover that happiness we
have lost! but time may teach us to remember our misfortunes with
patience.”
When they arrived at the house where Harley lodged, he was informed that
the first floor was then vacant, and that the gentleman and his daughter
might be accommodated there. While he was upon his enquiry, Miss Atkins
informed her father more particularly what she owed to his benevolence.
When he turned into the room where they were Atkins ran and embraced
him;—begged him again to forgive the offence he had given him, and made
the warmest protestations of gratitude for his favours. We would attempt
to describe the joy which Harley felt on this occasion, did it not occur
to us that one half of the world could not understand it though we did,
and the other half will, by this time, have understood it without any
description at all.
Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest from the
violence of the emotions she had suffered. When she was gone, her
father, addressing himself to Harley, said, “You have a right, sir, to be
informed of the present situation of one who owes so much to your
compassion for his misfortunes. My daughter I find has informed you what
that was at the fatal juncture when they began. Her distresses you have
heard, you have pitied as they deserved; with mine, perhaps, I cannot so
easily make you acquainted. You have a feeling heart, Mr. Harley; I
bless it that it has saved my child; but you never were a father, a
father torn by that most dreadful of calamities, the dishonour of a child
he doated on! You have been already informed of some of the
circumstances of her elopement: I was then from home, called by the death
of a relation, who, though he would never advance me a shilling on the
utmost exigency in his life-time, left me all the gleanings of his
frugality at his death. I would not write this intelligence to my
daughter, because I intended to be the bearer myself; and as soon as my
business would allow me, I set out on my return, winged with all the
haste of paternal affection. I fondly built those schemes of future
happiness, which present prosperity is ever busy to suggest: my Emily was
concerned in them all. As I approached our little dwelling my heart
throbbed with the anticipation of joy and welcome. I imagined the
cheering fire, the blissful contentment of a frugal meal, made luxurious
by a daughter’s smile, I painted to myself her surprise at the tidings of
our new-acquired riches, our fond disputes about the disposal of them.
“The road was shortened by the dreams of happiness I enjoyed, and it
began to be dark as I reached the house: I alighted from my horse, and
walked softly upstairs to the room we commonly sat in. I was somewhat
disappointed at not finding my daughter there. I rung the bell; her maid
appeared, and shewed no small signs of wonder at the summons. She
blessed herself as she entered the room: I smiled at her surprise.
‘Where is Miss Emily, sir?’ said she.
“‘Emily!’
“‘Yes, sir; she has been gone hence some days, upon receipt of those
letters you sent her.’
“‘Letters!’ said I.
“‘Yes, sir, so she told me, and went off in all haste that very night.’
“I stood aghast as she spoke, but was able so far to recollect myself, as
to put on the affectation of calmness, and telling her there was
certainly some mistake in the affair, desired her to leave me.
“When she was gone, I threw myself into a chair, in that state of
uncertainty which is, of all others, the most dreadful. The gay visions
with which I had delighted myself, vanished in an instant. I was
tortured with tracing back the same circle of doubt and disappointment.
My head grew dizzy as I thought. I called the servant again, and asked
her a hundred questions, to no purpose; there was not room even for
conjecture.
“Something at last arose in my mind, which we call Hope, without knowing
what it is. I wished myself deluded by it; but it could not prevail over
my returning fears. I rose and walked through the room. My Emily’s
spinnet stood at the end of it, open, with a book of music folded down at
some of my favourite lessons. I touched the keys; there was a vibration
in the sound that froze my blood; I looked around, and methought the
family pictures on the walls gazed on me with compassion in their faces.
I sat down again with an attempt at more composure; I started at every
creaking of the door, and my ears rung with imaginary noises!
“I had not remained long in this situation, when the arrival of a friend,
who had accidentally heard of my return, put an end to my doubts, by the
recital of my daughter’s dishonour. He told me he had his information
from a young gentleman, to whom Winbrooke had boasted of having seduced
her.
“I started from my seat, with broken curses on my lips, and without
knowing whither I should pursue them, ordered my servant to load my
pistols and saddle my horses. My friend, however, with great difficulty,
persuaded me to compose myself for that night, promising to accompany me
on the morrow, to Sir George Winbrooke’s in quest of his son.
“The morrow came, after a night spent in a state little distant from
madness. We went as early as decency would allow to Sir George’s. He
received me with politeness, and indeed compassion, protested his
abhorrence of his son’s conduct, and told me that he had set out some
days before for London, on which place he had procured a draft for a
large sum, on pretence of finishing his travels, but that he had not
heard from him since his departure.
“I did not wait for any more, either of information or comfort, but,
against the united remonstrances of Sir George and my friend, set out
instantly for London, with a frantic uncertainty of purpose; but there,
all manner of search was in vain. I could trace neither of them any
farther than the inn where they first put up on their arrival; and after
some days fruitless inquiry, returned home destitute of every little hope
that had hitherto supported me. The journeys I had made, the restless
nights I had spent, above all, the perturbation of my mind, had the
effect which naturally might be expected—a very dangerous fever was the
consequence. From this, however, contrary to the expectation of my
physicians, I recovered. It was now that I first felt something like
calmness of mind: probably from being reduced to a state which could not
produce the exertions of anguish or despair. A stupid melancholy settled
on my soul; I could endure to live with an apathy of life; at times I
forgot my resentment, and wept at the remembrance of my child.
“Such has been the tenor of my days since that fatal moment when these
misfortunes began, till yesterday, that I received a letter from a friend
in town, acquainting me of her present situation. Could such tales as
mine, Mr. Harley, be sometimes suggested to the daughters of levity, did
they but know with what anxiety the heart of a parent flutters round the
child he loves, they would be less apt to construe into harshness that
delicate concern for their conduct, which they often complain of as
laying restraint upon things, to the young, the gay, and the thoughtless,
seemingly harmless and indifferent. Alas! I fondly imagined that I
needed not even these common cautions! my Emily was the joy of my age,
and the pride of my soul! Those things are now no more, they are lost
for ever! Her death I could have born, but the death of her honour has
added obloquy and shame to that sorrow which bends my grey hairs to the
dust!”
As he spoke these last words, his voice trembled in his throat; it was
now lost in his tears. He sat with his face half turned from Harley, as
if he would have hid the sorrow which he felt. Harley was in the same
attitude himself; he durst not meet his eye with a tear, but gathering
his stifled breath, “Let me entreat you, sir,” said he, “to hope better
things. The world is ever tyrannical; it warps our sorrows to edge them
with keener affliction. Let us not be slaves to the names it affixes to
motive or to action. I know an ingenuous mind cannot help feeling when
they sting. But there are considerations by which it may be overcome.
Its fantastic ideas vanish as they rise; they teach us to look beyond
it.”
* * * * *
A FRAGMENT.
SHOWING HIS SUCCESS WITH THE BARONET.
* * THE card he received was in the politest style in which
disappointment could be communicated. The baronet “was under a necessity
of giving up his application for Mr. Harley, as he was informed that the
lease was engaged for a gentleman who had long served His Majesty in
another capacity, and whose merit had entitled him to the first lucrative
thing that should be vacant.” Even Harley could not murmur at such a
disposal. “Perhaps,” said he to himself, “some war-worn officer, who,
like poor Atkins, had been neglected from reasons which merited the
highest advancement; whose honour could not stoop to solicit the
preferment he deserved; perhaps, with a family, taught the principles of
delicacy, without the means of supporting it; a wife and
children—gracious heaven! whom my wishes would have deprived of bread—”
He was interrupted in his reverie by some one tapping him on the
shoulder, and, on turning round, he discovered it to be the very man who
had explained to him the condition of his gay companion at Hyde Park
Corner. “I am glad to see you, sir,” said he; “I believe we are fellows
in disappointment.” Harley started, and said that he was at a loss to
understand him. “Pooh! you need not be so shy,” answered the other;
“every one for himself is but fair, and I had much rather you had got it
than the rascally gauger.” Harley still protested his ignorance of what
he meant. “Why, the lease of Bancroft Manor; had not you been applying
for it?” “I confess I was,” replied Harley; “but I cannot conceive how
you should be interested in the matter.” “Why, I was making interest for
it myself,” said he, “and I think I had some title. I voted for this
same baronet at the last election, and made some of my friends do so too;
though I would not have you imagine that I sold my vote. No, I scorn it,
let me tell you I scorn it; but I thought as how this man was staunch and
true, and I find he’s but a double-faced fellow after all, and
speechifies in the House for any side he hopes to make most by. Oh, how
many fine speeches and squeezings by the hand we had of him on the
canvas! ‘And if ever I shall be so happy as to have an opportunity of
serving you.’ A murrain on the smooth-tongued knave, and after all to
get it for this pimp of a gauger.” “The gauger! there must be some
mistake,” said Harley. “He writes me, that it was engaged for one whose
long services—” “Services!” interrupted the other; “you shall hear.
Services! Yes, his sister arrived in town a few days ago, and is now
sempstress to the baronet. A plague on all rogues, says honest Sam
Wrightson. I shall but just drink damnation to them to-night, in a
crown’s worth of Ashley’s, and leave London to-morrow by sun-rise.” “I
shall leave it too,” said Harley; and so he accordingly did.
In passing through Piccadilly, he had observed, on the window of an inn,
a notification of the departure of a stage-coach for a place in his road
homewards; in the way back to his lodgings, he took a seat in it for his
return.