Part 4

But consciousness returned not with returning sense;--Agnes looked around her, astonished at her situation. At length, by slow degrees, the dreadful scenes of the preceding night and her own rash attempt burst on her recollection; she shuddered at the retrospect, and, clasping her hands, together, remained for some moments in speechless prayer:--then she arose; and, smiling mournfully at sight of her little Edward eating voraciously the milk and bread that was set before him, she seated herself at the table, and tried to partake of the coarse but wholesome food provided for her. As she approached, she saw the cottager's wife remove the knives. This circumstance forcibly recalled her rash action, and drove away her returning appetite.--"You may trust me now," she said; "I shrink with horror from my wicked attempt on my life, and swear, in the face of Heaven, never to repeat it: no,--my only wish now is, to live and to suffer."

Soon after, the cottager's wife made an excuse for bringing back a knife to the table, to prove to Agnes her confidence in her word; but this well-meant attention was lost on her,--she sat leaning on her elbow, and wholly absorbed in her own meditations.

When it was completely night, Agnes arose to depart.--"My kind friends," said she, "who have so hospitably received and entertained a wretched wanderer, believe me I shall never forget the obligations which I owe you, though I can never hope to repay them; but accept this (taking her last half-guinea from her pocket) as a pledge of my inclination to reward your kindness. If I am ever rich you shall--" Here her voice failed her, and she burst into tears.

This hesitation gave the virtuous people whom she addressed an opportunity of rejecting her offers.--"What we did, we did because we could not help it," said the cottager.--"You would not have had me see a fellow-creature going to kill soul and body too, and not prevent it, would you?"--"And as to saving the child," cried the wife, "am I not a mother myself, and can I help feeling for a mother? Poor little thing! it looked so piteous too, and felt so cold!"

Agnes could not speak; but still, by signs she tendered the money to 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.