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diff --git a/3787-h/3787-h.htm b/3787-h/3787-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b452ed --- /dev/null +++ b/3787-h/3787-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5571 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Nature and Art</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Nature and Art, by Mrs. Inchbald</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Nature and Art, by Mrs. Inchbald, Edited by +Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Nature and Art + + +Author: Mrs. Inchbald + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: July 24, 2007 [eBook #3787] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NATURE AND ART*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>NATURE AND ART</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +MRS. INCHBALD.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">CASSELL & COMPANY, <span +class="smcap">Limited</span>:<br /> +<span class="smcap"><i>london</i></span>, <span +class="smcap"><i>paris</i></span>, <span class="smcap"><i>new +york & melbourne</i></span>.<br /> +1886.</p> +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p>Elizabeth Simpson was born on the 15th of October, 1753, one +of the eight children of a poor farmer, at Standingfield, near +Bury St. Edmunds. Five of the children were girls, who were +all gifted with personal beauty. The family was Roman +Catholic. The mother had a delight in visits to the Bury +Theatre, and took, when she could, her children to the +play. One of her sons became an actor, and her daughter +Elizabeth offered herself at eighteen—her father then being +dead—for engagement as an actress at the Norwich +Theatre. She had an impediment of speech, and she was not +engaged; but in the following year, leaving behind an +affectionate letter to her mother, she stole away from +Standingfield, and made a bold plunge into the unknown world of +London, where she had friends, upon whose help she relied. +Her friends happened to be in Wales, and she had some troubles to +go through before she found a home in the house of a sister, who +had married a poor tailor. About two months after she had +left Standingfield she married, in London, Mr. Inchbald, an +actor, who had paid his addresses to her when she was at home, +and who was also a Roman Catholic. On the evening of the +wedding day the bride, who had not yet succeeded in obtaining an +engagement, went to the play, and saw the bridegroom play the +part of Mr. Oakley in the “Jealous Wife.” Mr. +Inchbald was thirty-seven years old, and had sons by a former +marriage. In September, 1772, Mrs. Inchbald tried her +fortune on the stage by playing Cordelia to her husband’s +Lear. Beauty alone could not assure success. The +impediment in speech made it impossible for Mrs. Inchbald to +succeed greatly as an actress. She was unable to realise +her own conceptions. At times she and her husband prospered +so little that on one day their dinner was of turnips, pulled and +eaten in a field, and sometimes there was no dinner at all. +But better days presently followed; first acquaintance of Mrs. +Inchbald with Mrs. Siddons grew to a strong friendship, and this +extended to the other members of the Kemble family.</p> +<p>After seven years of happy but childless marriage, Mrs. +Inchbald was left a widow at the age of twenty-six. In +after years, when devoting herself to the baby of one of her +landladies, she wrote to a friend,—“I shall never +again have patience with a mother who complains of anything but +the loss of her children; so no complaints when you see me +again. Remember, you have had two children, and I never had +one.” After her husband’s death, Mrs. +Inchbald’s beauty surrounded her with admirers, some of +them rich, but she did not marry again. To one of those who +offered marriage, she replied that her temper was so uncertain +that nothing but blind affection in a husband could bear with +it. Yet she was patiently living and fighting the world on +a weekly salary of about thirty shillings, out of which she +helped her poorer sisters. When acting at Edinburgh she +spent on herself only eight shillings a week in board and +lodging. It was after her husband’s death that Mrs. +Inchbald finished a little novel, called “A Simple +Story,” but it was not until twelve years afterwards that +she could get it published. She came to London again, and +wrote farces, which she could not get accepted; but she obtained +an increase of salary to three pounds a week by unwillingly +consenting not only to act in plays, but also to walk in +pantomime. At last, in July, 1784, her first farce, +“The Mogul Tale,” was acted. It brought her a +hundred guineas. Three years later her success as a writer +had risen so far that she obtained nine hundred pounds by a +little piece called “Such Things Are.” She +still lived sparingly, invested savings, and was liberal only to +the poor, and chiefly to her sisters and the poor members of her +family. She finished a sketch of her life in 1786, for +which a publisher, without seeing it, offered a thousand +pounds. But there was more satirical comment in it than she +liked, and she resolved to do at once what she would wish done at +the point of death. She destroyed the record.</p> +<p>In 1791 Mrs. Inchbald published her “Simple +Story.” Her other tale, “Nature and Art,” +followed in 1794, when Mrs. Inchbald’s age was +forty-one. She had retired from the stage five years +before, with an income of fifty-eight pounds a year, all she +called her own out of the independence secured by her +savings. She lived in cheap lodgings, and had sometimes to +wait altogether on herself; at one lodging “fetching up her +own water three pair of stairs, and dropping a few tears into the +heedless stream, as any other wounded deer might do.” +Later in life, she wrote to a friend from a room in which she +cooked, and ate, and also her saucepans were +cleaned:—“Thank God, I can say No. I say No to +all the vanities of the world, and perhaps soon shall have to say +that I allow my poor infirm sister a hundred a year. I have +raised my allowance to eighty; but in the rapid stride of her +wants, and my obligation as a Christian to make no selfish +refusal to the poor, a few months, I foresee, must make the sum a +hundred.” In 1816, when that sister died, and Mrs. +Inchbald buried the last of her immediate home +relations—though she had still nephews to find money +for—she said it had been a consolation to her when +sometimes she cried with cold to think that her sister, who was +less able to bear privation, had her fire lighted for her before +she rose, and her food brought to her ready cooked.</p> +<p>Even at fifty Mrs. Inchbald’s beauty of face inspired +admiration. The beauty of the inner life increased with +years. Lively and quick of temper, impulsive, sensitive, +she took into her heart all that was best in the sentiments +associated with the teaching of Rousseau and the dreams of the +French Revolution. Mrs. Inchbald spoke her mind most fully +in this little story, which is told with a dramatic sense of +construction that swiftly carries on the action to its +close. She was no weak sentimentalist, who hung out her +feelings to view as an idle form of self-indulgence. Most +unselfishly she wrought her own life to the pattern in her mind; +even the little faults she could not conquer, she well knew.</p> +<p>Mrs. Inchbald died at the age of sixty-eight, on the 1st of +August, 1821, a devout Roman Catholic, her thoughts in her last +years looking habitually through all disguises of convention up +to Nature’s God.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">H. M.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> +<p>At a time when the nobility of Britain were said, by the poet +laureate, to be the admirers and protectors of the arts, and were +acknowledged by the whole nation to be the patrons of +music—William and Henry, youths under twenty years of age, +brothers, and the sons of a country shopkeeper who had lately +died insolvent, set out on foot for London, in the hope of +procuring by their industry a scanty subsistence.</p> +<p>As they walked out of their native town, each with a small +bundle at his back, each observed the other drop several tears: +but, upon the sudden meeting of their eyes, they both smiled with +a degree of disdain at the weakness in which they had been +caught.</p> +<p>“I am sure,” said William (the elder), “I +don’t know what makes me cry.”</p> +<p>“Nor I neither,” said Henry; “for though we +may never see this town again, yet we leave nothing behind us to +give us reason to lament.”</p> +<p>“No,” replied William, “nor anybody who +cares what becomes of us.”</p> +<p>“But I was thinking,” said Henry, now weeping +bitterly, “that, if my poor father were alive, <i>he</i> +would care what was to become of us: he would not have suffered +us to begin this long journey without a few more shillings in our +pockets.”</p> +<p>At the end of this sentence, William, who had with some effort +suppressed his tears while his brother spoke, now uttered, with a +voice almost inarticulate,—“Don’t say any more; +don’t talk any more about it. My father used to tell +us, that when he was gone we must take care of ourselves: and so +we must. I only wish,” continued he, giving way to +his grief, “that I had never done anything to offend him +while he was living.”</p> +<p>“That is what I wish too,” cried Henry. +“If I had always been dutiful to him while he was alive, I +would not shed one tear for him now that he is gone—but I +would thank Heaven that he has escaped from his +creditors.”</p> +<p>In conversation such as this, wherein their sorrow for their +deceased parent seemed less for his death than because he had not +been so happy when living as they ought to have made him; and +wherein their own outcast fortune was less the subject of their +grief, than the reflection what their father would have endured +could he have beheld them in their present situation;—in +conversation such as this, they pursued their journey till they +arrived at that metropolis, which has received for centuries +past, from the provincial towns, the bold adventurer of every +denomination; has stamped his character with experience and +example; and, while it has bestowed on some coronets and +mitres—on some the lasting fame of genius—to others +has dealt beggary, infamy, and untimely death.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> +<p>After three weeks passed in London, a year followed, during +which William and Henry never sat down to a dinner, or went into +a bed, without hearts glowing with thankfulness to that +Providence who had bestowed on them such unexpected blessings; +for they no longer presumed to expect (what still they hoped they +deserved) a secure pittance in this world of plenty. Their +experience, since they came to town, had informed them that to +obtain a permanent livelihood is the good fortune but of a part +of those who are in want of it: and the precarious earning of +half-a-crown, or a shilling, in the neighbourhood where they +lodged, by an errand, or some such accidental means, was the sole +support which they at present enjoyed.</p> +<p>They had sought for constant employment of various kinds, and +even for servants’ places; but obstacles had always +occurred to prevent their success. If they applied for the +situation of a clerk to a man of extensive concerns, their +qualifications were admitted; but there must be security given +for their fidelity;—they had friends, who would give them a +character, but who would give them nothing else.</p> +<p>If they applied for the place even of a menial servant, they +were too clownish and awkward for the presence of the lady of the +house;—and once, when William (who had been educated at the +free grammar-school of the town in which he was born, and was an +excellent scholar), hoping to obtain the good opinion of a young +clergyman whom he solicited for the favour of waiting upon him, +said submissively, “that he understood Greek and +Latin,” he was rejected by the divine, “because he +could not dress hair.”</p> +<p>Weary of repeating their mean accomplishments of +“honesty, sobriety, humility,” and on the precipice +of reprobating such qualities,—which, however beneficial to +the soul, gave no hope of preservation to the body,—they +were prevented from this profanation by the fortunate remembrance +of one qualification, which Henry, the possessor, in all his +distress, had never till then called to his recollection; but +which, as soon as remembered and made known, changed the whole +prospect of wretchedness placed before the two brothers; and they +never knew want more.</p> +<p>Reader—Henry could play upon the fiddle.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> +<p>No sooner was it publicly known that Henry could play most +enchantingly upon the violin, than he was invited into many +companies where no other accomplishment could have introduced +him. His performance was so much admired, that he had the +honour of being admitted to several tavern feasts, of which he +had also the honour to partake without partaking of the +expense. He was soon addressed by persons of the very first +rank and fashion, and was once seen walking side by side with a +peer.</p> +<p>But yet, in the midst of this powerful occasion for rejoicing, +Henry, whose heart was particularly affectionate, had one grief +which eclipsed all the happiness of his new life;—his +brother William could <i>not</i> play on the fiddle! +consequently, his brother William, with whom he had shared so +much ill, could not share in his good fortune.</p> +<p>One evening, Henry, coming home from a dinner and concert at +the Crown and Anchor found William, in a very gloomy and peevish +humour, poring over the orations of Cicero. Henry asked him +several times “how he did,” and similar questions, +marks of his kind disposition towards his beloved brother: but +all his endeavours, he perceived, could not soothe or soften the +sullen mind of William. At length, taking from his pocket a +handful of almonds, and some delicious fruit (which he had +purloined from the plenteous table, where his brother’s +wants had never been absent from his thoughts), and laying them +down before him, he exclaimed, with a benevolent smile, +“Do, William, let me teach you to play upon the +violin.”</p> +<p>William, full of the great orator whom he was then studying, +and still more alive to the impossibility that <i>his</i> ear, +attuned only to sense, could ever descend from that elevation, to +learn mere sounds—William caught up the tempting presents +which Henry had ventured his reputation to obtain for him, and +threw them all indignantly at the donor’s head.</p> +<p>Henry felt too powerfully his own superiority of fortune to +resent this ingratitude: he patiently picked up the repast, and +laying it again upon the table, placed by its side a bottle of +claret, which he held fast by the neck, while he assured his +brother that, “although he had taken it while the +waiter’s back was turned, yet it might be drank with a safe +conscience by them; for he had not himself tasted one drop at the +feast, on purpose that he might enjoy a glass with his brother at +home, and without wronging the company who had invited +him.”</p> +<p>The affection Henry expressed as he said this, or the force of +a bumper of wine, which William had not seen since he left his +father’s house, had such an effect in calming the +displeasure he was cherishing, that, on his brother offering him +the glass, he took it; and he deigned even to eat of his +present.</p> +<p>Henry, to convince him that he had stinted himself to obtain +for him this collation, sat down and partook of it.</p> +<p>After a few glasses, he again ventured to say, “Do, +brother William, let me teach you to play on the +violin.”</p> +<p>Again his offer was refused, though with less vehemence: at +length they both agreed that the attempt could not prosper.</p> +<p>“Then,” said Henry, “William, go down to +Oxford or to Cambridge. There, no doubt, they are as fond +of learning as in this gay town they are of music. You know +you have as much talent for the one as I for the other: do go to +one of our universities, and see what dinners, what suppers, and +what friends you will find there.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> +<p>William <i>did</i> go to one of those seats of learning, and +would have starved there, but for the affectionate remittances of +Henry, who shortly became so great a proficient in the art of +music, as to have it in his power not only to live in a very +reputable manner himself, but to send such supplies to his +brother, as enabled him to pursue his studies.</p> +<p>With some, the progress of fortune is rapid. Such is the +case when, either on merit or demerit, great patronage is +bestowed. Henry’s violin had often charmed, to a +welcome forgetfulness of his insignificance, an effeminate lord; +or warmed with ideas of honour the head of a duke, whose heart +could never be taught to feel its manly glow. Princes had +flown to the arms of their favourite fair ones with more +rapturous delight, softened by the masterly touches of his art: +and these elevated personages, ever grateful to those from whom +they receive benefits, were competitors in the desire of heaping +favours upon him. But he, in all his advantages, never once +lost for a moment the hope of some advantage for his brother +William: and when at any time he was pressed by a patron to +demand a “token of his regard,” he would constantly +reply—“I have a brother, a very learned man, if your +lordship (your grace, or your royal highness) would confer some +small favour on him!”</p> +<p>His lordship would reply, “He was so teased and harassed +in his youth by learned men, that he had ever since detested the +whole fraternity.”</p> +<p>His grace would inquire, “if the learned man could play +upon any instrument.”</p> +<p>And his highness would ask “if he could sing.”</p> +<p>Rebuffs such as these poor Henry met with in all his +applications for William, till one fortunate evening, at the +conclusion of a concert, a great man shook him by the hand, and +promised a living of five hundred a year (the incumbent of which +was upon his death-bed) to his brother, in return for the +entertainment that Henry had just afforded him.</p> +<p>Henry wrote in haste to William, and began his letter thus: +“My dear brother, I am not sorry you did not learn to play +upon the fiddle.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> +<p>The incumbent of this living died—William underwent the +customary examinations, obtained successively the orders of +deacon and priest; then as early as possible came to town to take +possession of the gift which his brother’s skill had +acquired for him.</p> +<p>William had a steady countenance, a stern brow, and a majestic +walk; all of which this new accession, this holy calling to +religious vows, rather increased than diminished. In the +early part of his life, the violin of his brother had rather +irritated than soothed the morose disposition of his nature: and +though, since their departure from their native habitation, it +had frequently calmed the violent ragings of his hunger, it had +never been successful in appeasing the disturbed passions of a +proud and disdainful mind.</p> +<p>As the painter views with delight and wonder the finished +picture, expressive testimony of his taste and genius; as the +physician beholds with pride and gladness the recovering invalid, +whom his art has snatched from the jaws of death; as the father +gazes with rapture on his first child, the creature to whom he +has given life; so did Henry survey, with transporting glory, his +brother, dressed for the first time in canonicals, to preach at +his parish church. He viewed him from head to +foot—smiled—viewed again—pulled one side of his +gown a little this way, one end of his band a little that way; +then stole behind him, pretending to place the curls of his hair, +but in reality to indulge and to conceal tears of fraternal pride +and joy.</p> +<p>William was not without joy, neither was he wanting in love or +gratitude to his brother; but his pride was not completely +satisfied.</p> +<p>“I am the elder,” thought he to himself, +“and a man of literature, and yet am I obliged to my +younger brother, an illiterate man.” Here he +suppressed every thought which could be a reproach to that +brother. But there remained an object of his former +contempt, now become even detestable to him; ungrateful +man. The very agent of his elevation was now so odious to +him, that he could not cast his eyes upon the friendly violin +without instant emotions of disgust.</p> +<p>In vain would Henry, at times, endeavour to subdue his +haughtiness by a tune on this wonderful machine. “You +know I have no ear,” William would sternly say, in +recompense for one of Henry’s best solos. Yet was +William enraged at Henry’s answer, when, after taking him +to hear him preach, he asked him, “how he liked his +sermon,” and Henry modestly replied (in the technical +phrase of his profession), “You know, brother, I have no +ear.”</p> +<p>Henry’s renown in his profession daily increased; and, +with his fame, his friends. Possessing the virtues of +humility and charity far above William, who was the professed +teacher of those virtues, his reverend brother’s disrespect +for his vocation never once made him relax for a moment in his +anxiety to gain him advancement in the Church. In the +course of a few years, and in consequence of many fortuitous +circumstances, he had the gratification of procuring for him the +appointment to a deanery; and thus at once placed between them an +insurmountable barrier to all friendship, that was not the effect +of condescension on the part of the dean.</p> +<p>William would now begin seriously to remonstrate with his +brother “upon his useless occupation,” and would +intimate “the degradation it was to him to hear his +frivolous talent spoken of in all companies.” Henry +believed his brother to be much wiser than himself, and suffered +shame that he was not more worthy of such a relation. To +console himself for the familiar friend, whom he now perceived he +had entirely lost, he searched for one of a softer +nature—he married.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> +<p>As Henry despaired of receiving his brother’s +approbation of his choice, he never mentioned the event to +him. But William, being told of it by a third person, +inquired of Henry, who confirmed the truth of the intelligence, +and acknowledged, that, in taking a wife, his sole view had been +to obtain a kind companion and friend, who would bear with his +failings and know how to esteem his few qualifications; +therefore, he had chosen one of his own rank in life, and who, +having a taste for music, and, as well as himself, an obligation +to the art—</p> +<p>“And is it possible,” cried the dean, “that +what has been hinted to me is true? Is it possible that you +have married a public singer?”</p> +<p>“She is as good as myself,” returned Henry. +“I did not wish her to be better, for fear she should +despise me.”</p> +<p>“As to despise,” answered the dean, “Heaven +forbid that we should despise anyone, that would be acting unlike +a Christian; but do you imagine I can ever introduce her to my +intended wife, who is a woman of family?”</p> +<p>Henry had received in his life many insults from his brother; +but, as he was not a vain man, he generally thought his brother +in the right, and consequently submitted with patience; but, +though he had little self-love, he had for his wife an unbounded +affection. On the present occasion, therefore, he began to +raise his voice, and even (in the coarse expression of clownish +anger) to lift his hand; but the sudden and affecting +recollection of what he had done for the dean—of the pains, +the toils, the hopes, and the fears he had experienced when +soliciting his preferment—this recollection overpowered his +speech, weakened his arm, and deprived him of every active force, +but that of flying out of his brother’s house (in which +they then were) as swift as lightning, while the dean sat proudly +contemplating “that he had done his duty.”</p> +<p>For several days Henry did not call, as was his custom, to see +his brother. William’s marriage drew near, and he +sent a formal card to invite him on that day; but not having had +the condescension to name his sister-in-law in the invitation, +Henry thought proper not to accept it, and the joyful event was +celebrated without his presence. But the ardour of the +bridegroom was not so vehement as to overcome every other +sensation—he missed his brother. That heartfelt +cheerfulness with which Henry had ever given him joy upon every +happy occasion—even amidst all the politer congratulations +of his other friends—seemed to the dean mournfully +wanting. This derogation from his felicity he was resolved +to resent; and for a whole year these brothers, whom adversity +had entwined closely together, prosperity separated.</p> +<p>Though Henry, on his marriage, paid so much attention to his +brother’s prejudices as to take his wife from her public +employment, this had not so entirely removed the scruples of +William as to permit him to think her a worthy companion for Lady +Clementina, the daughter of a poor Scotch earl, whom he had +chosen merely that he might be proud of her family, and, in +return, suffer that family to be ashamed of <i>his</i>.</p> +<p>If Henry’s wife were not fit company for Lady +Clementina, it is to be hoped that she was company for +angels. She died within the first year of her marriage, a +faithful, an affectionate wife, and a mother.</p> +<p>When William heard of her death, he felt a sudden shock, and a +kind of fleeting thought glanced across his mind, that</p> +<p>“Had he known she had been so near her dissolution, she +might have been introduced to Lady Clementina, and he himself +would have called her sister.”</p> +<p>That is (if he had defined his fleeting idea), “They +would have had no objection to have met this poor woman for the +<i>last time</i>, and would have descended to the familiarity of +kindred, in order to have wished her a good journey to the other +world.”</p> +<p>Or, is there in death something which so raises the abjectness +of the poor, that, on their approach to its sheltering abode, the +arrogant believer feels the equality he had before denied, and +trembles?</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> +<p>The wife of Henry had been dead near six weeks before the dean +heard the news. A month then elapsed in thoughts by +himself, and consultations with Lady Clementina, how he should +conduct himself on this occurrence. Her advice was,</p> +<p>“That, as Henry was the younger, and by their stations, +in every sense the dean’s inferior, Henry ought first to +make overtures of reconciliation.”</p> +<p>The dean answered, “He had no doubt of his +brother’s good will to him, but that he had reason to +think, from the knowledge of his temper, he would be more likely +to come to him upon an occasion to bestow comfort, than to +receive it. For instance, if I had suffered the misfortune +of losing your ladyship, my brother, I have no doubt, would have +forgotten his resentment, and—”</p> +<p>She was offended that the loss of the vulgar wife of Henry +should be compared to the loss of her—she lamented her +indiscretion in forming an alliance with a family of no rank, and +implored the dean to wait till his brother should make some +concession to him, before he renewed the acquaintance.</p> +<p>Though Lady Clementina had mentioned on this occasion her +<i>indiscretion</i>, she was of a prudent age—she was near +forty—yet, possessing rather a handsome face and person, +she would not have impressed the spectator with a supposition +that she was near so old had she not constantly attempted to +appear much younger. Her dress was fantastically +fashionable, her manners affected all the various passions of +youth, and her conversation was perpetually embellished with +accusations against her own “heedlessness, thoughtlessness, +carelessness, and childishness.”</p> +<p>There is, perhaps in each individual, one parent motive to +every action, good or bad. Be that as it may, it was +evident, that with Lady Clementina, all she said or did, all she +thought or looked, had but one foundation—vanity. If +she were nice, or if she were negligent, vanity was the cause of +both; for she would contemplate with the highest degree of +self-complacency, “What such-a-one would say of her elegant +preciseness, or what such-a-one would think of her interesting +neglect.”</p> +<p>If she complained she was ill, it was with the certainty that +her languor would be admired: if she boasted she was well, it was +that the spectator might admire her glowing health: if she +laughed, it was because she thought it made her look pretty: if +she cried, it was because she thought it made her look prettier +still. If she scolded her servants, it was from vanity, to +show her knowledge superior to theirs: and she was kind to them +from the same motive, that her benevolence might excite their +admiration. Forward and impertinent in the company of her +equals, from the vanity of supposing herself above them, she was +bashful even to shamefacedness in the presence of her superiors, +because her vanity told her she engrossed all their +observation. Through vanity she had no memory, for she +constantly forgot everything she heard others say, from the +minute attention which she paid to everything she said +herself.</p> +<p>She had become an old maid from vanity, believing no offer she +received worthy of her deserts; and when her power of farther +conquest began to be doubted, she married from vanity, to repair +the character of her fading charms. In a word, her vanity +was of that magnitude, that she had no conjecture but that she +was humble in her own opinion; and it would have been impossible +to have convinced her that she thought well of herself, because +she thought so <i>well</i>, as to be assured that her own +thoughts undervalued her.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> +<p>That, which in a weak woman is called vanity, in a man of +sense is termed pride. Make one a degree stronger, or the +other a degree weaker, and the dean and his wife were infected +with the self-same folly. Yet, let not the reader suppose +that this failing (however despicable) had erased from either +bosom all traces of humanity. They are human creatures who +are meant to be portrayed in this little book: and where is the +human creature who has not some good qualities to soften, if not +to counterbalance, his bad ones?</p> +<p>The dean, with all his pride, could not wholly forget his +brother, nor eradicate from his remembrance the friend that he +had been to him: he resolved, therefore, in spite of his +wife’s advice, to make him some overture, which he had no +doubt Henry’s good-nature would instantly accept. The +more he became acquainted with all the vain and selfish +propensities of Lady Clementina, the more he felt a returning +affection for his brother: but little did he suspect how much he +loved him, till (after sending to various places to inquire for +him) he learned—that on his wife’s decease, unable to +support her loss in the surrounding scene, Henry had taken the +child she brought him in his arms, shaken hands with all his +former friends—passing over his brother in the +number—and set sail in a vessel bound for Africa, with a +party of Portuguese and some few English adventurers, to people +there the uninhabited part of an extensive island.</p> +<p>This was a resolution, in Henry’s circumstances, worthy +a mind of singular sensibility: but William had not discerned, +till then, that every act of Henry’s was of the same +description; and more than all, his every act towards him. +He staggered when he heard the tidings; at first thought them +untrue; but quickly recollected, that Henry was capable of +surprising deeds! He recollected with a force which gave +him torture, the benevolence his brother had ever shown to +him—the favours he had heaped upon him—the insults he +had patiently endured in requital!</p> +<p>In the first emotion, which this intelligence gave the dean, +he forgot the dignity of his walk and gesture: he ran with +frantic enthusiasm to every corner of his deanery where the least +vestige of what belonged to Henry remained—he pressed close +to his breast, with tender agony, a coat of his, which by +accident had been left there—he kissed and wept over a +walking-stick which Henry once had given him—he even took +up with delight a music book of his brother’s—nor +would his poor violin have then excited anger.</p> +<p>When his grief became more calm, he sat in deep and melancholy +meditation, calling to mind when and where he saw his brother +last. The recollection gave him fresh cause of +regret. He remembered they had parted on his refusing to +suffer Lady Clementina to admit the acquaintance of Henry’s +wife. Both Henry and his wife he now contemplated beyond +the reach of his pride; and he felt the meanness of his former +and the imbecility of his future haughtiness towards them.</p> +<p>To add to his self-reproaches, his tormented memory presented +to him the exact countenance of his brother at their last +interview, as it changed, while he censured his marriage, and +treated with disrespect the object of his conjugal +affection. He remembered the anger repressed, the tear +bursting forth, and the last glimpse he had of him, as he left +his presence, most likely for ever.</p> +<p>In vain he now wished that he had followed him to the +door—that he had once shaken hands and owned his +obligations to him before they had parted. In vain he +wished too, that, in this extreme agony of his mind, he had such +a friend to comfort him, as Henry had ever proved.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> +<p>The avocations of an elevated life erase the deepest +impressions. The dean in a few months recovered from those +which his brother’s departure first made upon him: and he +would now at times even condemn, in anger, Henry’s having +so hastily abandoned him and his native country, in resentment, +as he conceived, of a few misfortunes which his usual fortitude +should have taught him to have borne. Yet was he still +desirous of his return, and wrote two or three letters expressive +of his wish, which he anxiously endeavoured should reach +him. But many years having elapsed without any intelligence +from him, and a report having arrived that he, and all the party +with whom he went, were slain by the savage inhabitants of the +island, William’s despair of seeing his brother again +caused the desire to diminish; while attention and affection to a +still nearer and dearer relation than Henry had ever been to him, +now chiefly engaged his mind.</p> +<p>Lady Clementina had brought him a son, on whom from his +infancy, he doated—and the boy, in riper years, possessing +a handsome person and evincing a quickness of parts, gratified +the father’s darling passion, pride, as well as the +mother’s vanity.</p> +<p>The dean had, beside this child, a domestic comfort highly +gratifying to his ambition: the bishop of --- became intimately +acquainted with him soon after his marriage, and from his daily +visits had become, as it were, a part of the family. This +was much honour to the dean, not only as the bishop was his +superior in the Church, but was of that part of the bench whose +blood is ennobled by a race of ancestors, and to which all wisdom +on the plebeian side crouches in humble respect.</p> +<p>Year after year rolled on in pride and grandeur; the bishop +and the dean passing their time in attending levées and in +talking politics; Lady Clementina passing hers in attending routs +and in talking of <i>herself</i>, till the son arrived at the age +of thirteen.</p> +<p>Young William passed <i>his</i> time, from morning till night, +with persons who taught him to walk, to ride, to talk, to think +like a man—a foolish man, instead of a wise child, as +nature designed him to be.</p> +<p>This unfortunate youth was never permitted to have one +conception of his own—all were taught him—he was +never once asked, “What he thought;” but men were +paid to tell “how to think.” He was taught to +revere such and such persons, however unworthy of his reverence; +to believe such and such things, however unworthy of his credit: +and to act so and so, on such and such occasions, however +unworthy of his feelings.</p> +<p>Such were the lessons of the tutors assigned him by his +father—those masters whom his mother gave him did him less +mischief; for though they distorted his limbs and made his +manners effeminate, they did not interfere beyond the body.</p> +<p>Mr. Norwynne (the family name of his father, and though but a +school-boy, he was called <i>Mister</i>) could talk on history, +on politics, and on religion; surprisingly to all who never +listened to a parrot or magpie—for he merely repeated what +had been told to him without one reflection upon the sense or +probability of his report. He had been praised for his +memory; and to continue that praise, he was so anxious to retain +every sentence he had heard, or he had read, that the poor +creature had no time for one native idea, but could only +re-deliver his tutors’ lessons to his father, and his +father’s to his tutors. But, whatever he said or did, +was the admiration of all who came to the house of the dean, and +who knew he was an only child. Indeed, considering the +labour that was taken to spoil him, he was rather a commendable +youth; for, with the pedantic folly of his teachers, the blind +affection of his father and mother, the obsequiousness of the +servants, and flattery of the visitors, it was some credit to him +that he was not an idiot, or a brute—though when he +imitated the manners of a man, he had something of the latter in +his appearance; for he would grin and bow to a lady, catch her +fan in haste when it fell, and hand her to her coach, as +thoroughly void of all the sentiment which gives grace to such +tricks, as a monkey.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> +<p>One morning in winter, just as the dean, his wife, and darling +child, had finished their breakfast at their house in London, a +servant brought in a letter to his master, and said “the +man waited for an answer.”</p> +<p>“Who is the man?” cried the dean, with all that +terrifying dignity with which he never failed to address his +inferiors, especially such as waited on his person.</p> +<p>The servant replied with a servility of tone equal to the +haughty one of his master, “he did not know; but that the +man looked like a sailor, and had a boy with him.”</p> +<p>“A begging letter, no doubt,” cried Lady +Clementina.</p> +<p>“Take it back,” said the dean, “and bid him +send up word who he is, and what is his errand.”</p> +<p>The servant went; and returning said, “He comes from on +board a ship; his captain sent him, and his errand is, he +believes, to leave a boy he has brought with him.”</p> +<p>“A boy!” cried the dean: “what have I to do +with a boy? I expect no boy. What boy? What +age?”</p> +<p>“He looks about twelve or thirteen,” replied the +servant.</p> +<p>“He is mistaken in the house,” said the +dean. “Let me look at the letter again.”</p> +<p>He did look at it, and saw plainly it was directed to +himself. Upon a second glance, he had so perfect a +recollection of the hand, as to open it instantaneously; and, +after ordering the servant to withdraw, he read the +following:—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: right">“<span +class="smcap">Zocotora Island</span>, <i>April</i> 6.</p> +<p>“My Dear Brother William,—It is a long time since +we have seen one another; but I hope not so long, that you have +quite forgotten the many happy days we once passed together.</p> +<p>“I did not take my leave of you when I left England, +because it would have been too much for me. I had met with +a great many sorrows just at that time; one of which was, the +misfortune of losing the use of my right hand by a fall from my +horse, which accident robbed me of most of my friends; for I +could no longer entertain them with my performance as I used to +do, and so I was ashamed to see them or you; and that was the +reason I came hither to try my fortune with some other +adventurers.</p> +<p>“You have, I suppose, heard that the savages of the +island put our whole party to death. But it was my chance +to escape their cruelty. I was heart-broken for my +comrades; yet upon the whole, I do not know that the savages were +much to blame—we had no business to invade their +territories! and if they had invaded England, we should have done +the same by them. My life was spared, because, having +gained some little strength in my hand during the voyage, I +pleased their king when I arrived there with playing on my +violin.</p> +<p>“They spared my child too, in pity to my lamentations, +when they were going to put him to death. Now, dear +brother, before I say any more to you concerning my child, I will +first ask your pardon for any offence I may have ever given you +in all the time we lived so long together. I know you have +often found fault with me, and I dare say I have been very often +to blame; but I here solemnly declare that I never did anything +purposely to offend you, but mostly, all I could to oblige +you—and I can safely declare that I never bore you above a +quarter of an hour’s resentment for anything you might say +to me which I thought harsh.</p> +<p>“Now, dear William, after being in this island eleven +years, the weakness in my hand has unfortunately returned; and +yet there being no appearance of complaint, the uninformed +islanders think it is all my obstinacy, and that I <i>will +not</i> entertain them with my music, which makes me say that I +<i>cannot</i>; and they have imprisoned me, and threaten to put +my son to death if I persist in my stubbornness any longer.</p> +<p>“The anguish I feel in my mind takes away all hope of +the recovery of strength in my hand; and I have no doubt but that +they intend in a few days to put their horrid threat into +execution.</p> +<p>“Therefore, dear brother William, hearing in my prison +of a most uncommon circumstance, which is, that an English vessel +is lying at a small distance from the island, I have entrusted a +faithful negro to take my child to the ship, and deliver him to +the captain, with a request that he may be sent (with this +letter) to you on the ship’s arrival in England.</p> +<p>“Now my dear, dear brother William, in case the poor boy +should live to come to you, I have no doubt but you will receive +him; yet excuse a poor, fond father, if I say a word or two which +I hope may prove in his favour.</p> +<p>“Pray, my dear brother, do not think it the +child’s fault, but mine, that you will find him so +ignorant—he has always shown a quickness and a willingness +to learn, and would, I dare say, if he had been brought up under +your care, have been by this time a good scholar, but you know I +am no scholar myself. Besides, not having any books here, I +have only been able to teach my child by talking to him, and in +all my conversations with him I have never taken much pains to +instruct him in the manners of my own country; thinking, that if +ever he went over, he would learn them soon enough; and if he +never <i>did</i> go over, that it would be as well he knew +nothing about them.</p> +<p>“I have kept him also from the knowledge of everything +which I have thought pernicious in the conduct of the savages, +except that I have now and then pointed out a few of their +faults, in order to give him a true conception and a proper +horror of them. At the same time I have taught him to love, +and to do good to his neighbour, whoever that neighbour may be, +and whatever may be his failings. Falsehood of every kind I +included in this precept as forbidden, for no one can love his +neighbour and deceive him.</p> +<p>“I have instructed him too, to hold in contempt all +frivolous vanity, and all those indulgences which he was never +likely to obtain. He has learnt all that I have undertaken +to teach him; but I am afraid you will yet think he has learned +too little.</p> +<p>“Your wife, I fear, will be offended at his want of +politeness, and perhaps proper respect for a person of her rank: +but indeed he is very tractable, and can, without severity, be +amended of all his faults; and though you will find he has many, +yet, pray, my dear brother William, call to mind he has been a +dutiful and an affectionate child to me; and that had it pleased +Heaven we had lived together for many years to come, I verily +believe I should never have experienced one mark of his +disobedience.</p> +<p>“Farewell for ever, my dear, dear brother +William—and if my poor, kind, affectionate child should +live to bring you this letter, sometimes speak to him of me and +let him know, that for twelve years he was my sole comfort; and +that, when I sent him from me, in order to save his life, I laid +down my head upon the floor of the cell in which I was confined, +and prayed that Heaven might end my days before the +morning.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This was the conclusion of the letter, except four or five +lines which (with his name) were so much blotted, apparently with +tears, that they were illegible.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> +<p>While the dean was reading to himself this letter, his +countenance frequently changed, and once or twice the tears +streamed from his eyes. When it was finished, he +exclaimed,</p> +<p>“My brother has sent his child to me, and I will be a +parent to him.” He was rushing towards the door, when +Lady Clementina stopped him.</p> +<p>“Is it proper, do you think, Mr. Dean, that all the +servants in the house should be witnesses to your meeting with +your brother and your nephew in the state in which they must be +at present? Send for them into a private +apartment.”</p> +<p>“My brother!” cried the dean; “oh! that it +<i>were</i> my brother! The man is merely a person from the +ship, who has conducted his child hither.”</p> +<p>The bell was rung, money was sent to the man, and orders given +that the boy should be shown up immediately.</p> +<p>While young Henry was walking up the stairs, the dean’s +wife was weighing in her mind in what manner it would most +redound to her honour to receive him; for her vanity taught her +to believe that the whole inquisitive world pried into her +conduct, even upon every family occurrence.</p> +<p>Young William was wondering to himself what kind of an +unpolished monster his beggarly cousin would appear; and was +contemplating how much the poor youth would be surprised, and +awed by his superiority.</p> +<p>The dean felt no other sensation than an impatient desire of +beholding the child.</p> +<p>The door opened—and the son of his brother Henry, of his +benefactor, entered.</p> +<p>The habit he had on when he left his father, having been of +slight texture, was worn out by the length of the voyage, and he +was in the dress of a sailor-boy. Though about the same age +with his cousin, he was something taller: and though a strong +family resemblance appeared between the two youths, he was +handsomer than William; and from a simplicity spread over his +countenance, a quick impatience in his eye—which denoted +anxious curiosity, and childish surprise at every new object +which presented itself—he appeared younger than his +well-informed and well-bred cousin.</p> +<p>He walked into the room, not with a dictated obeisance, but +with a hurrying step, a half pleased, yet a half frightened look, +an instantaneous survey of every person present; not as demanding +“what they thought of him,” but expressing almost as +plainly as in direct words, “what he thought of +them.” For all alarm in respect to his safety and +reception seemed now wholly forgotten, in the curiosity which the +sudden sight of strangers such as he had never seen in his life +before, excited: and as to <i>himself</i>, he did not appear to +know there was such a person existing: his whole faculties were +absorbed in <i>others</i>.</p> +<p>The dean’s reception of him did honour to his +sensibility and his gratitude to his brother. After the +first affectionate gaze, he ran to him, took him in his arms, sat +down, drew him to him, held him between his knees, and repeatedly +exclaimed, “I will repay to you all I owe to your +father.”</p> +<p>The boy, in return, hugged the dean round the neck, kissed +him, and exclaimed,</p> +<p>“Oh! you <i>are</i> my father—you have just such +eyes, and such a forehead—indeed you would be almost the +same as he, if it were not for that great white thing which grows +upon your head!”</p> +<p>Let the reader understand, that the dean, fondly attached to +every ornament of his dignified function, was never seen (unless +caught in bed) without an enormous wig. With this young +Henry was enormously struck; having never seen so unbecoming a +decoration, either in the savage island from whence he came, or +on board the vessel in which he sailed.</p> +<p>“Do you imagine,” cried his uncle, laying his hand +gently on the reverend habiliment, “that this +grows?”</p> +<p>“What is on <i>my</i> head grows,” said young +Henry, “and so does that which is upon my +father’s.”</p> +<p>“But now you are come to Europe, Henry, you will see +many persons with such things as these, which they put on and +take off.”</p> +<p>“Why do you wear such things?”</p> +<p>“As a distinction between us and inferior people: they +are worn to give an importance to the wearer.”</p> +<p>“That’s just as the savages do; they hang brass +nails, wire, buttons, and entrails of beasts all over them, to +give them importance.”</p> +<p>The dean now led his nephew to Lady Clementina, and told him, +“She was his aunt, to whom he must behave with the utmost +respect.”</p> +<p>“I will, I will,” he replied, “for she, I +see, is a person of importance too; she has, very nearly, such a +white thing upon her head as you have!”</p> +<p>His aunt had not yet fixed in what manner it would be +advisable to behave; whether with intimidating grandeur, or with +amiable tenderness. While she was hesitating between both, +she felt a kind of jealous apprehension that her son was not so +engaging either in his person or address as his cousin; and +therefore she said,</p> +<p>“I hope, Dean, the arrival of this child will give you a +still higher sense of the happiness we enjoy in our own. +What an instructive contrast between the manners of the one and +of the other!”</p> +<p>“It is not the child’s fault,” returned the +dean, “that he is not so elegant in his manners as his +cousin. Had William been bred in the same place, he would +have been as unpolished as this boy.”</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” said young William with +a formal bow and a sarcastic smile, “I assure you several +of my tutors have told me, that I appear to know many things as +it were by instinct.”</p> +<p>Young Henry fixed his eyes upon his cousin, while, with steady +self-complacency, he delivered this speech, and no sooner was it +concluded than Henry cried out in a kind of wonder,</p> +<p>“A little man! as I am alive, a little man! I did +not know there were such little men in this country! I +never saw one in my life before!”</p> +<p>“This is a boy,” said the dean; “a boy not +older than yourself.”</p> +<p>He put their hands together, and William gravely shook hands +with his cousin.</p> +<p>“It <i>is</i> a man,” continued young Henry; then +stroked his cousin’s chin. “No, no, I do not +know whether it is or not.”</p> +<p>“I tell you again,” said the dean, “he is a +boy of your own age; you and he are cousins, for I am his +father.”</p> +<p>“How can that be?” said young Henry. +“He called you <i>Sir</i>.”</p> +<p>“In this country,” said the dean, “polite +children do not call their parents <i>father</i> and +<i>mother</i>.”</p> +<p>“Then don’t they sometimes forget to love them as +such?” asked Henry.</p> +<p>His uncle became now impatient to interrogate him in every +particular concerning his father’s state. Lady +Clementina felt equal impatience to know where the father was, +whether he were coming to live with them, wanted anything of +them, and every circumstance in which her vanity was +interested. Explanations followed all these questions; but +which, exactly agreeing with what the elder Henry’s letter +has related, require no recital here.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> +<p>That vanity which presided over every thought and deed of Lady +Clementina was the protector of young Henry within her +house. It represented to her how amiable her conduct would +appear in the eye of the world should she condescend to treat +this destitute nephew as her own son; what envy such heroic +virtue would excite in the hearts of her particular friends, and +what grief in the bosoms of all those who did not like her.</p> +<p>The dean was a man of no inconsiderable penetration. He +understood the thoughts which, upon this occasion, passed in the +mind of his wife, and in order to ensure her kind treatment of +the boy, instead of reproaching her for the cold manner in which +she had at first received him, he praised her tender and +sympathetic heart for having shown him so much kindness, and thus +stimulated her vanity to be praised still more.</p> +<p>William, the mother’s own son, far from apprehending a +rival in this savage boy, was convinced of his own pre-eminence, +and felt an affection for him—though rather as a foil than +as a cousin. He sported with his ignorance upon all +occasions, and even lay in wait for circumstances that might +expose it; while young Henry, strongly impressed with everything +which appeared new to him, expressed, without reserve, the +sensations which those novelties excited, wholly careless of the +construction put on his observations.</p> +<p>He never appeared either offended or abashed when laughed at; +but still pursued his questions, and still discovered his wonder +at many replies made to him, though “simpleton,” +“poor silly boy,” and “idiot,” were +vociferated around him from his cousin, his aunt, and their +constant visitor the bishop.</p> +<p>His uncle would frequently undertake to instruct him; so +indeed would the bishop; but Lady Clementina, her son, and the +greatest part of her companions, found something so irresistibly +ridiculous in his remarks, that nothing but immoderate laughter +followed; they thought such folly had even merit in the way of +entertainment, and they wished him no wiser.</p> +<p>Having been told that every morning, on first seeing his +uncle, he was to make a respectful bow; and coming into the +dean’s dressing-room just as he was out of bed, his wig +lying on the table, Henry appeared at a loss which of the two he +should bow to. At last he gave the preference to his uncle, +but afterwards bowed reverently to the wig. In this he did +what he conceived was proper, from the introduction which the +dean, on his first arrival, had given him to this venerable +stranger; for, in reality, Henry had a contempt for all finery, +and had called even his aunt’s jewels, when they were first +shown to him, “trumpery,” asking “what they +were good for?” But being corrected in this +disrespect, and informed of their high value, he, like a good +convert, gave up his reason to his faith; and becoming, like all +converts, over-zealous, he now believed there was great worth in +all gaudy appearances, and even respected the earrings of Lady +Clementina almost as much as he respected herself.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> +<p>It was to be lamented that when young Henry had been several +months in England, had been taught to read, and had, of course, +in the society in which he lived, seen much of the enlightened +world, yet the natural expectation of his improvement was by no +means answered.</p> +<p>Notwithstanding the sensibility, which upon various occasions +he manifested in the most captivating degree, notwithstanding the +seeming gentleness of his nature upon all occasions, there now +appeared, in most of his inquiries and remarks, a something which +demonstrated either a stupid or troublesome disposition; either +dulness of conception, or an obstinacy of perseverance in +comments and in arguments which were glaringly false.</p> +<p>Observing his uncle one day offended with his coachman, and +hearing him say to him in a very angry tone,</p> +<p>“You shall never drive me again”—</p> +<p>The moment the man quitted the room, Henry (with his eyes +fixed in the deepest contemplation) repeated five or six times, +in a half whisper to himself,</p> +<p>“<i>You shall never drive me again</i>.”</p> +<p>“<i>You shall never drive me again</i>.”</p> +<p>The dean at last called to him. “What do you mean +by thus repeating my words?”</p> +<p>“I am trying to find out what <i>you</i> meant,” +said Henry.</p> +<p>“What don’t you know?” cried his enlightened +cousin. “Richard is turned away; he is never to get +upon our coach-box again, never to drive any of us +more.”</p> +<p>“And was it pleasure to drive us, cousin? I am +sure I have often pitied him. It rained sometimes very hard +when he was on the box; and sometimes Lady Clementina has kept +him a whole hour at the door all in the cold and snow. Was +that pleasure?”</p> +<p>“No,” replied young William.</p> +<p>“Was it honour, cousin?”</p> +<p>“No,” exclaimed his cousin with a contemptuous +smile.</p> +<p>“Then why did my uncle say to him, as a punishment, +‘he should never’”—</p> +<p>“Come hither, child,” said the dean, “and +let me instruct you; your father’s negligence has been +inexcusable. There are in society,” continued the +dean, “rich and poor; the poor are born to serve the +rich.”</p> +<p>“And what are the rich born for?”</p> +<p>“To be served by the poor.”</p> +<p>“But suppose the poor would not serve them?”</p> +<p>“Then they must starve.”</p> +<p>“And so poor people are permitted to live only upon +condition that they wait upon the rich?”</p> +<p>“Is that a hard condition; or if it were, they will be +rewarded in a better world than this?”</p> +<p>“Is there a better world than this?”</p> +<p>“Is it possible you do not know there is?”</p> +<p>“I heard my father once say something about a world to +come; but he stopped short, and said I was too young to +understand what he meant.”</p> +<p>“The world to come,” returned the dean, “is +where we shall go after death; and there no distinction will be +made between rich and poor—all persons there will be +equal.”</p> +<p>“Aye, now I see what makes it a better world than +this. But cannot this world try to be as good as +that?”</p> +<p>“In respect to placing all persons on a level, it is +utterly impossible. God has ordained it +otherwise.”</p> +<p>“How! has God ordained a distinction to be made, and +will not make any Himself?”</p> +<p>The dean did not proceed in his instructions. He now +began to think his brother in the right, and that the boy was too +young, or too weak, to comprehend the subject.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> +<p>In addition to his ignorant conversation upon many topics, +young Henry had an incorrigible misconception and misapplication +of many <i>words</i>. His father having had but few +opportunities of discoursing with him, upon account of his +attendance at the court of the savages, and not having books in +the island, he had consequently many words to learn of this +country’s language when he arrived in England. This +task his retentive memory made easy to him; but his childish +inattention to their proper signification still made his want of +education conspicuous.</p> +<p>He would call <i>compliments</i>, <i>lies</i>; <i>reserve</i>, +he would call <i>pride</i>; <i>stateliness</i>, +<i>affectation</i>; and for the words <i>war</i> and +<i>battle</i>, he constantly substituted the word +<i>massacre</i>.</p> +<p>“Sir,” said William to his father one morning, as +he entered the room, “do you hear how the cannons are +firing, and the bells ringing?”</p> +<p>“Then I dare say,” cried Henry, “there has +been another massacre.”</p> +<p>The dean called to him in anger, “Will you never learn +the right use of words? You mean to say a +battle.”</p> +<p>“Then what is a massacre?” cried the frightened, +but still curious Henry.</p> +<p>“A massacre,” replied his uncle, “is when a +number of people are slain—”</p> +<p>“I thought,” returned Henry, “soldiers had +been people!”</p> +<p>“You interrupted me,” said the dean, “before +I finished my sentence. Certainly, both soldiers and +sailors are people, but they engage to die by their own free will +and consent.”</p> +<p>“What! all of them?”</p> +<p>“Most of them.”</p> +<p>“But the rest are massacred?”</p> +<p>The dean answered, “The number who go to battle +unwillingly, and by force, are few; and for the others, they have +previously sold their lives to the state.”</p> +<p>“For what?”</p> +<p>“For soldiers’ and sailors’ pay.”</p> +<p>“My father used to tell me, we must not take away our +own lives; but he forgot to tell me we might sell them for others +to take away.”</p> +<p>“William,” said the dean to his son, his patience +tired with his nephew’s persevering nonsense, +“explain to your cousin the difference between a battle and +a massacre.”</p> +<p>“A massacre,” said William, rising from his seat, +and fixing his eyes alternately upon his father, his mother, and +the bishop (all of whom were present) for their approbation, +rather than the person’s to whom his instructions were to +be addressed—“a massacre,” said William, +“is when human beings are slain, who have it not in their +power to defend themselves.”</p> +<p>“Dear cousin William,” said Henry, “that +must ever be the case with every one who is killed.”</p> +<p>After a short hesitation, William replied: “In massacres +people are put to death for no crime, but merely because they are +objects of suspicion.”</p> +<p>“But in battle,” said Henry, “the persons +put to death are not even suspected.”</p> +<p>The bishop now condescended to end this disputation by saying +emphatically,</p> +<p>“Consider, young savage, that in battle neither the +infant, the aged, the sick, nor infirm are involved, but only +those in the full prime of health and vigour.”</p> +<p>As this argument came from so great and reverend a man as the +bishop, Henry was obliged, by a frown from his uncle, to submit, +as one refuted; although he had an answer at the veriest tip of +his tongue, which it was torture to him not to utter. What +he wished to say must ever remain a secret. The church has +its terrors as well as the law; and Henry was awed by the +dean’s tremendous wig as much as Paternoster Row is awed by +the Attorney-General.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2> +<p>If the dean had loved his wife but moderately, seeing all her +faults clearly as he did, he must frequently have quarrelled with +her: if he had loved her with tenderness, he must have treated +her with a degree of violence in the hope of amending her +failings. But having neither personal nor mental affection +towards her sufficiently interesting to give himself the trouble +to contradict her will in anything, he passed for one of the best +husbands in the world. Lady Clementina went out when she +liked, stayed at home when she liked, dressed as she liked, and +talked as she liked without a word of disapprobation from her +husband, and all—because he cared nothing about her.</p> +<p>Her vanity attributed this indulgence to inordinate affection; +and observers in general thought her happier in her marriage than +the beloved wife who bathes her pillow with tears by the side of +an angry husband, whose affection is so excessive that he +unkindly upbraids her because she is—less than +perfection.</p> +<p>The dean’s wife was not so dispassionately considered by +some of his acquaintance as by himself; for they would now and +then hint at her foibles: but this great liberty she also +conceived to be the effect of most violent love, or most violent +admiration: and such would have been her construction had they +commended her follies—had they totally slighted, or had +they beaten her.</p> +<p>Amongst those acquaintances, the aforesaid bishop, by far the +most frequent visitor, did not come merely to lounge an idle +hour, but he had a more powerful motive; the desire of fame, and +dread of being thought a man receiving large emolument for +unimportant service.</p> +<p>The dean, if he did not procure him the renown he wished, +still preserved him from the apprehended censure.</p> +<p>The elder William was to his negligent or ignorant superiors +in the church such as an apt boy at school is to the rich +dunces—William performed the prelates’ tasks for +them, and they rewarded him—not indeed with toys or money, +but with their countenance, their company, their praise. +And scarcely was there a sermon preached from the patrician part +of the bench, in which the dean did not fashion some periods, +blot out some uncouth phrases, render some obscure sentiments +intelligible, and was the certain person, when the work was +printed, to correct the press.</p> +<p>This honourable and right reverend bishop delighted in +printing and publishing his works; or rather the entire works of +the dean, which passed for his: and so degradingly did William, +the shopkeeper’s son, think of his own homiest extraction, +that he was blinded, even to the loss of honour, by the lustre of +this noble acquaintance; for, though in other respects he was a +man of integrity, yet, when the gratification of his friend was +in question, he was a liar; he not only disowned his giving him +aid in any of his publications, but he never published anything +in his own name without declaring to the world “that he had +been obliged for several hints on the subject, for many of the +most judicious corrections, and for those passages in page so and +so (naming the most eloquent parts of the work) to his noble and +learned friend the bishop.”</p> +<p>The dean’s wife being a fine lady—while her +husband and his friend pored over books or their own manuscripts +at home, she ran from house to house, from public amusement to +public amusement; but much less for the pleasure of <i>seeing</i> +than for that of being seen. Nor was it material to her +enjoyment whether she were observed, or welcomed, where she went, +as she never entertained the smallest doubt of either; but rested +assured that her presence roused curiosity and dispensed gladness +all around.</p> +<p>One morning she went forth to pay her visits, all smiles, such +as she thought captivating: she returned, all tears, such as she +thought no less endearing.</p> +<p>Three ladies accompanied her home, entreating her to be +patient under a misfortune to which even kings are liable: +namely, defamation.</p> +<p>Young Henry, struck with compassion at grief of which he knew +not the cause, begged to know “what was the +matter?”</p> +<p>“Inhuman monsters, to treat a woman thus!” cried +his aunt in a fury, casting the corner of her eye into a +looking-glass, to see how rage became her.</p> +<p>“But, comfort yourself,” said one of her +companions: “few people will believe you merit the +charge.”</p> +<p>“But few! if only one believe it, I shall call my +reputation lost, and I will shut myself up in some lonely hut, +and for ever renounce all that is dear to me!”</p> +<p>“What! all your fine clothes?” said Henry, in +amazement.</p> +<p>“Of what importance will my best dresses be, when nobody +would see them?”</p> +<p>“You would see them yourself, dear aunt; and I am sure +nobody admires them more.”</p> +<p>“Now you speak of that,” said she, “I do not +think this gown I have on becoming—I am sure I +look—”</p> +<p>The dean, with the bishop (to whom he had been reading a +treatise just going to the press, which was to be published in +the name of the latter, though written by the former), now +entered, to inquire why they had been sent for in such haste.</p> +<p>“Oh, Dean! oh, my Lord Bishop!” she cried, +resuming that grief which the thoughts of her dress had for a +time dispelled—“My reputation is destroyed—a +public print has accused me of playing deep at my own house, and +winning all the money.”</p> +<p>“The world will never reform,” said the bishop: +“all our labour, my friend, is thrown away.”</p> +<p>“But is it possible,” cried the dean, “that +any one has dared to say this of you?”</p> +<p>“Here it is in print,” said she, holding out a +newspaper.</p> +<p>The dean read the paragraph, and then exclaimed, “I can +forgive a falsehood <i>spoken</i>—the warmth of +conversation may excuse it—but to <i>write</i> and +<i>print</i> an untruth is unpardonable, and I will prosecute +this publisher.”</p> +<p>“Still the falsehood will go down to posterity,” +said Lady Clementina; “and after ages will think I was a +gambler.”</p> +<p>“Comfort yourself, dear madam,” said young Henry, +wishing to console her: “perhaps after ages may not hear of +you; nor even the present age think much about you.”</p> +<p>The bishop now exclaimed, after having taken the paper from +the dean, and read the paragraph, “It is a libel, a rank +libel, and the author must be punished.”</p> +<p>“Not only the author, but the publisher,” said the +dean.</p> +<p>“Not only the publisher, but the printer,” +continued the bishop.</p> +<p>“And must my name be bandied about by lawyers in a +common court of justice?” cried Lady Clementina. +“How shocking to my delicacy!”</p> +<p>“My lord, it is a pity we cannot try them by the +ecclesiastical court,” said the dean, with a sigh.</p> +<p>“Or by the India delinquent bill,” said the +bishop, with vexation.</p> +<p>“So totally innocent as I am!” she vociferated +with sobs. “Every one knows I never touch a card at +home, and this libel charges me with playing at my own house; and +though, whenever I do play, I own I am apt to win, yet it is +merely for my amusement.”</p> +<p>“Win or not win, play or not play,” exclaimed both +the churchmen, “this is a libel—no doubt, no doubt, a +libel.”</p> +<p>Poor Henry’s confined knowledge of his native language +tormented him so much with curiosity upon this occasion, that he +went softly up to his uncle, and asked him in a whisper, +“What is the meaning of the word libel?”</p> +<p>“A libel,” replied the dean, in a raised voice, +“is that which one person publishes to the injury of +another.”</p> +<p>“And what can the injured person do,” asked Henry, +“if the accusation should chance to be true?”</p> +<p>“Prosecute,” replied the dean.</p> +<p>“But, then, what does he do if the accusation be +false?”</p> +<p>“Prosecute likewise,” answered the dean.</p> +<p>“How, uncle! is it possible that the innocent behave +just like the guilty?”</p> +<p>“There is no other way to act.”</p> +<p>“Why, then, if I were the innocent, I would do nothing +at all sooner than I would act like the guilty. I would not +persecute—”</p> +<p>“I said <i>prosecute</i>,” cried the dean in +anger. “Leave the room; you have no +comprehension.”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes, now I understand the difference of the two +words; but they sound so much alike, I did not at first observe +the distinction. You said, ‘the innocent prosecute, +but the <i>guilty persecute</i>.’” He bowed +(convinced as he thought) and left the room.</p> +<p>After this modern star-chamber, which was left sitting, had +agreed on its mode of vengeance, and the writer of the libel was +made acquainted with his danger, he waited, in all humility, upon +Lady Clementina, and assured her, with every appearance of +sincerity,</p> +<p>“That she was not the person alluded to by the paragraph +in question, but that the initials which she had conceived to +mark out her name, were, in fact, meant to point out Lady +Catherine Newland.”</p> +<p>“But, sir,” cried Lady Clementina, “what +could induce you to write such a paragraph upon Lady +Catherine? She <i>never</i> plays.”</p> +<p>“We know that, madam, or we dared not to have attacked +her. Though we must circulate libels, madam, to gratify our +numerous readers, yet no people are more in fear of prosecutions +than authors and editors; therefore, unless we are deceived in +our information, we always take care to libel the +innocent—we apprehend nothing from them—their own +characters support them—but the guilty are very tenacious; +and what they cannot secure by fair means, they will employ force +to accomplish. Dear madam, be assured I have too much +regard for a wife and seven small children, who are maintained by +my industry alone, to have written anything in the nature of a +libel upon your ladyship.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> +<p>About this period the dean had just published a pamphlet in +his own name, and in which that of his friend the bishop was only +mentioned with thanks for hints, observations, and condescending +encouragement to the author.</p> +<p>This pamphlet glowed with the dean’s love for his +country; and such a country as he described, it was impossible +<i>not</i> to love. “Salubrious air, fertile fields, +wood, water, corn, grass, sheep, oxen, fish, fowl, fruit, and +vegetables,” were dispersed with the most prodigal hand; +“valiant men, virtuous women; statesmen wise and just; +tradesmen abounding in merchandise and money; husbandmen +possessing peace, ease, plenty; and all ranks +liberty.” This brilliant description, while the dean +read the work to his family, so charmed poor Henry, that he +repeatedly cried out,</p> +<p>“I am glad I came to this country.”</p> +<p>But it so happened that a few days after, Lady Clementina, in +order to render the delicacy of her taste admired, could eat of +no one dish upon the table, but found fault with them all. +The dean at length said to her,</p> +<p>“Indeed, you are too nice; reflect upon the hundreds of +poor creatures who have not a morsel or a drop of anything to +subsist upon, except bread and water; and even of the first a +scanty allowance, but for which they are obliged to toil six days +in the week, from sun to sun.”</p> +<p>“Pray, uncle,” cried Henry, “in what country +do these poor people live?”</p> +<p>“In this country,” replied the dean.</p> +<p>Henry rose from his chair, ran to the chimney-piece, took up +his uncle’s pamphlet, and said, “I don’t +remember your mentioning them here.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps I have not,” answered the dean, +coolly.</p> +<p>Still Henry turned over each leaf of the book, but he could +meet only with luxurious details of “the fruits of the +earth, the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the +fishes of the sea.”</p> +<p>“Why, here is provision enough for all the +people,” said Henry; “why should they want? why do +not they go and take some of these things?”</p> +<p>“They must not,” said the dean, “unless they +were their own.”</p> +<p>“What, uncle! does no part of the earth, nor anything +which the earth produces, belong to the poor?”</p> +<p>“Certainly not.”</p> +<p>“Why did not you say so, then, in your +pamphlet?”</p> +<p>“Because it is what everybody knows.”</p> +<p>“Oh, then, what you have said in your pamphlet is only +what—nobody knows.”</p> +<p>There appeared to the dean, in the delivery of this sentence, +a satirical acrimony, which his irritability as an author could +but ill forgive.</p> +<p>An author, it is said, has more acute feelings in respect to +his works than any artist in the world besides.</p> +<p>Henry had some cause, on the present occasion, to think this +observation just; for no sooner had he spoken the foregoing +words, than his uncle took him by the hand out of the room, and, +leading him to his study, there he enumerated his various faults; +and having told him “it was for all those, too long +permitted with impunity, and not merely for the <i>present</i> +impertinence, that he meant to punish him,” ordered him to +close confinement in his chamber for a week.</p> +<p>In the meantime, the dean’s pamphlet (less hurt by +Henry’s critique than <i>he</i> had been) was proceeding to +the tenth edition, and the author acquiring literary reputation +beyond what he had ever conferred on his friend the bishop.</p> +<p>The style, the energy, the eloquence of the work was echoed by +every reader who could afford to buy it—some few +enlightened ones excepted, who chiefly admired the author’s +<i>invention</i>.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> +<p>The dean, in the good humour which the rapid sale of his book +produced, once more took his nephew to his bosom; and although +the ignorance of young Henry upon the late occasions had offended +him very highly, yet that self-same ignorance, evinced a short +time after upon a different subject, struck his uncle as +productive of a most rare and exalted virtue.</p> +<p>Henry had frequently, in his conversation, betrayed the total +want of all knowledge in respect to religion or futurity, and the +dean for this reason delayed taking him to church, till he had +previously given him instructions <i>wherefore</i> he went.</p> +<p>A leisure morning arrived, on which he took his nephew to his +study, and implanted in his youthful mind the first unconfused +idea of the Creator of the universe!</p> +<p>The dean was eloquent, Henry was all attention; his +understanding, expanded by time to the conception of a +God—and not warped by custom from the sensations which a +just notion of that God inspires—dwelt with delight and +wonder on the information given him—lessons which, +instilled into the head of a senseless infant, too often produce, +throughout his remaining life, an impious indifference to the +truths revealed.</p> +<p>Yet, with all that astonished, that respectful sensibility +which Henry showed on this great occasion, he still expressed his +opinion, and put questions to the dean, with his usual +simplicity, till he felt himself convinced.</p> +<p>“What!” cried he—after being informed of the +attributes inseparable from the Supreme Being, and having +received the injunction to offer prayers to Him night and +morning—“What! am I permitted to speak to Power +Divine?”</p> +<p>“At all times,” replied the dean.</p> +<p>“How! whenever I like?”</p> +<p>“Whenever you like,” returned the dean.</p> +<p>“I durst not,” cried Henry, “make so free +with the bishop, nor dare any of his attendants.”</p> +<p>“The bishop,” said the dean, “is the servant +of God, and therefore must be treated with respect.”</p> +<p>“With more respect than his Master?” asked +Henry.</p> +<p>The dean not replying immediately to this question, Henry, in +the rapidity of inquiry, ran on to another:—</p> +<p>“But what am I to say when I speak to the +Almighty?”</p> +<p>“First, thank Him for the favours He has bestowed on +you.”</p> +<p>“What favours?”</p> +<p>“You amaze me,” cried the dean, “by your +question. Do not you live in ease, in plenty, and +happiness?”</p> +<p>“And do the poor and the unhappy thank Him too, +uncle?”</p> +<p>“No doubt; every human being glorifies Him, for having +been made a rational creature.”</p> +<p>“And does my aunt and all her card-parties glorify Him +for that?”</p> +<p>The dean again made no reply, and Henry went on to other +questions, till his uncle had fully instructed him as to the +nature and the form of <i>prayer</i>; and now, putting into his +hands a book, he pointed out to him a few short prayers, which he +wished him to address to Heaven in his presence.</p> +<p>Whilst Henry bent his knees, as his uncle had directed, he +trembled, turned pale, and held, for a slight support, on the +chair placed before him.</p> +<p>His uncle went to him, and asked him “What was the +matter.”</p> +<p>“Oh!” cried Henry, “when I first came to +your door with my poor father’s letter, I shook for fear +you would not look upon me; and I cannot help feeling even more +now than I did then.”</p> +<p>The dean embraced him with warmth—gave him +confidence—and retired to the other side of the study, to +observe his whole demeanour on this new occasion.</p> +<p>As he beheld his features varying between the passions of +humble fear and fervent hope, his face sometimes glowing with the +rapture of thanksgiving, and sometimes with the blushes of +contrition, he thus exclaimed apart:—</p> +<p>“This is the true education on which to found the +principles of religion. The favour conferred by Heaven in +granting the freedom of petitions to its throne, can never be +conceived with proper force but by those whose most tedious +moments during their infancy were <i>not</i> passed in +prayer. Unthinking governors of childhood! to insult the +Deity with a form of worship in which the mind has no share; nay, +worse, has repugnance, and by the thoughtless habits of youth, +prevent, even in age, devotion.”</p> +<p>Henry’s attention was so firmly fixed that he forgot +there was a spectator of his fervour; nor did he hear young +William enter the chamber and even speak to his father.</p> +<p>At length closing his book and rising from his knees, he +approached his uncle and cousin, with a sedateness in his air, +which gave the latter a very false opinion of the state of his +youthful companion’s mind.</p> +<p>“So, Mr. Henry,” cried William, “you have +been obliged, at last, to say your prayers.”</p> +<p>The dean informed his son “that to Henry it was no +punishment to pray.”</p> +<p>“He is the strangest boy I ever knew!” said +William, inadvertently.</p> +<p>“To be sure,” said Henry, “I was frightened +when I first knelt; but when I came to the words, <i>Father</i>, +<i>which art in Heaven</i>, they gave me courage; for I know how +merciful and kind a <i>father</i> is, beyond any one +else.”</p> +<p>The dean again embraced his nephew, let fall a tear to his +poor brother Henry’s misfortunes; and admonished the youth +to show himself equally submissive to other instructions, as he +had done to those which inculcate piety.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> +<p>The interim between youth and manhood was passed by young +William and young Henry in studious application to literature; +some casual mistakes in our customs and manners on the part of +Henry; some too close adherences to them on the side of +William.</p> +<p>Their different characters, when boys, were preserved when +they became men: Henry still retained that natural simplicity +which his early destiny had given him; he wondered still at many +things he saw and heard, and at times would venture to give his +opinion, contradict, and even act in opposition to persons whom +long experience and the approbation of the world had placed in +situations which claimed his implicit reverence and +submission.</p> +<p>Unchanged in all his boyish graces, young William, now a man, +was never known to infringe upon the statutes of good-breeding; +even though sincerity, his own free will, duty to his neighbour, +with many other plebeian virtues and privileges, were the +sacrifice.</p> +<p>William inherited all the pride and ambition of the +dean—Henry, all his father’s humility. And yet, +so various and extensive is the acceptation of the word pride, +that, on some occasions, Henry was proud even beyond his +cousin. He thought it far beneath his dignity ever to +honour, or contemplate with awe, any human being in whom he saw +numerous failings. Nor would he, to ingratiate himself into +the favour of a man above him, stoop to one servility, such as +the haughty William daily practised.</p> +<p>“I know I am called proud,” one day said William +to Henry.</p> +<p>“Dear cousin,” replied Henry, “it must be +only, then, by those who do not know you; for to me you appear +the humblest creature in the world.”</p> +<p>“Do you really think so?”</p> +<p>“I am certain of it; or would you always give up your +opinion to that of persons in a superior state, however inferior +in their understanding? Would else their weak judgment +immediately change yours, though, before, you had been decided on +the opposite side? Now, indeed, cousin, I have more pride +than you; for I never will stoop to act or to speak contrary to +my feelings.”</p> +<p>“Then you will never be a great man.”</p> +<p>“Nor ever desire it, if I must first be a mean +one.”</p> +<p>There was in the reputation of these two young men another +mistake, which the common retailers of character committed. +Henry was said to be wholly negligent, while William was reputed +to be extremely attentive to the other sex. William, +indeed, was gallant, was amorous, and indulged his inclination to +the libertine society of women; but Henry it was who <i>loved</i> +them. He admired them at a reverential distance, and felt +so tender an affection for the virtuous female, that it shocked +him to behold, much more to associate with, the depraved and +vicious.</p> +<p>In the advantages of person Henry was still superior to +William; and yet the latter had no common share of those +attractions which captivate weak, thoughtless, or unskilful +minds.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> +<p>About the time that Henry and William quitted college, and had +arrived at their twentieth year, the dean purchased a small +estate in a village near to the country residence of Lord and +Lady Bendham; and, in the total want of society, the dean’s +family were frequently honoured with invitations from the great +house.</p> +<p>Lord Bendham, besides a good estate, possessed the office of a +lord of the bed-chamber to his Majesty. Historians do not +ascribe much importance to the situation, or to the talents of +nobles in this department, nor shall this little history. A +lord of the bed-chamber is a personage well known in courts, and +in all capitals where courts reside; with this advantage to the +inquirer, that in becoming acquainted with one of those noble +characters, he becomes acquainted with all the remainder; not +only with those of the same kingdom, but those of foreign +nations; for, in whatever land, in whatever climate, a lord of +the bed-chamber must necessarily be the self-same creature: one +wholly made up of observance, of obedience, of dependence, and of +imitation—a borrowed character—a character formed by +reflection.</p> +<p>The wife of this illustrious peer, as well as himself, took +her hue, like the chameleon, from surrounding objects: her +manners were not governed by her mind but were solely directed by +external circumstances. At court, humble, resigned, +patient, attentive: at balls, masquerades, gaming-tables, and +routs, gay, sprightly, and flippant; at her country seat, +reserved, austere, arrogant, and gloomy.</p> +<p>Though in town her timid eye in presence of certain personages +would scarcely uplift its trembling lid, so much she felt her own +insignificance, yet, in the country, till Lady Clementina +arrived, there was not one being of consequence enough to share +in her acquaintance; and she paid back to her inferiors there all +the humiliating slights, all the mortifications, which in London +she received from those to whom <i>she</i> was inferior.</p> +<p>Whether in town or country, it is but justice to acknowledge +that in her own person she was strictly chaste; but in the +country she extended that chastity even to the persons of others; +and the young woman who lost her virtue in the village of Anfield +had better have lost her life. Some few were now and then +found hanging or drowned, while no other cause could be assigned +for their despair than an imputation on the discretion of their +character, and dread of the harsh purity of Lady Bendham. +She would remind the parish priest of the punishment allotted for +female dishonour, and by her influence had caused many an unhappy +girl to do public penance in their own or the neighbouring +churches.</p> +<p>But this country rigour in town she could dispense withal; +and, like other ladies of virtue, she there visited and received +into her house the acknowledged mistresses of any man in elevated +life. It was not, therefore, the crime, but the rank which +the criminal held in society, that drew down Lady Bendham’s +vengeance. She even carried her distinction of classes in +female error to such a very nice point that the adulterous +concubine of an elder brother was her most intimate acquaintance, +whilst the less guilty unmarried mistress of the younger she +would not sully her lips to exchange a word with.</p> +<p>Lord and Lady Bendham’s birth, education, talents, and +propensities, being much on the same scale of eminence, they +would have been a very happy pair, had not one great misfortune +intervened—the lady never bore her lord a child, while +every cottage of the village was crammed with half-starved +children, whose father from week to week, from year to year, +exerted his manly youth, and wasted his strength in vain, to +protect them from hunger; whose mother mourned over her new-born +infant as a little wretch, sent into the world to deprive the +rest of what already was too scanty for them; in the castle, +which owned every cottage and all the surrounding land, and where +one single day of feasting would have nourished for a mouth all +the poor inhabitants of the parish, not one child was given to +partake of the plenty. The curse of barrenness was on the +family of the lord of the manor, the curse of fruitfulness upon +the famished poor.</p> +<p>This lord and lady, with an ample fortune, both by inheritance +and their sovereign’s favour, had never yet the economy to +be exempt from debts; still, over their splendid, their profuse +table, they could contrive and plan excellent schemes “how +the poor might live most comfortably with a little better +management.”</p> +<p>The wages of a labouring man, with a wife and half a dozen +small children, Lady Bendham thought quite sufficient if they +would only learn a little economy.</p> +<p>“You know, my lord, those people never want to +dress—shoes and stockings, a coat and waistcoat, a gown and +a cap, a petticoat and a handkerchief, are all they +want—fire, to be sure, in winter—then all the rest is +merely for provision.”</p> +<p>“I’ll get a pen and ink,” said young Henry, +one day, when he had the honour of being at their table, +“and see what the <i>rest</i> amounts to.”</p> +<p>“No, no accounts,” cried my lord, “no +summing up; but if you were to calculate, you must add to the +receipts of the poor my gift at Christmas—last year, during +the frost, no less than a hundred pounds.”</p> +<p>“How benevolent!” exclaimed the dean.</p> +<p>“How prudent!” exclaimed Henry.</p> +<p>“What do you mean by prudent?” asked Lord +Bendham. “Explain your meaning.”</p> +<p>“No, my lord,” replied the dean, “do not ask +for an explanation: this youth is wholly unacquainted with our +customs, and, though a man in stature, is but a child in +intellects. Henry, have I not often cautioned +you—”</p> +<p>“Whatever his thoughts are upon the subject,” +cried Lord Bendham, “I desire to know them.”</p> +<p>“Why, then, my lord,” answered Henry, “I +thought it was prudent in you to give a little, lest the poor, +driven to despair, should take all.”</p> +<p>“And if they had, they would have been +hanged.”</p> +<p>“Hanging, my lord, our history, or some tradition, says, +was formerly adopted as a mild punishment, in place of +starving.”</p> +<p>“I am sure,” cried Lady Bendham (who seldom spoke +directly to the argument before her), “I am sure they ought +to think themselves much obliged to us.”</p> +<p>“That is the greatest hardship of all,” cried +Henry.</p> +<p>“What, sir?” exclaimed the earl.</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon—my uncle looks +displeased—I am very ignorant—I did not receive my +first education in this country—and I find I think so +differently from every one else, that I am ashamed to utter my +sentiments.”</p> +<p>“Never mind, young man,” answered Lord Bendham; +“we shall excuse your ignorance for once. Only inform +us what it was you just now called <i>the greatest hardship of +all</i>.”</p> +<p>“It was, my lord, that what the poor receive to keep +them from perishing should pass under the name of <i>gifts</i> +and <i>bounty</i>. Health, strength, and the will to earn a +moderate subsistence, ought to be every man’s security from +obligation.”</p> +<p>“I think a hundred pounds a great deal of money,” +cried Lady Bendham; “and I hope my lord will never give it +again.”</p> +<p>“I hope so too,” cried Henry; “for if my +lord would only be so good as to speak a few words for the poor +as a senator, he might possibly for the future keep his hundred +pounds, and yet they never want it.”</p> +<p>Lord Bendham had the good nature only to smile at +Henry’s simplicity, whispering to himself, “I had +rather keep my—” his last word was lost in the +whisper.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XX.</h2> +<p>In the country—where the sensible heart is still more +susceptible of impressions; and where the unfeeling mind, in the +want of other men’s wit to invent, forms schemes for its +own amusement—our youths both fell in love: if passions, +that were pursued on the most opposite principles, can receive +the same appellation. William, well versed in all the +licentious theory, thought himself in love, because he perceived +a tumultuous impulse cause his heart to beat while his fancy +fixed on a certain object whose presence agitated yet more his +breast.</p> +<p>Henry thought himself not in love, because, while he listened +to William on the subject, he found their sensations did not in +the least agree.</p> +<p>William owned to Henry that he loved Agnes, the daughter of a +cottager in the village, and hoped to make her his mistress.</p> +<p>Henry felt that his tender regard for Rebecca, the daughter of +the curate of the parish, did not inspire him even with the +boldness to acquaint her with his sentiments, much less to +meditate one design that might tend to her dishonour.</p> +<p>While William was cautiously planning how to meet in private, +and accomplish the seduction of the object of his passion, Henry +was endeavouring to fortify the object of <i>his</i> choice with +every virtue. He never read a book from which he received +improvement that he did not carry it to Rebecca—never heard +a circumstance which might assist towards her moral instruction +that he did not haste to tell it her; and once when William +boasted</p> +<p>“He knew he was beloved by Agnes;”</p> +<p>Henry said, with equal triumph, “he had not dared to +take the means to learn, nor had Rebecca dared to give one +instance of her partiality.”</p> +<p>Rebecca was the youngest, and by far the least handsome +daughter of four, to whom the Reverend Mr. Rymer, a widower, was +father. The other sisters were accounted beauties; and she, +from her comparative want of personal charms, having been less +beloved by her parents, and less caressed by those who visited +them, than the rest, had for some time past sought other +resources of happiness than the affection, praise, and indulgence +of her fellow-creatures. The parsonage house in which this +family lived was the forlorn remains of an ancient abbey: it had +in later times been the habitation of a rich and learned rector, +by whom, at his decease, a library was bequeathed for the use of +every succeeding resident. Rebecca, left alone in this huge +ruinous abode, while her sisters were paying stated visits in +search of admiration, passed her solitary hours in reading. +She not merely read—she thought: the choicest English books +from this excellent library taught her to <i>think</i>; and +reflection fashioned her mind to bear the slights, the +mortifications of neglect, with a patient dejection, rather than +with an indignant or a peevish spirit.</p> +<p>This resignation to injury and contumely gave to her perfect +symmetry of person, a timid eye, a retiring manner, and spread +upon her face a placid sweetness, a pale serenity indicating +sense, which no wise connoisseur in female charms would have +exchanged for all the sparkling eyes and florid tints of her vain +and vulgar sisters. Henry’s soul was so enamoured of +her gentle deportment, that in his sight she appeared beautiful; +while she, with an understanding competent to judge of his worth, +was so greatly surprised, so prodigiously astonished at the +distinction, the attention, the many offices of civility paid her +by him, in preference to her idolised sisters, that her gratitude +for such unexpected favours had sometimes (even in his presence, +and in that of her family) nearly drowned her eyes with +tears. Yet they were only trifles, in which Henry had the +opportunity or the power to give her testimony of his +regard—trifles, often more grateful to the sensible mind +than efforts of high importance; and by which the proficient in +the human heart will accurately trace a passion wholly concealed +from the dull eye of the unskilled observer.</p> +<p>The first cause of amazement to Rebecca in the manners of +Henry was, that he talked with <i>her</i> as well as with her +sisters; no visitor else had done so. In appointing a +morning’s or an evening’s walk, he proposed +<i>her</i> going with the rest; no one had ever required her +company before. When he called and she was absent, he asked +where she was; no one had ever missed her before. She +thanked him most sincerely, and soon perceived that, at those +times when he was present, company was more pleasing even than +books.</p> +<p>Her astonishment, her gratitude, did not stop here. +Henry proceeded in attention; he soon selected her from her +sister to tell her the news of the day, answered her observations +the first; once gave her a sprig of myrtle from his bosom in +preference to another who had praised its beauty; and +once—never-to-be-forgotten kindness—sheltered her +from a hasty shower with his <i>parapluie</i>, while he lamented +to her drenched companions,</p> +<p>“That he had but <i>one</i> to offer.”</p> +<p>From a man whose understanding and person they admire, how +dear, how impressive on the female heart is every trait of +tenderness! Till now, Rebecca had experienced none; not +even of the parental kind: and merely from the overflowings of a +kind nature (not in return for affection) had she ever loved her +father and her sisters. Sometimes, repulsed by their +severity, she transferred the fulness of an affectionate heart +upon birds, or the brute creation: but now, her alienated mind +was recalled and softened by a sensation that made her long to +complain of the burthen it imposed. Those obligations which +exact silence are a heavy weight to the grateful; and Rebecca +longed to tell Henry “that even the forfeit of her life +would be too little to express the full sense she had of the +respect he paid to her.” But as modesty forbade not +only every kind of declaration, but every insinuation purporting +what she felt, she wept through sleepless nights from a load of +suppressed explanation; yet still she would not have exchanged +this trouble for all the beauty of her sisters.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> +<p>Old John and Hannah Primrose, a prudent hardy couple, who, by +many years of peculiar labour and peculiar abstinence, were the +least poor of all the neighbouring cottagers, had an only child +(who has been named before) called Agnes: and this cottage girl +was reckoned, in spite of the beauty of the elder Miss Rymers, by +far the prettiest female in the village.</p> +<p>Reader of superior rank, if the passions which rage in the +bosom of the inferior class of human kind are beneath your +sympathy, throw aside this little history, for Rebecca Rymer and +Agnes Primrose are its heroines.</p> +<p>But you, unprejudiced reader, whose liberal observations are +not confined to stations, but who consider all mankind alike +deserving your investigation; who believe that there exists, in +some, knowledge without the advantage of instruction; refinement +of sentiment independent of elegant society; honourable pride of +heart without dignity of blood; and genius destitute of art to +render it conspicuous—you will, perhaps, venture to read +on, in hopes that the remainder of this story may deserve your +attention, just as the wild herb of the forest, equally with the +cultivated plant in the garden, claims the attention of the +botanist.</p> +<p>Young William saw in young Agnes even more beauty than was +beheld by others; and on those days when he felt no inclination +to ride, to shoot, or to hunt, he would contrive, by some secret +device, the means to meet with her alone, and give her tokens (if +not of his love) at least of his admiration of her beauty, and of +the pleasure he enjoyed in her company.</p> +<p>Agnes listened, with a kind of delirious enchantment, to all +her elevated and eloquent admirer uttered; and in return for his +praises of her charms, and his equivocal replies in respect to +his designs towards her, she gave to him her most undisguised +thoughts, and her whole enraptured heart.</p> +<p>This harmless intercourse (as she believed it) had not lasted +many weeks before she loved him: she even confessed she did, +every time that any unwonted mark of attention from him struck +with unexpected force her infatuated senses.</p> +<p>It has been said by a celebrated writer, upon the affection +subsisting between the two sexes, “that there are many +persons who, if they had never heard of the passion of love, +would never have felt it.” Might it not with equal +truth be added, that there are many more, who, having heard of +it, and believing most firmly that they feel it, are nevertheless +mistaken? Neither of these cases was the lot of +Agnes. She experienced the sentiment before she ever heard +it named in the sense with which it had possessed +her—joined with numerous other sentiments; for genuine +love, however rated as the chief passion of the human heart, is +but a poor dependent, a retainer upon other passions; admiration, +gratitude, respect, esteem, pride in the object. Divest the +boasted sensation of these, and it is not more than the +impression of a twelve-month, by courtesy, or vulgar error, +termed love.</p> +<p>Agnes was formed by the rarest structure of the human frame, +and destined by the tenderest thrillings of the human soul, to +inspire and to experience real love: but her nice taste, her +delicate thoughts, were so refined beyond the sphere of her own +station in society, that nature would have produced this prodigy +of attraction in vain, had not one of superior education and +manners assailed her affections; and had she been accustomed to +the conversation of men in William’s rank of life, she had, +perhaps, treated William’s addresses with indifference; +but, in comparing him with her familiar acquaintance, he was a +miracle! His unremitting attention seemed the condescension +of an elevated being, to whom she looked up with reverence, with +admiration, with awe, with pride, with sense of +obligation—and all those various passions which constitute +true, and never-to-be-eradicated, love.</p> +<p>But in vain she felt and even avowed with her lips what every +look, every gesture, had long denoted; William, with discontent, +sometimes with anger, upbraided her for her false professions, +and vowed, “that while one tender proof, which he fervently +besought, was wanting, she did but aggravate his misery by less +endearments.”</p> +<p>Agnes had been taught the full estimation of female virtue; +and if her nature could have detested any one creature in a state +of wretchedness, it would have been the woman who had lost her +honour; yet, for William, what would not Agnes forfeit? The +dignity, the peace, the serenity, the innocence of her own mind, +love soon encouraged her to fancy she could easily forego; and +this same overpowering influence at times so forcibly possessed +her, that she even felt a momentary transport in the +contemplation “of so precious a sacrifice to +him.” But then she loved her parents, and their +happiness she could not prevail with herself to barter even for +<i>his</i>. She wished he would demand some other pledge of +her attachment to him; for there was none but this, her ruin in +no other shape, that she would deny at his request. While +thus she deliberated, she prepared for her fall.</p> +<p>Bred up with strict observance both of his moral and religious +character, William did not dare to tell an unequivocal lie even +to his inferiors; he never promised Agnes he would marry her; +nay, even he paid so much respect to the forms of truth, that no +sooner was it evident that he had obtained her heart, her whole +soul entire—so that loss of innocence would be less +terrifying than separation from him—no sooner did he +perceive this, than he candidly told her he “could never +make her his wife.” At the same time he lamented +“the difference of their births, and the duty he owed his +parents’ hopes,” in terms so pathetic to her partial +ear, that she thought him a greater object of compassion in his +attachment even than herself; and was now urged by pity to remove +the cause of his complainings.</p> +<p>One evening Henry accidentally passed the lonely spot where +William and she constantly met; he observed his cousin’s +impassioned eye, and her affectionate yet fearful glance. +William, he saw, took delight in the agitation of mind, in the +strong apprehension mixed with the love of Agnes. This +convinced Henry that either he or himself was not in love; for +his heart told him he would not have beheld such emotions of +tenderness, mingled with such marks of sorrow, upon the +countenance of Rebecca, for the wealth of the universe.</p> +<p>The first time he was alone with William after this, he +mentioned his observation on Agnes’s apparent affliction, +and asked “why her grief was the result of their stolen +meetings.”</p> +<p>“Because,” replied Williams, “her +professions are unlimited, while her manners are reserved; and I +accuse her of loving me with unkind moderation, while I love her +to distraction.”</p> +<p>“You design to marry her, then?”</p> +<p>“How can you degrade me by the supposition?”</p> +<p>“Would it degrade you more to marry her than to make her +your companion? To talk with her for hours in preference to +all other company? To wish to be endeared to her by still +closer ties?”</p> +<p>“But all this is not raising her to the rank of my +wife.”</p> +<p>“It is still raising her to that rank for which wives +alone were allotted.”</p> +<p>“You talk wildly! I tell you I love her; but not +enough, I hope, to marry her.”</p> +<p>“But too much, I hope, to undo her?”</p> +<p>“That must be her own free choice—I make use of no +unwarrantable methods.”</p> +<p>“What are the warrantable ones?”</p> +<p>“I mean, I have made her no false promises; offered no +pretended settlement; vowed no eternal constancy.”</p> +<p>“But you have told her you love her; and, from that +confession, has she not reason to expect every protection which +even promises could secure?”</p> +<p>“I cannot answer for her expectations; but I know if she +should make me as happy as I ask, and I should then forsake her, +I shall not break my word.”</p> +<p>“Still she will be deceived, for you will falsify your +looks.”</p> +<p>“Do you think she depends on my looks?”</p> +<p>“I have read in some book, <i>Looks are the +lover’s sole dependence</i>.”</p> +<p>“I have no objection to her interpreting mine in her +favour; but then for the consequences she will have herself, and +only herself, to blame.”</p> +<p>“Oh! Heaven!”</p> +<p>“What makes you exclaim so vehemently?”</p> +<p>“A forcible idea of the bitterness of that calamity +which inflicts self-reproach! Oh, rather deceive her; leave +her the consolation to reproach <i>you</i> rather than +<i>herself</i>.”</p> +<p>“My honour will not suffer me.”</p> +<p>“Exert your honour, and never see her more.”</p> +<p>“I cannot live without her.”</p> +<p>“Then live with her by the laws of your country, and +make her and yourself both happy.”</p> +<p>“Am I to make my father and my mother miserable? +They would disown me for such a step.”</p> +<p>“Your mother, perhaps, might be offended, but your +father could not. Remember the sermon he preached but last +Sunday, upon—<i>the shortness of this +life</i>—<i>contempt of all riches and worldly honours in +balance with a quiet conscience</i>; and the assurance he gave +us, <i>that the greatest happiness enjoyed upon earth was to be +found under a humble roof</i>, <i>with heaven in +prospect</i>.”</p> +<p>“My father is a very good man,” said William; +“and yet, instead of being satisfied with a humble roof, he +looks impatiently forward to a bishop’s palace.”</p> +<p>“He is so very good, then,” said Henry, +“that perhaps, seeing the dangers to which men in exalted +stations are exposed, he has such extreme philanthropy, and so +little self-love, he would rather that <i>himself</i> should +brave those perils incidental to wealth and grandeur than any +other person.”</p> +<p>“You are not yet civilised,” said William; +“and to argue with you is but to instruct, without gaining +instruction.”</p> +<p>“I know, sir,” replied Henry, “that you are +studying the law most assiduously, and indulge flattering hopes +of rising to eminence in your profession: but let me hint to +you—that though you may be perfect in the knowledge how to +administer the commandments of men, unless you keep in view the +precepts of God, your judgment, like mine, will be +fallible.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> +<p>The dean’s family passed this first summer at the +new-purchased estate so pleasantly, that they left it with regret +when winter called them to their house in town.</p> +<p>But if some felt concern in quitting the village of Anfield, +others who were left behind felt the deepest anguish. Those +were not the poor—for rigid attention to the religion and +morals of people in poverty, and total neglect of their bodily +wants, was the dean’s practice. He forced them to +attend church every Sabbath; but whether they had a dinner on +their return was too gross and temporal an inquiry for his +spiritual fervour. Good of the soul was all he aimed at; +and this pious undertaking, besides his diligence as a pastor, +required all his exertion as a magistrate—for to be very +poor and very honest, very oppressed yet very thankful, is a +degree of sainted excellence not often to be attained, without +the aid of zealous men to frighten into virtue.</p> +<p>Those, then, who alone felt sorrow at the dean’s +departure were two young women, whose parents, exempt from +indigence, preserved them from suffering under his unpitying +piety, but whose discretion had not protected them from the +bewitching smiles of his nephew, and the seducing wiles of his +son.</p> +<p>The first morning that Rebecca rose and knew Henry was gone +till the following summer, she wished she could have laid down +again and slept away the whole long interval. Her +sisters’ peevishness, her father’s austerity, she +foresaw, would be insupportable now that she had experienced +Henry’s kindness, and he was no longer near to fortify her +patience. She sighed—she wept—she was +unhappy.</p> +<p>But if Rebecca awoke with a dejected mind and an aching heart, +what were the sorrows of Agnes? The only child of doating +parents, she never had been taught the necessity of +resignation—untutored, unread, unused to reflect, but +knowing how to feel; what were her sufferings when, on waking, +she called to mind that “William was gone,” and with +him gone all that excess of happiness which his presence had +bestowed, and for which she had exchanged her future +tranquillity?</p> +<p>Loss of tranquillity even Rebecca had to bemoan: Agnes had +still more—the loss of innocence!</p> +<p>Hal William remained in the village, shame, even conscience, +perhaps, might have been silenced; but, separated from her +betrayer, parted from the joys of guilt, and left only to its +sorrows, every sting which quick sensibility could sharpen, to +torture her, was transfixed in her heart. First came the +recollection of a cold farewell from the man whose love she had +hoped her yielding passion had for ever won; next, flashed on her +thoughts her violated person; next, the crime incurred; then her +cruelty to her parents; and, last of all, the horrors of +detection.</p> +<p>She knew that as yet, by wariness, care, and contrivance, her +meetings with William had been unsuspected; but, in this agony of +mind, her fears fore-boded an informer who would defy all +caution; who would stigmatise her with a name—dear and +desired by every virtuous female—abhorrent to the blushing +harlot—the name of mother.</p> +<p>That Agnes, thus impressed, could rise from her bed, meet her +parents and her neighbours with her usual smile of vivacity, and +voice of mirth, was impossible: to leave her bed at all, to creep +downstairs, and reply in a faint, broken voice to questions +asked, were, in her state of mind, mighty efforts; and they were +all to which her struggles could attain for many weeks.</p> +<p>William had promised to write to her while he was away: he +kept his word; but not till the end of two months did she receive +a letter. Fear for his health, apprehension of his death +during this cruel interim, caused an agony of suspense, which, by +representing him to her distracted fancy in a state of suffering, +made him, if possible, still dearer to her. In the +excruciating anguish of uncertainty, she walked with trembling +steps through all weathers (when she could steal half a day while +her parents were employed in labour abroad) to the post town, at +six miles’ distance, to inquire for his long-expected, +long-wished-for letter.</p> +<p>When at last it was given to her, that moment of consolation +seemed to repay her for the whole time of agonising terror she +had endured. “He is alive!” she said, +“and I have suffered nothing.”</p> +<p>She hastily put this token of his health and his remembrance +of her into her bosom, rich as an empress with a new-acquired +dominion. The way from home, which she had trod with heavy +pace, in the fear of renewed disappointment, she skimmed along on +her return swift as a doe: the cold did not pierce, neither did +the rain wet her. Many a time she put her hand upon the +prize she possessed, to find if it were safe: once, on the road, +she took it from her bosom, curiously viewed the seal and the +direction, then replacing it, did not move her fingers from their +fast grip till she arrived at her own house.</p> +<p>Her father and her mother were still absent. She drew a +chair, and placing it near to the only window in the room, seated +herself with ceremonious order; then gently drew forth her +treasure, laid it on her knee, and with a smile that almost +amounted to a laugh of gladness, once more inspected the outward +part, before she would trust herself with the excessive joy of +looking within.</p> +<p>At length the seal was broken—but the contents still a +secret. Poor Agnes had learned to write as some youths +learn Latin: so short a time had been allowed for the +acquirement, and so little expert had been her master, that it +took her generally a week to write a letter of ten lines, and a +month to read one of twenty. But this being a letter on +which her mind was deeply engaged, her whole imagination aided +her slender literature, and at the end of a fortnight she had +made out every word. They were these—</p> +<blockquote><p>“D<sup>r</sup>. Agnes,—I hope you have +been well since we parted—I have been very well myself; but +I have been teased with a great deal of business, which has not +given me time to write to you before. I have been called to +the bar, which engages every spare moment; but I hope it will not +prevent my coming down to Anfield with my father in the +summer.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“I am, D<sup>r</sup>. +Agnes,<br /> +“With gratitude for all the favours you<br /> +have conferred on me,<br /> +“Yours, &c.<br /> +“W. N.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>To have beheld the illiterate Agnes trying for two weeks, day +and night, to find out the exact words of this letter, would have +struck the spectator with amazement, had he also understood the +right, the delicate, the nicely proper sensations with which she +was affected by every sentence it contained.</p> +<p>She wished it had been kinder, even for his sake who wrote it; +because she thought so well of him, and desired still to think so +well, that she was sorry at any faults which rendered him less +worthy of her good opinion. The cold civility of his letter +had this effect—her clear, her acute judgment felt it a +kind of prevarication to <i>promise to write and then write +nothing that was hoped for</i>. But, enthralled by the +magic of her passion, she shortly found excuses for the man she +loved, at the expense of her own condemnation.</p> +<p>“He has only the fault of inconstancy,” she cried; +“and that has been caused by <i>my</i> change of +conduct. Had I been virtuous still, he had still been +affectionate.” Bitter reflection!</p> +<p>Yet there was a sentence in the letter, that, worse than all +the tenderness left out, wounded her sensibility; and she could +not read the line, <i>gratitude for all the favours conferred on +me</i>, without turning pale with horror, then kindling with +indignation at the commonplace thanks, which insultingly reminded +her of her innocence given in exchange for unmeaning +acknowledgments.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> +<p>Absence is said to increase strong and virtuous love, but to +destroy that which is weak and sensual. In the parallel +between young William and young Henry, this was the case; for +Henry’s real love increased, while William’s +turbulent passion declined in separation: yet had the latter not +so much abated that he did not perceive a sensation, like a +sudden shock of sorrow, on a proposal made him by his father, of +entering the marriage state with a young woman, the dependent +niece of Lady Bendham; who, as the dean informed him, had +signified her lord’s and her own approbation of his +becoming their nephew.</p> +<p>At the first moment William received this intimation from his +father, his heart revolted with disgust from the object, and he +instantly thought upon Agnes with more affection than he had done +for many weeks before. This was from the comparison between +her and his proposed wife; for he had frequently seen Miss +Sedgeley at Lord Bendham’s, but had never seen in her whole +person or manners the least attraction to excite his love. +He pictured to himself an unpleasant home, with a companion so +little suited to his taste, and felt a pang of conscience, as +well as of attachment, in the thought of giving up for ever his +poor Agnes.</p> +<p>But these reflections, these feelings, lasted only for the +moment. No sooner had the dean explained why the marriage +was desirable, recited what great connections and what great +patronage it would confer upon their family, than William +listened with eagerness, and both his love and his conscience +were, if not wholly quieted, at least for the present hushed.</p> +<p>Immediately after the dean had expressed to Lord and Lady +Bendham his son’s “sense of the honour and the +happiness conferred on him, by their condescension in admitting +him a member of their noble family,” Miss Sedgeley received +from her aunt nearly the same shock as William had done from his +father. <i>For she</i> (placed in the exact circumstance of +her intended husband) <i>had frequently seen the dean’s son +at Lord Bendham’s</i>, <i>but had never see in his whole +person or manners the least attraction to excite her +love</i>. <i>She pictured to herself an unpleasant +home</i>, <i>with a companion so little suited to her taste</i>; +and at this moment she felt a more than usual partiality to the +dean’s nephew, finding the secret hope she had long +indulged of winning his affections so near being thwarted.</p> +<p>But Miss Sedgeley was too much subjected to the power of her +uncle and aunt to have a will of her own, at least, to dare to +utter it. She received the commands of Lady Bendham with +her accustomed submission, while all the consolation for the +grief they gave her was, “that she resolved to make a very +bad wife.”</p> +<p>“I shall not care a pin for my husband,” said she +to herself; “and so I will dress and visit, and do just as +I like; he dare not be unkind because of my aunt. Besides, +now I think again, it is not so disagreeable to marry <i>him</i> +as if I were obliged to marry into any other family, because I +shall see his cousin Henry as often, if not oftener than +ever.”</p> +<p>For Miss Sedgeley—whose person he did not like, and with +her mind thus disposed—William began to force himself to +shake off every little remaining affection, even all pity, for +the unfortunate, the beautiful, the sensible, the doating Agnes; +and determined to place in a situation to look down with scorn +upon her sorrows, this weak, this unprincipled woman.</p> +<p>Connections, interest, honours, were powerful advocates. +His private happiness William deemed trivial compared to public +opinion; and to be under obligations to a peer, his wife’s +relation, gave greater renown in his servile mind than all the +advantages which might accrue from his own intrinsic independent +worth.</p> +<p>In the usual routine of pretended regard and real +indifference—sometimes disgust—between parties allied +by what is falsely termed <i>prudence</i>, the intended union of +Mr. Norwynne with Miss Sedgeley proceeded in all due form; and at +their country seats at Anfield, during the summer, their nuptials +were appointed to be celebrated.</p> +<p>William was now introduced into all Lord Bendham’s +courtly circles. His worldly soul was entranced in glare +and show; he thought of nothing but places, pensions, titles, +retinues; and steadfast, alert, unshaken in the pursuit of +honours, neglected not the lesser means of rising to +preferment—his own endowments. But in this round of +attention to pleasures and to study, he no more complained to +Agnes of “excess of business.” Cruel as she had +once thought that letter in which he thus apologised for +slighting her, she at last began to think it was wondrous kind, +for he never found time to send her another. Yet she had +studied with all her most anxious care to write him an answer; +such a one as might not lessen her understanding, which he had +often praised, in his esteem.</p> +<p>Ah, William! even with less anxiety your beating, ambitious +heart panted for the admiration of an attentive auditory, when +you first ventured to harangue in public! With far less +hope and fear (great as yours were) did you first address a +crowded court, and thirst for its approbation on your efforts, +than Agnes sighed for your approbation when she took a pen and +awkwardly scrawled over a sheet of paper. Near twenty times +she began, but to a gentleman—and one she loved like +William—what could she dare to say? Yet she had +enough to tell, if shame had not interposed, or if remaining +confidence in his affection had but encouraged her.</p> +<p>Overwhelmed by the first, and deprived of the last, her hand +shook, her head drooped, and she dared not communicate what she +knew must inevitably render her letter unpleasing, and still more +depreciate her in his regard, as the occasion of encumbrance, and +of injury to his moral reputation.</p> +<p>Her free, her liberal, her venturous spirit subdued, +intimidated by the force of affection, she only wrote—</p> +<blockquote><p>“<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I am +sorry you have so much to do, and should be ashamed if you put it +off to write to me. I have not been at all well this +winter. I never before passed such a one in all my life, +and I hope you will never know such a one yourself in regard to +not being happy. I should be sorry if you did—think I +would rather go through it again myself than you should. I +long for the summer, the fields are so green, and everything so +pleasant at that time of the year. I always do long for the +summer, but I think never so much in my life as for this that is +coming; though sometimes I wish that last summer had never +come. Perhaps you wish so too; and that this summer would +not come either.</p> +<p>“Hope you will excuse all faults, as I never learnt but +one month.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“Your obedient humble +servant,<br /> +“A. P.”</p> +</blockquote> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> +<p>Summer arrived, and lords and ladies, who had partaken of all +the dissipation of the town, whom opera-houses, gaming-houses, +and various other houses had detained whole nights from their +peaceful home, were now poured forth from the metropolis, to +imbibe the wholesome air of the farmer and peasant, and +disseminate, in return, moral and religious principles.</p> +<p>Among the rest, Lord and Lady Bendham, strenuous opposers of +vice in the poor, and gentle supporters of it in the rich, never +played at cards, or had concerts on a Sunday, in the village, +where the poor were spies—<i>he</i>, there, never gamed, +nor drank, except in private, and <i>she</i> banished from her +doors every woman of sullied character. Yet poverty and +idiotism are not the same. The poor can hear, can talk, +sometimes can reflect; servants will tell their equals how they +live in town; listeners will smile and shake their heads; and +thus hypocrisy, instead of cultivating, destroys every seed of +moral virtue.</p> +<p>The arrival of Lord Bendham’s family at Anfield +announced to the village that the dean’s would quickly +follow. Rebecca’s heart bounded with joy at the +prospect. Poor Agnes felt a sinking, a foreboding tremor, +that wholly interrupted the joy of <i>her</i> expectations. +She had not heard from William for five tedious months. She +did not know whether he loved or despised, whether he thought of +or had forgotten her. Her reason argued against the hope +that he loved her; yet hope still subsisted. She would not +abandon herself to despair while there was doubt. She +“had frequently been deceived by the appearance of +circumstances; and perhaps he might come all +kindness—perhaps, even not like her the less for that +indisposition which had changed her bloom to paleness, and the +sparkling of her eyes to a pensive languor.”</p> +<p>Henry’s sensations, on his return to Anfield, were the +self-same as Rebecca’s were; sympathy in thought, sympathy +in affection, sympathy in virtue made them so. As he +approached near the little village, he felt more light than +usual. He had committed no trespass there, dreaded no +person’s reproach or inquiries; but his arrival might +prove, at least to one object, the cause of rejoicing.</p> +<p>William’s sensations were the reverse of these. In +spite of his ambition, and the flattering view of one day +accomplishing all to which it aspired, he often, as they +proceeded on their journey, envied the gaiety of Henry, and felt +an inward monitor that told him “he must first act like +Henry, to be as happy.”</p> +<p>His intended marriage was still, to the families of both +parties (except to the heads of the houses), a profound +secret. Neither the servants, nor even Henry, had received +the slightest intimation of the designed alliance; and this to +William was matter of some comfort.</p> +<p>When men submit to act in contradiction to their principles, +nothing is so precious as a secret. In their estimation, to +have their conduct <i>known</i> is the essential mischief. +While it is hid, they fancy the sin but half committed; and to +the moiety of a crime they reconcile their feelings, till, in +progression, the whole, when disclosed, appears trivial. He +designed that Agnes should receive the news from himself by +degrees, and in such a manner as to console her, or at least to +silence her complaints; and with the wish to soften the regret +which he still felt on the prudent necessity of yielding her +wholly up when his marriage should take place, he promised to +himself some intervening hours of private meetings, which he +hoped would produce satiety.</p> +<p>While Henry flew to Mr. Rymer’s house with a conscience +clear, and a face enlightened with gladness—while he met +Rebecca with open-hearted friendship and frankness, which charmed +her soul to peaceful happiness—William skulked around the +cottage of Agnes, dreading detection; and when, towards midnight, +he found the means to obtain the company of the sad inhabitant, +he grew so impatient at her tears and sobs, at the delicacy with +which she withheld her caresses, that he burst into bitter +upbraidings at her coyness, and at length (without discovering +the cause of her peculiar agitation and reserve) abruptly left +her vowing “never to see her more.”</p> +<p>As he turned away, his heart even congratulated him +“that he had made so discreet a use of his momentary +disappointment, as thus to shake her off at once without further +explanation or excuse.”</p> +<p>She, ignorant and illiterate as she was, knew enough of her +own heart to judge of his, and to know that such violent +affections and expressions, above all, such a sudden, +heart-breaking manner of departure, were not the effects of love, +nor even of humanity. She felt herself debased by a +ruffian—yet still, having loved him when she thought him a +far different character, the blackest proof of the deception +could not cause a sentiment formed whilst she was deceived.</p> +<p>She passed the remainder of the night in anguish: but with the +cheerful morning some cheery thoughts consoled her. She +thought “perhaps William by this time had found himself to +blame; had conceived the cause of her grief and her distant +behaviour, and had pitied her.”</p> +<p>The next evening she waited, with anxious heart, for the +signal that had called her out the foregoing night. In vain +she watched, counted the hours, and the stars, and listened to +the nightly stillness of the fields around: they were not +disturbed by the tread of her lover. Daylight came; the sun +rose in its splendour: William had not been near her, and it +shone upon none so miserable as Agnes.</p> +<p>She now considered his word, “never to see her +more,” as solemnly passed: she heard anew the impressive, +the implacable tone in which the sentence was pronounced; and +could look back on no late token of affection on which to found +the slightest hope that he would recall it.</p> +<p>Still, reluctant to despair—in the extremity of grief, +in the extremity of fear for an approaching crisis which must +speedily arrive, she (after a few days had elapsed) trusted a +neighbouring peasant with a letter to deliver to Mr. Norwynne in +private.</p> +<p>This letter, unlike the last, was dictated without the hope to +please: no pains were taken with the style, no care in the +formation of the letters: the words flowed from necessity; strong +necessity guided her hand.</p> +<blockquote><p>“<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I beg +your pardon—pray don’t forsake me all at +once—see me one time more—I have something to tell +you—it is what I dare tell nobody else—and what I am +ashamed to tell you—yet pray give me a word of +advice—what to do I don’t know—I then will +part, if you please, never to trouble you, never any +more—but hope to part friends—pray do, if you +please—and see me one time more.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“Your obedient,<br /> +“A. P.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>These incorrect, inelegant lines produced this immediate +reply</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“TO AGNES +PRIMROSE.</p> +<p>“I have often told you, that my honour is as dear to me +as my life: my word is a part of that honour—you heard me +say <i>I would never see you again</i>. I shall keep my +word.”</p> +</blockquote> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> +<p>When the dean’s family had been at Anfield about a +month—one misty morning, such as portends a sultry day, as +Henry was walking swiftly through a thick wood, on the skirts of +the parish, he suddenly started on hearing a distant groan, +expressive, as he thought, both of bodily and mental pain. +He stopped to hear it repeated, that he might pursue the +sound. He heard it again; and though now but in murmurs, +yet, as the tone implied excessive grief, he directed his course +to that part of the wood from which it came.</p> +<p>As he advanced, in spite of the thick fog, he discerned the +appearance of a female stealing away on his approach. His +eye was fixed on this object; and regardless where he placed his +feet, he soon shrunk back with horror, on perceiving they had +nearly trod upon a new-born infant, lying on the ground!—a +lovely male child, entered on a world where not one preparation +had been made to receive him.</p> +<p>“Ah!” cried Henry, forgetting the person who had +fled, and with a smile of compassion on the helpless infant, +“I am glad I have found you—you give more joy to me +than you have done to your hapless parents. Poor +dear,” continued he, while he took off his coat to wrap it +in, “I will take care of you while I live—I will beg +for you, rather than you shall want; but first, I will carry you +to those who can, at present, do more for you than +myself.”</p> +<p>Thus Henry said and thought, while he enclosed the child +carefully in his coat, and took it in his arms. But +proceeding to walk his way with it, an unlucky query struck him, +<i>where he should go</i>.</p> +<p>“I must not take it to the dean’s,” he +cried, “because Lady Clementina will suspect it is not +nobly, and my uncle will suspect it is not lawfully, born. +Nor must I take it to Lord Bendham’s for the self-same +reason, though, could it call Lady Bendham mother, this whole +village, nay, the whole country round, would ring with rejoicings +for its birth. How strange!” continued he, +“that we should make so little of human creatures, that one +sent among us, wholly independent of his own high value, becomes +a curse instead of a blessing by the mere accident of +circumstances.”</p> +<p>He now, after walking out of the wood, peeped through the +folds of his coat to look again at his charge. He started, +turned pale, and trembled to behold what, in the surprise of +first seeing the child, had escaped his observation. Around +its little throat was a cord entwined by a slipping noose, and +drawn half way—as if the trembling hand of the murderer had +revolted from its dreadful office, and he or she had heft the +infant to pine away in nakedness and hunger, rather than see it +die.</p> +<p>Again Henry wished himself joy of the treasure he had found; +and more fervently than before; for he had not only preserved one +fellow-creature from death, but another from murder.</p> +<p>Once more he looked at his charge, and was transported to +observe, upon its serene brow and sleepy eye, no traces of the +dangers it had passed—no trait of shame either for itself +or its parents—no discomposure at the unwelcome reception +it was likely to encounter from a proud world! He now +slipped the fatal string from its neck; and by this affectionate +disturbance causing the child to cry, he ran (but he scarcely +knew whither) to convey it to a better nurse.</p> +<p>He at length found himself at the door of his dear +Rebecca—for so very happy Henry felt at the good luck which +had befallen him, that he longed to bestow a part of the blessing +upon her he loved.</p> +<p>He sent for her privately out of the house to speak to +him. When she came, “Rebecca,” said he (looking +around that no one observed him), “Rebecca, I have brought +you something you will like.”</p> +<p>“What is it?” she asked.</p> +<p>“You know, Rebecca, that you love deserted birds, +strayed kittens, and motherless lambs. I have brought +something more pitiable than any of these. Go, get a cap +and a little gown, and then I will give it you.”</p> +<p>“A gown!” exclaimed Rebecca. “If you +have brought me a monkey, much as I should esteem any present +from <i>you</i>, indeed I cannot touch it.”</p> +<p>“A monkey!” repeated Henry, almost in anger: then +changing the tone of his voice, exclaimed in triumph,</p> +<p>“It is a child!”</p> +<p>On this he gave it a gentle pinch, that its cry might confirm +the pleasing truth he spoke.</p> +<p>“A child!” repeated Rebecca in amaze.</p> +<p>“Yes, and indeed I found it.”</p> +<p>“Found it!”</p> +<p>“Indeed I did. The mother, I fear, had just +forsaken it.”</p> +<p>“Inhuman creature!”</p> +<p>“Nay, hold, Rebecca! I am sure you will pity her +when you see her child—you then will know she must have +loved it—and you will consider how much she certainly had +suffered before she left it to perish in a wood.”</p> +<p>“Cruel!” once more exclaimed Rebecca.</p> +<p>“Oh! Rebecca, perhaps, had she possessed a home of +her own she would have given it the best place in it; had she +possessed money, she would have dressed it with the nicest care; +or had she been accustomed to disgrace, she would have gloried in +calling it hers! But now, as it is, it is sent to +us—to you and me, Rebecca—to take care of.”</p> +<p>Rebecca, soothed by Henry’s compassionate eloquence, +held out her arms and received the important parcel; and, as she +kindly looked in upon the little stranger,</p> +<p>“Now, are not you much obliged to me,” said Henry, +“for having brought it to you? I know no one but +yourself to whom I would have trusted it with +pleasure.”</p> +<p>“Much obliged to you,” repeated Rebecca, with a +very serious face, “if I did but know what to do with +it—where to put it—where to hide it from my father +and sisters.”</p> +<p>“Oh! anywhere,” returned Henry. “It is +very good—it will not cry. Besides, in one of the +distant, unfrequented rooms of your old abbey, through the thick +walls and long gallery, an infant’s cry cannot pass. +Yet, pray be cautious how you conceal it; for if it should be +discovered by your father or sisters, they will take it from you, +prosecute the wretched mother, and send the child to the +parish.”</p> +<p>“I will do all I can to prevent them,” said +Rebecca; “and I think I call to mind a part of the house +where it <i>must</i> be safe. I know, too, I can take milk +from the dairy, and bread from the pantry, without their being +missed, or my father much the poorer. But +if—” That instant they were interrupted by the +appearance of the stern curate at a little distance. Henry +was obliged to run swiftly away, while Rebecca returned by +stealth into the house with her innocent burthen.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> +<p>There is a word in the vocabulary more bitter, more direful in +its import, than all the rest. Reader, if poverty, if +disgrace, if bodily pain, even if slighted love be your unhappy +fate, kneel and bless Heaven for its beneficent influence, so +that you are not tortured with the anguish +of—<i>remorse</i>.</p> +<p>Deep contrition for past offences had long been the punishment +of unhappy Agnes; but, till the day she brought her child into +the world, <i>remorse</i> had been averted. From that day, +life became an insupportable load, for all reflection was +torture! To think, merely to think, was to suffer +excruciating agony; yet, never before was <i>thought</i> so +intrusive—it haunted her in every spot, in all discourse or +company: sleep was no shelter—she never slept but her +racking dreams told her—“she had slain her +infant.”</p> +<p>They presented to her view the naked innocent whom she had +longed to press to her bosom, while she lifted up her hand +against its life. They laid before her the piteous babe +whom her eyeballs strained to behold once more, while her feet +hurried her away for ever.</p> +<p>Often had Agnes, by the winter’s fire, listened to tales +of ghosts—of the unceasing sting of a guilty conscience; +often had she shuddered at the recital of murders; often had she +wept over the story of the innocent put to death, and stood +aghast that the human mind could premeditate the heinous crime of +assassination.</p> +<p>From the tenderest passion the most savage impulse may arise: +in the deep recesses of fondness, sometimes is implanted the root +of cruelty; and from loving William with unbounded lawless +affection, she found herself depraved so as to become the very +object which could most of all excite her own horror!</p> +<p>Still, at delirious intervals, that passion, which, like a +fatal talisman, had enchanted her whole soul, held out the +delusive prospect that “William might yet relent;” +for, though she had for ever discarded the hope of peace, she +could not force herself to think but that, again blest with his +society, she should, at least for the time that he was present +with her, taste the sweet cup of “forgetfulness of the +past,” for which she so ardently thirsted.</p> +<p>“Should he return to me,” she thought in those +paroxysms of delusion, “I would to <i>him</i> unbosom all +my guilt; and as a remote, a kind of unwary accomplice in my +crime, his sense, his arguments, ever ready in making light of my +sins, might afford a respite to my troubled +conscience.”</p> +<p>While thus she unwittingly thought, and sometimes watched +through the night, starting with convulsed rapture at every +sound, because it might possibly be the harbinger of him, +<i>he</i> was busied in carefully looking over marriage articles, +fixing the place of residence with his destined bride, or making +love to her in formal process. Yet, Agnes, vaunt!—he +sometimes thought on thee—he could not witness the folly, +the weakness, the vanity, the selfishness of his future wife, +without frequently comparing her with thee. When equivocal +words and prevaricating sentences fell from her lips, he +remembered with a sigh thy candour—that open sincerity +which dwelt upon thy tongue, and seemed to vie with thy +undisguised features, to charm the listener even beyond the +spectator. While Miss Sedgeley eagerly grasped at all the +gifts he offered, he could not but call to mind “that +Agnes’s declining hand was always closed, and her looks +forbidding, every time he proffered such disrespectful tokens of +his love.” He recollected the softness which beamed +from her eyes, the blush on her face at his approach, while he +could never discern one glance of tenderness from the niece of +Lord Bendham: and the artificial bloom on her cheeks was nearly +as disgusting as the ill-conducted artifice with which she +attempted gentleness and love.</p> +<p>But all these impediments were only observed as trials of his +fortitude—his prudence could overcome his aversion, and +thus he valued himself upon his manly firmness.</p> +<p>’Twas now, that William being rid, by the peevishness of +Agnes, most honourably of all future ties to her, and the day of +his marriage with Miss Sedgeley being fixed, that Henry, with the +rest of the house, learnt what to them was news. The first +dart of Henry’s eye upon his cousin, when, in his presence, +he was told of the intended union, caused a reddening on the face +of the latter: he always fancied Henry saw his thoughts; and he +knew that Henry in return would give him <i>his</i>. On the +present occasion, no sooner were they alone, and Henry began to +utter them, than William charged him—“Not to dare to +proceed; for that, too long accustomed to trifle, the time was +come when serious matters could alone employ his time; and when +men of approved sense must take place of friends and confidants +like him.”</p> +<p>Henry replied, “The love, the sincerity of friends, I +thought, were their best qualities: these I possess.”</p> +<p>“But you do not possess knowledge.”</p> +<p>“If that be knowledge which has of late estranged you +from all who bear you a sincere affection; which imprints every +day more and more upon your features the marks of gloomy +inquietude; am I not happier in my ignorance?”</p> +<p>“Do not torment me with your ineffectual +reasoning.”</p> +<p>“I called at the cottage of poor Agnes the other +day,” returned Henry: “her father and mother were +taking their homely meal alone; and when I asked for their +daughter, they wept and said—Agnes was not the girl she had +been.”</p> +<p>William cast his eyes on the floor.</p> +<p>Henry proceeded—“They said a sickness, which they +feared would bring her to the grave, had preyed upon her for some +time past. They had procured a doctor: but no remedy was +found, and they feared the worst.”</p> +<p>“What worst!” cried William (now recovered from +the effect of the sudden intelligence, and attempting a +smile). “Do they think she will die? And do you +think it will be for love? We do not hear of these deaths +often, Henry.”</p> +<p>“And if <i>she</i> die, who will hear of +<i>that</i>? No one but those interested to conceal the +cause: and thus it is, that dying for love becomes a +phenomenon.”</p> +<p>Henry would have pursued the discourse farther; but William, +impatient on all disputes, except where his argument was the +better one, retired from the controversy, crying out, “I +know my duty, and want no instructor.”</p> +<p>It would be unjust to William to say he did not feel for this +reported illness of Agnes—he felt, during that whole +evening, and part of the next morning—but business, +pleasures, new occupations, and new schemes of future success, +crowded to dissipate all unwelcome reflections; and he trusted to +her youth, her health, her animal spirits, and, above all, to the +folly of the gossips’ story of <i>dying for love</i>, as a +surety for her life, and a safeguard for his conscience.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> +<p>The child of William and Agnes was secreted, by Rebecca, in a +distant chamber belonging to the dreary parsonage, near to which +scarcely any part of the family ever went. There she +administered to all its wants, visited it every hour of the day, +and at intervals during the night viewed almost with the joy of a +mother its health, its promised life—and in a short the +found she loved her little gift better than anything on earth, +except the giver.</p> +<p>Henry called the next morning, and the next, and many +succeeding times, in hopes of an opportunity to speak alone with +Rebecca, to inquire concerning her charge, and consult when and +how he could privately relieve her from her trust; as he now +meant to procure a nurse for wages. In vain he called or +lurked around the house; for near five weeks all the conversation +he could obtain with her was in the company of her sisters, who, +beginning to observe his preference, his marked attention to her, +and the languid, half-smothered transport with which she received +it, indulged their envy and resentment at the contempt shown to +their charms, by watching her steps when he was away, and her +every look and whisper while he was present.</p> +<p>For five weeks, then, he was continually thwarted in his +expectation of meeting her alone: and at the end of that period +the whole design he had to accomplish by such a meeting was +rendered abortive.</p> +<p>Though Rebecca had with strictest caution locked the door of +the room in which the child was hid, and covered each crevice, +and every aperture through which sound might more easily proceed; +though she had surrounded the infant’s head with pillows, +to obstruct all noise from his crying; yet one unlucky night, the +strength of his voice increasing with his age, he was heard by +the maid, who slept the nearest to that part of the house.</p> +<p>Not meaning to injure her young mistress, the servant next +morning simply related to the family what sounds had struck her +ear during the night, and whence they proceeded. At first +she was ridiculed “for supposing herself awake when in +reality she must be dreaming.” But steadfastly +persisting in what she had said, and Rebecca’s blushes, +confusion, and eagerness to prove the maid mistaken, giving +suspicion to her charitable sisters, they watched her the very +next time she went by stealth to supply the office of a mother; +and breaking abruptly on her while feeding and caressing the +infant, they instantly concluded it was her <i>own</i>; seized +it, and, in spite of her entreaties, carried it down to their +father.</p> +<p>That account which Henry had given Rebecca “of his +having found the child,” and which her own sincerity, +joined to the faith she had in his word, made her receive as +truth, she now felt would be heard by the present auditors with +contempt, even with indignation, as a falsehood. Her +affright is easier conceived than described.</p> +<p>Accused, and forced by her sisters along with the child before +the curate, his attention to their representation, his crimson +face, knit brow, and thundering voice, struck with terror her +very soul: innocence is not always a protection against +fear—sometimes less bold than guilt.</p> +<p>In her father and sisters she saw, she knew the suspicions, +partial, cruel, boisterous natures by whom she was to be judged; +and timid, gentle, oppressed, she fell trembling on her knees, +and could only articulate,</p> +<p>“Forgive me.”</p> +<p>The curate would not listen to this supplication till she had +replied to this question, “Whose child is this?”</p> +<p>She replied, “I do not know.”</p> +<p>Questioned louder, and with more violence still, “how +the child came there, wherefore her affection for it, and whose +it was,” she felt the improbability of the truth still more +forcibly than before, and dreaded some immediate peril from her +father’s rage, should she dare to relate an apparent +lie. She paused to think upon a more probable tale than the +real one; and as she hesitated, shook in every limb—while +her father exclaimed,</p> +<p>“I understand the cause of this terror; it confirms your +sisters’ fears, and your own shame. From your infancy +I have predicted that some fatal catastrophe would befall +you. I never loved you like my other children—I never +had the cause: you were always unlike the rest—and I knew +your fate would be calamitous; but the very worst of my +forebodings did not come to this—so young, so guilty, and +so artful! Tell me this instant, are you +married?”</p> +<p>Rebecca answered, “No.”</p> +<p>The sisters lifted up their hands!</p> +<p>The father continued—“Vile creature, I thought as +much. Still I will know the father of this +child.”</p> +<p>She cast up her eyes to Heaven, and firmly vowed she +“did not know herself—nor who the mother +was.”</p> +<p>“This is not to be borne!” exclaimed the curate in +fury. “Persist in this, and you shall never see my +face again. Both your child and you I’ll turn out of +my house instantly, unless you confess your crime, and own the +father.”</p> +<p>Curious to know this secret, the sisters went up to Rebecca +with seeming kindness, and “conjured her to spare her +father still greater grief, and her own and her child’s +public infamy, by acknowledging herself its mother, and naming +the man who had undone her.”</p> +<p>Emboldened by this insult from her own sex, Rebecca now began +to declare the simple truth. But no sooner had she said +that “the child was presented to her care by a young man +who had found it,” than her sisters burst into laughter, +and her father into redoubled rage.</p> +<p>Once more the women offered their advice—“to +confess and be forgiven.”</p> +<p>Once more the father raved.</p> +<p>Beguiled by solicitations, and terrified by threats, like +women formerly accused of witchcraft, and other wretches put to +the torture, she thought her present sufferings worse than any +that could possibly succeed; and felt inclined to confess a +falsehood, at which her virtue shrunk, to obtain a momentary +respite from reproach; she felt inclined to take the +mother’s share of the infant, but was at a loss to whom to +give the father’s. She thought that Henry had +entailed on himself the best right to the charge; but she loved +him, and could not bear the thought of accusing him falsely.</p> +<p>While, with agitation in the extreme, she thus deliberated, +the proposition again was put,</p> +<p>“Whether she would trust to the mercy of her father by +confessing, or draw down his immediate vengeance by denying her +guilt?”</p> +<p>She made choice of the former—and with tears and sobs +“owned herself the mother of the boy.”</p> +<p>But still—“Who is the father?”</p> +<p>Again she shrunk from the question, and fervently implored +“to be spared on that point.”</p> +<p>Her petition was rejected with vehemence; and the +curate’s rage increased till she acknowledged,</p> +<p>“Henry was the father.”</p> +<p>“I thought so,” exclaimed all her sisters at the +same time.</p> +<p>“Villain!” cried the curate. “The dean +shall know, before this hour is expired, the baseness of the +nephew whom he supports upon charity; he shall know the misery, +the grief, the shame he has brought on me, and how unworthy he is +of his protection.”</p> +<p>“Oh! have mercy on him!” cried Rebecca, as she +still knelt to her father: “do not ruin him with his uncle, +for he is the best of human beings.”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, we always saw how much she loved him,” +cried her sisters.</p> +<p>“Wicked, unfortunate girl!” said the clergyman +(his rage now subsiding, and tears supplying its place), +“you have brought a scandal upon us all: your +sisters’ reputation will be stamped with the colour of +yours—my good name will suffer: but that is +trivial—your soul is lost to virtue, to religion, to +shame—”</p> +<p>“No, <i>indeed</i>!” cried Rebecca: “if you +will but believe me.”</p> +<p>“Do not I believe you? Have you not +confessed?”</p> +<p>“You will not pretend to unsay what you have +said,” cried her eldest sister: “that would be making +things worse.”</p> +<p>“Go, go out of my sight!” said her father. +“Take your child with you to your chamber, and never let me +see either of you again. I do not turn you out of my doors +to-day, because I gave you my word I would not, if you revealed +your shame; but by to-morrow I will provide some place for your +reception, where neither I, nor any of your relations, shall ever +see or hear of you again.”</p> +<p>Rebecca made an effort to cling around her father, and once +more to declare her innocence: but her sisters interposed, and +she was taken, with her reputed son, to the chamber where the +curate had sentenced her to remain, till she quitted his house +for ever.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> +<p>The curate, in the disorder of his mind, scarcely felt the +ground he trod as he hastened to the dean’s house to +complain of his wrongs. His name procured him immediate +admittance into the library, and the moment the dean appeared the +curate burst into tears. The cause being required of such +“very singular marks of grief,” Mr. Rymer described +himself “as having been a few moments ago the happiest of +parents; but that his peace and that of his whole family had been +destroyed by Mr. Henry Norwynne, the dean’s +nephew.”</p> +<p>He now entered into a minute recital of Henry’s frequent +visits there, and of all which had occurred in his house that +morning, from the suspicion that a child was concealed under his +roof, to the confession made by his youngest daughter of her fall +from virtue, and of her betrayer’s name.</p> +<p>The dean was astonished, shocked, and roused to anger: he +vented reproaches and menaces on his nephew; and “blessing +himself in a virtuous son, whose wisdom and counsel were his only +solace in every care,” sent for William to communicate with +him on this unhappy subject.</p> +<p>William came, all obedience, and heard with marks of amazement +and indignation the account of such black villainy! In +perfect sympathy with Mr. Rymer and his father, he allowed +“no punishment could be too great for the seducer of +innocence, the selfish invader of a whole family’s +repose.”</p> +<p>Nor did William here speak what he did not think—he +merely forgot his own conduct; or if he did recall it to his +mind, it was with some fair interpretations in his own behalf; +such as self-love ever supplies to those who wish to cheat +intruding conscience.</p> +<p>Young Henry being sent for to appear before this triumvirate, +he came with a light step and a cheerful face. But, on the +charge against him being exhibited, his countenance +changed—yet only to the expression of surprise! He +boldly asserted his innocence, plainly told the real fact, and +with a deportment so perfectly unembarrassed, that nothing but +the asseverations of the curate, “that his daughter had +confessed the whole,” could have rendered the story Henry +told suspected; although some of the incidents he related were of +no common kind. But Mr. Rymer’s charge was an +objection to his veracity too potent to be overcome; and the dean +exclaimed in anger—</p> +<p>“We want not your avowal of your guilt—the +mother’s evidence is testimony sufficient.”</p> +<p>“The virtuous Rebecca is not a mother,” said +Henry, with firmness.</p> +<p>William here, like Rebecca’s sisters, took Henry aside, +and warned him not to “add to his offence by denying what +was proved against him.”</p> +<p>But Henry’s spirit was too manly, his affection too +sincere, not to vindicate the chastity of her he loved, even at +his own peril. He again and again protested “she was +virtuous.”</p> +<p>“Let her instantly be sent for,” said the dean, +“and this madman confronted with her.” Then +adding, that as he wished everything might be conducted with +secrecy, he would not employ his clerk on the unhappy occasion: +he desired William to draw up the form of an oath, which he would +administer as soon as she arrived.</p> +<p>A man and horse were immediately despatched to bring Rebecca: +William drew up an affidavit as his father had directed +him—in <i>Rebecca’s name solemnly protesting she was +a mother</i>, <i>and Henry the father of her child</i>. And +now, the dean, suppressing till she came the warmth of his +displeasure, spoke thus calmly to Henry:—</p> +<p>“Even supposing that your improbable tale of having +found this child, and all your declarations in respect to it were +true, still you would be greatly criminal. What plea can +you make for not having immediately revealed the circumstance to +me or some other proper person, that the real mother might have +been detected and punished for her design of murder?”</p> +<p>“In that, perhaps, I was to blame,” returned +Henry: “but whoever the mother was, I pitied +her.”</p> +<p>“Compassion on such an occasion was unplaced,” +said the dean.</p> +<p>“Was I wrong, sir, to pity the child?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Then how could I feel for <i>that</i>, and yet divest +myself of all feeling for its mother?”</p> +<p>“Its mother!” exclaimed William, in anger: +“she ought to have been immediately pursued, apprehended, +and committed to prison.”</p> +<p>“It struck me, cousin William,” replied Henry, +“that the father was more deserving of a prison: the poor +woman had abandoned only one—the man, in all likelihood, +had forsaken <i>two</i> pitiable creatures.”</p> +<p>William was pouring execrations “on the villain if such +there could be,” when Rebecca was announced.</p> +<p>Her eyes were half closed with weeping; deep confusion +overspread her face; and her tottering limbs could hardly support +her to the awful chamber where the dean, her father, and William +sat in judgment, whilst her beloved Henry stood arraigned as a +culprit, by her false evidence.</p> +<p>Upon her entrance, her father first addressed her, and said in +a stern, threatening, yet feeling tone, “Unhappy girl, +answer me before all present—Have you, or have you not, +owned yourself a mother?”</p> +<p>She replied, stealing a fearful look at Henry, “I +have.”</p> +<p>“And have you not,” asked the dean, “owned +that Henry Norwynne is the father of your child?”</p> +<p>She seemed as if she wished to expostulate.</p> +<p>The curate raised his voice—“Have you or have you +not?”</p> +<p>“I have,” she faintly replied.</p> +<p>“Then here,” cried the dean to William, +“read that paper to her, and take the Bible.”</p> +<p>William read the paper, which in her name declared a momentous +falsehood: he then held the book in form, while she looked like +one distracted—wrung her hands, and was near sinking to the +earth.</p> +<p>At the moment when the book was lifted up to her lips to kiss, +Henry rushed to her—“Stop!” he cried, +“Rebecca! do not wound your future peace. I plainly +see under what prejudices you have been accused, under what fears +you have fallen. But do not be terrified into the +commission of a crime which hereafter will distract your delicate +conscience. My requesting you of your father for my wife +will satisfy his scruples, prevent your oath—and here I +make the demand.”</p> +<p>“He at length confesses! Surprising +audacity! Complicated villainy!” exclaimed the dean; +then added, “Henry Norwynne, your first guilt is so +enormous; your second, in steadfastly denying it, so base, this +last conduct so audacious; that from the present hour you must +never dare to call me relation, or to consider my house as your +home.”</p> +<p>William, in unison with his father, exclaimed, “Indeed, +Henry, your actions merit this punishment.”</p> +<p>Henry answered with firmness, “Inflict what punishment +you please.”</p> +<p>“With the dean’s permission, then,” said the +curate, “you must marry my daughter.”</p> +<p>Henry started—“Do you pronounce that as a +punishment? It would be the greatest blessing Providence +could bestow. But how are we to live? My uncle is too +much offended ever to be my friend again; and in this country, +persons of a certain class are so educated, they cannot exist +without the assistance, or what is called the patronage, of +others: when that is withheld, they steal or starve. Heaven +protect Rebecca from such misfortune! Sir (to the curate), +do you but consent to support her only a year or two longer, and +in that time I will learn some occupation, that shall raise me to +the eminence of maintaining both her and myself without one +obligation, or one inconvenience, to a single being.”</p> +<p>Rebecca exclaimed, “Oh! you have saved me from such a +weight of sin, that my future life would be too happy passed as +your slave.”</p> +<p>“No, my dear Rebecca, return to your father’s +house, return to slavery but for a few years more, and the rest +of your life I will make free.”</p> +<p>“And can you forgive me?”</p> +<p>“I can love you; and in that is comprised everything +that is kind.”</p> +<p>The curate, who, bating a few passions and a few prejudices, +was a man of some worth and feeling, and felt, in the midst of +her distress, though the result of supposed crimes, that he loved +this neglected daughter better than he had before conceived; and +he now agreed “to take her home for a time, provided she +were relieved from the child, and the matter so hushed up, that +it might draw no imputation upon the characters of his other +daughters.”</p> +<p>The dean did not degrade his consequence by consultations of +this nature: but, having penetrated (as he imagined) into the +very bottom of this intricate story, and issued his mandate +against Henry, as a mark that he took no farther concern in the +matter, he proudly walked out of the room without uttering +another word.</p> +<p>William as proudly and silently followed.</p> +<p>The curate was inclined to adopt the manners of such great +examples: but self-interest, some affection to Rebecca, and +concern for the character of his family, made him wish to talk a +little more with Henry, who new repeated what he had said +respecting his marriage with Rebecca, and promised “to come +the very next day in secret, and deliver her from the care of the +infant, and the suspicion that would attend her nursing +it.”</p> +<p>“But, above all,” said the curate, “procure +your uncle’s pardon; for without that, without his +protection, or the protection of some other rich man, to marry, +to obey God’s ordinance, <i>increase and multiply</i> is to +want food for yourselves and your offspring.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> +<p>Though this unfortunate occurrence in the curate’s +family was, according to his own phrase, “to be hushed +up,” yet certain persons of his, of the dean’s, and +of Lord Bendham’s house, immediately heard and talked of +it. Among these, Lady Bendham was most of all shocked and +offended: she said she “never could bear to hear Mr. Rymer +either pray or preach again; he had not conducted himself with +proper dignity either as a clergyman or a father; he should have +imitated the dean’s example in respect to Henry, and have +turned his daughter out of doors.”</p> +<p>Lord Bendham was less severe on the seduced, but had no mercy +on the seducer—“a vicious youth, without one +accomplishment to endear vice.” For vice, Lord +Bendham thought (with certain philosophers), might be most +exquisitely pleasing, in a pleasing garb. “But this +youth sinned without elegance, without one particle of wit, or an +atom of good breeding.”</p> +<p>Lady Clementina would not permit the subject to be mentioned a +second time in her hearing—extreme delicacy in woman she +knew was bewitching; and the delicacy she displayed on this +occasion went so far that she “could not even intercede +with the dean to forgive his nephew, because the topic was too +gross for her lips to name even in the ear of her +husband.”</p> +<p>Miss Sedgeley, though on the very eve of her bridal day with +William, felt so tender a regard for Henry, that often she +thought Rebecca happier in disgrace and poverty, blest with the +love of him, than she was likely to be in the possession of +friends and fortune with his cousin.</p> +<p>Had Henry been of a nature to suspect others of evil, or had +he felt a confidence in his own worth, such a passion as this +young woman’s would soon have disclosed its existence: but +he, regardless of any attractions of Miss Sedgeley, equally +supposed he had none in her eyes; and thus, fortunately for the +peace of all parties, this prepossession ever remained a secret +except to herself.</p> +<p>So little did William conceive that his clownish cousin could +rival him in the affections of a woman of fashion, that he even +slightly solicited his father “that Henry might not be +banished from the house, at least till after the following day, +when the great festival of his marriage was to be +celebrated.”</p> +<p>But the dean refused, and reminded his son, “that he was +bound both by his moral and religious character, in the eyes of +God, and still more, in the eyes of men, to show lasting +resentment of iniquity like his.”</p> +<p>William acquiesced, and immediately delivered to his cousin +the dean’s “wishes for his amendment,” and a +letter of recommendation procured from Lord Bendham, to introduce +him on board a man-of-war; where, he was told, “he might +hope to meet with preferment, according to his merit, as a sailor +and a gentleman.”</p> +<p>Henry pressed William’s hand on parting, wished him +happy in his marriage, and supplicated, as the only favour he +would implore, an interview with his uncle, to thank him for all +his former kindness, and to see him for the last time.</p> +<p>William repeated this petition to his father, but with so +little energy, that the dean did not grant it. He felt +himself, he said, compelled to resent that reprobate character in +which Henry had appeared; and he feared “lest the +remembrance of his last parting from his brother might, on taking +a formal leave of that brother’s son, reduce him to some +tokens of weakness, that would ill become his dignity and just +displeasure.”</p> +<p>He sent him his blessing, with money to convey him to the +ship, and Henry quitted his uncle’s house in a flood of +tears, to seek first a new protectress for his little foundling, +and then to seek his fortune.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> +<p>The wedding-day of Mr. William Norwynne with Miss Caroline +Sedgeley arrived; and, on that day, the bells of every parish +surrounding that in which they lived joined with their own, in +celebration of the blissful union. Flowers were strewn +before the new-married pair, and favours and ale made many a +heart more gladsome than that of either bridegroom or bride.</p> +<p>Upon this day of ringing and rejoicing the bells were not +muffled, nor was conversation on the subject withheld from the +ear of Agnes! She heard like her neighbours; and sitting on +the side of her bed in her little chamber, suffered, under the +cottage roof, as much affliction as ever visited a palace.</p> +<p>Tyrants, who have embrued their hands in the blood of myriads +of their fellow-creatures, can call their murders +“religion, justice, attention to the good of +mankind.” Poor Agnes knew no sophistry to calm +<i>her</i> sense of guilt: she felt herself a harlot and a +murderer; a slighted, a deserted wretch, bereft of all she loved +in this world, all she could hope for in the next.</p> +<p>She complained bitterly of illness, nor could the entreaties +of her father and mother prevail on her to share in the sports of +this general holiday. As none of her humble visitors +suspected the cause of her more than ordinary indisposition, they +endeavoured to divert it with an account of everything they had +seen at church—“what the bride wore; how joyful the +bridegroom looked;”—and all the seeming signs of that +complete happiness which they conceived was for certain +tasted.</p> +<p>Agnes, who, before this event, had at moments suppressed the +agonising sting of self-condemnation in the faint prospect of her +lover one day restored, on this memorable occasion lost every +glimpse of hope, and was weighed to the earth with an +accumulation of despair.</p> +<p>Where is the degree in which the sinner stops? Unhappy +Agnes! the first time you permitted indecorous familiarity from a +man who made you no promise, who gave you no hope of becoming his +wife, who professed nothing beyond those fervent, though slender, +affections which attach the rake to the wanton; the first time +you interpreted his kind looks and ardent prayers into tenderness +and constancy; the first time you descended from the character of +purity, you rushed imperceptibly on the blackest crimes. +The more sincerely you loved, the more you plunged in danger: +from one ungoverned passion proceeded a second and a third. +In the fervency of affection you yielded up your virtue! In +the excess of fear, you stained your conscience by the intended +murder of your child! And now, in the violence of grief, +you meditate—what?—to put an end to your existence by +your own hand!</p> +<p>After casting her thoughts around, anxious to find some bud of +comfort on which to fix her longing eye; she beheld, in the total +loss of William, nothing but a wide waste, an extensive plain of +anguish. “How am I to be sustained through this +dreary journey of life?” she exclaimed. Upon this +question she felt, more poignantly than ever, her loss of +innocence: innocence would have been her support, but, in place +of this best prop to the afflicted, guilt flashed on her memory +every time she flew for aid to reflection.</p> +<p>At length, from horrible rumination, a momentary alleviation +came: “but one more step in wickedness,” she +triumphantly said, “and all my shame, all my sufferings are +over.” She congratulated herself upon the lucky +thought; when, but an instant after, the tears trickled down her +face for the sorrow her death, her sinful death, would bring to +her poor and beloved parents. She then thought upon the +probability of a sigh it might draw from William; and, the pride, +the pleasure of that little tribute, counterpoised every struggle +on the side of life.</p> +<p>As she saw the sun decline, “When you rise again,” +she thought, “when you peep bright to-morrow morning into +this little room to call me up, I shall not be here to open my +eyes upon a hateful day—I shall no more regret that you +have waked me!—I shall be sound asleep, never to wake again +in this wretched world—not even the voice of William would +then awake me.”</p> +<p>While she found herself resolved, and evening just come on, +she hurried out of the house, and hastened to the fatal wood; the +scene of her dishonour—the scene of intended +murder—and now the meditated scene of suicide.</p> +<p>As she walked along between the close-set tree, she saw, at a +little distance, the spot where William first made love to her; +and where at every appointment he used to wait her coming. +She darted her eye away from this place with horror; but, after a +few moments of emotion, she walked slowly up to it—shed +tears, and pressed with her trembling lips that tree, against +which she was accustomed to lean while he talked with her. +She felt an inclination to make this the spot to die in; but her +preconcerted, and the less frightful death, of leaping into a +pool on the other side of the wood, induced her to go +onwards.</p> +<p>Presently, she came near the place where <i>her</i> child, and +<i>William’s</i>, was exposed to perish. Here she +started with a sense of the most atrocious guilt; and her whole +frame shook with the dread of an approaching, an omnipotent +Judge, to sentence her for murder.</p> +<p>She halted, appalled, aghast, undetermined whether to exist +longer beneath the pressure of a criminal conscience, or die that +very hour, and meet her final condemnation.</p> +<p>She proceeded a few steps farther, and beheld the very +ivy-bush close to which her infant lay when she left him exposed; +and now, from this minute recollection, all the mother rising in +her soul, she saw, as it were, her babe again in its deserted +state; and bursting into tears of bitterest contrition and +compassion, she cried—“As I was merciless to +<i>thee</i>, my child, thy father has been pitiless to +<i>me</i>! As I abandoned <i>thee</i> to die with cold and +hunger, he has forsaken, and has driven <i>me</i> to die by +self-slaughter.”</p> +<p>She now fixed her eager eyes on the distant pond, and walked +more nimbly than before, to rid herself of her agonising +sensations.</p> +<p>Just as she had nearly reached the wished-for brink, she heard +a footstep, and saw, by the glimmering of a clouded moon, a man +approaching. She turned out of her path, for fear her +intentions should be guessed at, and opposed; but still, as she +walked another way, her eye was wishfully bent towards the water +that was to obliterate her love and her remorse—obliterate, +forever, William and his child.</p> +<p>It was now that Henry, who, to prevent scandal, had stolen at +that still hour of night to rid the curate of the incumbrance so +irksome to him, and take the foundling to a woman whom he had +hired for the charge—it was now that Henry came up, with +the child of Agnes in his arms, carefully covered all over from +the night’s dew.</p> +<p>“Agnes, is it you?” cried Henry, at a little +distance. “Where are you going thus late?”</p> +<p>“Home, sir,” said she, and rushed among the +trees.</p> +<p>“Stop, Agnes,” he cried; “I want to bid you +farewell; to-morrow I am going to leave this part of the country +for a long time; so God bless you, Agnes.”</p> +<p>Saying this, he stretched out his arm to shake her by the +hand.</p> +<p>Her poor heart, trusting that his blessing, for want of more +potent offerings, might, perhaps, at this tremendous crisis +ascend to Heaven in her behalf, she stopped, returned, and put +out her hand to take his.</p> +<p>“Softly!” said he; “don’t wake my +child; this spot has been a place of danger to him, for +underneath this very ivy-bush it was that I found him.”</p> +<p>“Found what?” cried Agnes, with a voice elevated +to a tremulous scream.</p> +<p>“I will not tell you the story,” replied Henry; +“for no one I have ever yet told of it would believe +me.”</p> +<p>“I will believe you—I will believe you,” she +repeated with tones yet more impressive.</p> +<p>“Why, then,” said Henry, “only five weeks +ago—”</p> +<p>“Ah!” shrieked Agnes.</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” said Henry.</p> +<p>“Go on,” she articulated, in the same voice.</p> +<p>“Why, then, as I was passing this very place, I wish I +may never speak truth again, if I did not find” (here he +pulled aside the warm rug in which the infant was wrapped) +“this beautiful child.”</p> +<p>“With a cord?—”</p> +<p>“A cord was round its neck.”</p> +<p>“’Tis mine—the child is +mine—’tis mine—my child—I am the mother +and the murderer—I fixed the cord, while the ground shook +under me—while flashes of fire darted before my +eyes!—while my heart was bursting with despair and +horror! But I stopped short—I did not draw the +noose—I had a moment of strength, and I ran away. I +left him living—he is living now—escaped from my +hands—and I am no longer ashamed, but overcome with joy +that he is mine! I bless you, my dear, my dear, for saving +his life—for giving him to me again—for preserving +<i>my</i> life, as well as my child’s.”</p> +<p>Here she took her infant, pressed it to her lips and to her +bosom; then bent to the ground, clasped Henry’s knees, and +wept upon his feet.</p> +<p>He could not for a moment doubt the truth of what she said; +her powerful yet broken accents, her convulsive embraces of the +child, even more than her declaration, convinced him she was its +mother.</p> +<p>“Good Heaven!” cried Henry, “and this is my +cousin William’s child!”</p> +<p>“But your cousin does not know it,” said she; +“I never told him—he was not kind enough to embolden +me; therefore do not blame <i>him</i> for <i>my</i> sin; he did +not know of my wicked designs—he did not encourage +me—”</p> +<p>“But he forsook you, Agnes.”</p> +<p>“He never said he would not. He always told me he +could not marry me.”</p> +<p>“Did he tell you so at his first private +meeting?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Nor at the second?”</p> +<p>“No; nor yet at the third.”</p> +<p>“When was it he told you so?”</p> +<p>“I forget the exact time; but I remember it was on that +very evening when I confessed to him—”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“That he had won my heart.”</p> +<p>“Why did you confess it?”</p> +<p>“Because he asked me and said it would make him happy if +I would say so.”</p> +<p>“Cruel! dishonourable!”</p> +<p>“Nay, do not blame him; he cannot help <i>not</i> loving +me, no more than I can help <i>loving</i> him.”</p> +<p>Henry rubbed his eyes.</p> +<p>“Bless me, you weep! I always heard that you were +brought up in a savage country; but I suppose it is a mistake; it +was your cousin William.”</p> +<p>“Will not you apply to him for the support of your +child?” asked Henry.</p> +<p>“If I thought he would not be angry.”</p> +<p>“Angry! I will write to him on the subject if you +will give me leave.”</p> +<p>“But do not say it is by my desire. Do not say I +wish to trouble him. I would sooner beg than be a trouble +to him.”</p> +<p>“Why are you so delicate?”</p> +<p>“It is for my own sake; I wish him not to hate +me.”</p> +<p>“Then, thus you may secure his respect. I will +write to him, and let him know all the circumstances of your +case. I will plead for his compassion on his child, but +assure him that no conduct of his will ever induce you to declare +(except only to me, who knew of your previous acquaintance) who +is the father.”</p> +<p>To this she consented; but when Henry offered to take from her +the infant, and carry him to the nurse he had engaged, to this +she would not consent.</p> +<p>“Do you mean, then, to acknowledge him yours?” +Henry asked.</p> +<p>“Nothing shall force me to part from him again. I +will keep him, and let my neighbours judge of me as they +please.”</p> +<p>Here Henry caught at a hope he feared to name before. +“You will then have no objection,” said he, “to +clear an unhappy girl to a few friends, with whom her character +has suffered by becoming, at my request, his nurse?”</p> +<p>“I will clear any one, so that I do not accuse the +father.”</p> +<p>“You give me leave, then, in your name, to tell the +whole story to some particular friends, my cousin William’s +part in it alone excepted?”</p> +<p>“I do.”</p> +<p>Henry now exclaimed, “God bless you!” with greater +fervour than when he spoke it before; and he now hoped the night +was nearly gone, that the time might be so much the shorter +before Rebecca should be reinstated in the esteem of her father, +and of all those who had misjudged her.</p> +<p>“God bless <i>you</i>!” said Agnes, still more +fervently, as she walked with unguided steps towards her home; +for her eyes never wandered from the precious object which caused +her unexpected return.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> +<p>Henry rose early in the morning, and flew to the +curate’s house, with more than even his usual thirst of +justice, to clear injured innocence, to redeem from shame her +whom he loved. With eager haste he told that he had found +the mother, whose fall from virtue Rebecca, overcome by confusion +and threats, had taken on herself.</p> +<p>Rebecca rejoiced, but her sisters shook their heads, and even +the father seemed to doubt.</p> +<p>Confident in the truth of his story, Henry persisted so boldly +in his affirmations, that if Mr. Rymer did not entirely believe +what he said, he secretly hoped that the dean and other people +might; therefore he began to imagine he could possibly cast from +<i>his</i> family the present stigma, whether or no it belonged +to any other.</p> +<p>No sooner was Henry gone than Mr. Rymer waited on the dean to +report what he had heard; and he frankly attributed his +daughter’s false confession to the compulsive methods he +had adopted in charging her with the offence. Upon this +statement, Henry’s love to her was also a solution of his +seemingly inconsistent conduct on that singular occasion.</p> +<p>The dean immediately said, “I will put the matter beyond +all doubt; for I will this moment send for the present reputed +mother; and if she acknowledges the child, I will instantly +commit her to prison for the attempt of putting it to +death.”</p> +<p>The curate applauded the dean’s sagacity; a warrant was +issued, and Agnes brought prisoner before the grandfather of her +child.</p> +<p>She appeared astonished at the peril in which she found +herself. Confused, also, with a thousand inexpressible +sensations which the dean’s presence inspired, she seemed +to prevaricate in all she uttered. Accused of this +prevarication, she was still more disconcerted; said, and unsaid; +confessed herself the mother of the infant, but declared she did +not know, then owned she <i>did</i> know, the name of the man who +had undone her, but would never utter it. At length she +cast herself on her knees before the father of her betrayer, and +supplicated “he would not punish her with severity, as she +most penitently confessed her fault, so far as is related to +herself.”</p> +<p>While Mr. and Mrs. Norwynne, just entered on the honeymoon, +were sitting side by side enjoying with peace and with honour +conjugal society, poor Agnes, threatened, reviled, and sinking to +the dust, was hearing from the mouth of William’s father +the enormity of those crimes to which his son had been +accessory. She saw the mittimus written that was to convey +her into a prison—saw herself delivered once more into the +hands of constables, before her resolution left her, of +concealing the name of William in her story. She now, +overcome with affright, and thinking she should expose him still +more in a public court, if hereafter on her trial she should be +obliged to name him—she now humbly asked the dean to hear a +few words she had to say in private, where she promised she +“would speak nothing but the truth.”</p> +<p>This was impossible, he said—“No private +confessions before a magistrate! All must be done +openly.”</p> +<p>She urged again and again the same request: it was denied more +peremptorily than at first. On which she +said—“Then, sir, forgive me, since you force me to +it, if I speak before Mr. Rymer and these men what I would for +ever have kept a secret if I could. One of your family is +my child’s father.”</p> +<p>“Any of my servants?” cried the dean.</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“My nephew?”</p> +<p>“No; one who is nearer still.”</p> +<p>“Come this way,” said the dean; “I +<i>will</i> speak to you in private.”</p> +<p>It was not that the dean, as a magistrate, distributed partial +decrees of pretended justice—he was rigidly faithful to his +trust: he would not inflict punishment on the innocent, nor let +the guilty escape; but in all particulars of refined or coarse +treatment he would alleviate or aggravate according to the rank +of the offender. He could not feel that a secret was of +equal importance to a poor as to a rich person; and while Agnes +gave no intimation but that her delicacy rose from fears for +herself, she did not so forcibly impress him with an opinion that +it was a case which had weighty cause for a private conference as +when she boldly said, “a part of <i>his</i> family, very +near to him, was concerned in her tale.”</p> +<p>The final result of their conversation in an adjoining room +was—a charge from the dean, in the words of Mr. Rymer, +“to hush the affair up,” and his promise that the +infant should be immediately taken from her, and that “she +should have no more trouble with it.”</p> +<p>“I have no trouble with it,” replied Agnes: +“my child is now all my comfort, and I cannot part from +it.”</p> +<p>“Why, you inconsistent woman, did you not attempt to +murder it?”</p> +<p>“That was before I had nursed it.”</p> +<p>“’Tis necessary you should give it up: it must be +sent some miles away; and then the whole circumstance will be +soon forgotten.”</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> shall never forget it.”</p> +<p>“No matter; you must give up the child. Do not +some of our first women of quality part with their +children?”</p> +<p>“Women of quality have other things to love—I have +nothing else.”</p> +<p>“And would you occasion my son and his new-made bride +the shame and the uneasiness—”</p> +<p>Here Agnes burst into a flood of tears; and being angrily +asked by the dean “why she blubbered so—”</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> have had shame and uneasiness,” she +replied, wringing her hands.</p> +<p>“And you deserve them: they are the sure attendants of +crimes such as yours. If you allured and entrapped a young +man like my son—”</p> +<p>“I am the youngest by five years,” said Agnes.</p> +<p>“Well, well, repent,” returned the dean; +“repent, and resign your child. Repent, and you may +yet marry an honest man who knows nothing of the +matter.”</p> +<p>“And repent too?” asked Agnes.</p> +<p>Not the insufferable ignorance of young Henry, when he first +came to England, was more vexatious or provoking to the dean than +the rustic simplicity of poor Agnes’s uncultured +replies. He at last, in an offended and determined manner, +told her—“That if she would resign the child, and +keep the father’s name a secret, not only the child should +be taken care of, but she herself might, perhaps, receive some +favours; but if she persisted in her imprudent folly, she must +expect no consideration on her own account; nor should she be +allowed, for the maintenance of the boy, a sixpence beyond the +stated sum for a poor man’s unlawful +offspring.” Agnes, resolving not to be separated from +her infant, bowed resignation to this last decree; and, terrified +at the loud words and angry looks of the dean, after being +regularly discharged, stole to her home, where the smiles of her +infant, and the caresses she lavished on it, repaid her for the +sorrows she had just suffered for its sake.</p> +<p>Let it here be observed that the dean, on suffering Agnes to +depart without putting in force the law against her as he had +threatened, did nothing, as it were, <i>behind the +curtain</i>. He openly and candidly owned, on his return to +Mr. Rymer, his clerk, and the two constables who were attending, +“that an affair of some little gallantry, in which he was +extremely sorry to say his son was rather too nearly involved, +required, in consideration of his recent marriage, and an +excellent young woman’s (his bride’s) happiness, that +what had occurred should not be publicly talked of; therefore he +had thought proper only to reprimand the hussy, and send her +about her business.”</p> +<p>The curate assured the dean, “that upon this, and upon +all other occasions, which should, would, or <i>could</i> occur, +he owed to his judgment, as his superior, implicit +obedience.”</p> +<p>The clerk and the two constables most properly said, +“his honour was a gentleman, and of course must know better +how to act than they.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> +<p>The pleasure of a mother which Agnes experienced did not make +her insensible to the sorrow of a daughter.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>She perceived the neighbours avoid, or openly sneer at +<i>her</i>; 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.</p> +<p>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 +<i>his</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>own</i> misfortunes are +the cause of our pity for others, even more than <i>their</i> +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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>Lady Clementina, Lord and Lady Bendham, and twenty others, +“wished him a successful voyage,” and thought no more +about him.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<blockquote><p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear +Rebecca</span>,</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>whom he has to love</i>. 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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</p> +<p>“Farewell! <span class="smcap">H. +Norwynne</span>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> +<p>Before Henry could receive a reply to his letter, the fleet in +which he sailed put to sea.</p> +<p>By his absence, not only Rebecca was deprived of the friend +she loved, but poor Agnes lost a kind and compassionate +adviser. The loss of her parents, too, she had to mourn; +for they both sickened, and both died, in a short time after; and +now wholly friendless in her little exile, where she could only +hope for toleration, not being known, she was contending with +suspicion, rebuffs, disappointments, and various other ills, +which might have made the most rigorous of her Anfield +persecutors feel compassion for her, could they have witnessed +the throbs of her heart, and all the deep wounds there +imprinted.</p> +<p>Still, there are few persons whom Providence afflicts beyond +the limits of <i>all</i> consolation; few cast so low as not to +feel pride on <i>certain</i> occasions; and Agnes felt a comfort +and a dignity in the thought, that she had both a mind and a body +capable of sustaining every hardship, which her destiny might +inflict, rather than submit to the disgrace of soliciting +William’s charity a second time.</p> +<p>This determination was put to a variety of trials. In +vain she offered herself to the strangers of the village in which +she was accidentally cast as a servant; her child, her dejected +looks, her broken sentences, a wildness in her eye, a kind of +bold despair which at times overspread her features, her +imperfect story who and what she was, prejudiced all those to +whom she applied; and, after thus travelling to several small +towns and hamlets, the only employer she could obtain was a +farmer; and the only employment to tend and feed his cattle while +his men were in the harvest, tilling the ground, or at some other +labour which required at the time peculiar expedition.</p> +<p>Though Agnes was born of peasants, yet, having been the only +child of industrious parents, she had been nursed with a +tenderness and delicacy ill suited to her present occupation; but +she endured it with patience; and the most laborious part would +have seemed light could she have dismissed the +reflection—what it was that had reduced her to such a +state.</p> +<p>Soon her tender hands became hard and rough, her fair skin +burnt and yellow; so that when, on a Sunday, she has looked in +the glass, she has started back as if it were some other face she +saw instead of her own. But this loss of beauty gave her no +regret—while William did not see her, it was indifferent to +her, whether she were beautiful or hideous. On the features +of her child only, she now looked with joy; there, she fancied +she saw William at every glance, and, in the fond imagination, +felt at times every happiness short of seeing him.</p> +<p>By herding with the brute creation, she and her child were +allowed to live together; and this was a state she preferred to +the society of human creatures, who would have separated her from +what she loved so tenderly. Anxious to retain a service in +which she possessed such a blessing, care and attention to her +humble office caused her master to prolong her stay through all +the winter; then, during the spring, she tended his yeaning +sheep; in the summer, watched them as they grazed; and thus +season after season passed, till her young son could afford her +assistance in her daily work.</p> +<p>He now could charm her with his conversation as well as with +his looks: a thousand times in the transports of parental love +she has pressed him to her bosom, and thought, with an agony of +horror, upon her criminal, her mad intent to destroy what was now +so dear, so necessary to her existence.</p> +<p>Still the boy grew up more and more like his father. In +one resemblance alone he failed; he loved Agnes with an affection +totally distinct from the pitiful and childish gratification of +his own self-love; he never would quit her side for all the +tempting offers of toys or money; never would eat of rarities +given to him till Agnes took a part; never crossed her will, +however contradictory to his own; never saw her smile that he did +not laugh; nor did she ever weep, but he wept too.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> +<p>From the mean subject of oxen, sheep, and peasants, we return +to personages; i.e., persons of rank and fortune. The +bishop, who was introduced in the foregoing pages, but who has +occupied a very small space there, is now mentioned again, merely +that the reader may know he is at present in the same state as +his writings—dying; and that his friend, the dean, is +talked of as the most likely successor to his dignified +office.</p> +<p>The dean, most assuredly, had a strong friendship for the +bishop, and now, most assuredly, wished him to recover; and yet, +when he reflected on the success of his pamphlet a few years +past, and of many which he had written since on the very same +subject, he could not but think “that he had more righteous +pretensions to fill the vacant seat of his much beloved and +reverend friend (should fate ordain it to be vacated) than any +other man;” and he knew that it would not take one moment +from that friend’s remaining life, should he exert himself, +with all due management, to obtain the elevated station when be +should he no more.</p> +<p>In presupposing the death of a friend, the dean, like many +other virtuous men, “always supposed him going to a better +place.” With perfect resignation, therefore, he +waited whatever change might happen to the bishop, ready to +receive him with open arms if he recovered, or equally ready, in +case of his dissolution, to receive his dignities.</p> +<p>Lady Clementina displayed her sensibility and feeling for the +sick prelate by the extravagance of hysteric fits; except at +those times when she talked seriously with her husband upon the +injustice which she thought would be done to him, and to his many +pamphlets and sermons, if he did not immediately rise to +episcopal honour.</p> +<p>“Surely, dean,” said she, “should you be +disappointed upon this occasion, you will write no more books for +the good of your country?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I will,” he replied; “but the next +book I write for the good of my country shall be very different, +nay the very reverse of those I have already written.”</p> +<p>“How, dean! would you show yourself changed?”</p> +<p>“No, but I will show that my country is +changed.”</p> +<p>“What! since you produced your last work; only six weeks +ago!”</p> +<p>“Great changes may occur in six days,” replied the +dean, with a threatening accent; “and if I find things +<i>have</i> taken a new and improper turn, I will be the first to +expose it.”</p> +<p>“But before you act in this manner, my dear, surely you +will wait—”</p> +<p>“I will wait until the see is disposed of to +another,” said he.</p> +<p>He did wait: the bishop died. The dean was promoted to +the see of ---, and wrote a folio on the prosperity of our happy +country.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> +<p>While the bishop and his son were sailing before prosperous +gales on the ocean of life, young Henry was contending with +adverse winds, and many other perils, on the watery ocean; yet +still, his distresses and dangers were less than those which +Agnes had to encounter upon land. The sea threatens an +untimely death; the shore menaces calamities from which death is +a refuge.</p> +<p>The affections she had already experienced could just admit of +aggravation: the addition occurred.</p> +<p>Had the good farmer, who made her the companion of his flocks +and herds, lived till now, till now she might have been secure +from the annoyance of human kind; but, thrown once more upon +society, she was unfit to sustain the conflict of decorum against +depravity. Her master, her patron, her preserver, was dead; +and hardly as she had earned the pittance she received from him, +she found that it surpassed her power to obtain the like +again. Her doubtful character, her capacious mind, her +unmethodical manners, were still badly suited to the nice +precision of a country housewife; and as the prudent mistress of +a family sneered at her pretensions, she, in her turn, scorned +the narrow-minded mistress of a family.</p> +<p>In her inquiries how to gain her bread free from the cutting +reproaches of discretion, she was informed “that London was +the only private corner, where guilt could be secreted +undisturbed; and the only public place where, in open day, it +might triumphantly stalk, attended by a chain of audacious +admirers.”</p> +<p>There was a charm to the ear of Agnes in the name of London, +which thrilled through her soul. William lived in London; +and she thought that, while she retired to some dark cellar with +her offences, he probably would ride in state with his, and she +at humble distance might sometimes catch a glance at him.</p> +<p>As difficult as to eradicate insanity from a mind once +possessed, so difficult it is to erase from the lover’s +breast the deep impression of a <i>real</i> affection. +Coercion may prevail for a short interval, still love will rage +again. Not all the ignominy which Agnes experienced in the +place where she now was without a home—not the hunger which +she at times suffered, and even at times saw her child +endure—not every inducement for going to London, or motive +for quitting her present desolate station, had the weight to +affect her choice so much as—in London, she should live +nearer William; in the present spot she could never hope to see +him again, but there she might chance to pass him in the streets; +she might pass his house every day unobserved—might inquire +about him of his inferior neighbours, who would be unsuspicious +of the cause of her curiosity. For these gratifications, +she should imbibe new fortitude; for these she could bear all +hardships which London threatened; and for these, she at length +undertook a three weeks’ journey to that perilous town on +foot, cheering, as she walked along, her innocent and wearied +companion.</p> +<p>William—in your luxurious dwelling, possessed of coffers +filled with gold, relations, friends, clients, joyful around you, +delicious viands and rich wines upon your sumptuous board, +voluptuousness displayed in every apartment of your +habitation—contemplate, for a moment, Agnes, your first +love, with her son, your first and only child, walking through +frost and snow to London, with a foreboding fear on the mother +that, when arrived, they both may perish for the want of a +friend.</p> +<p>But no sooner did Agnes find herself within the smoke of the +metropolis than the old charm was renewed; and scarcely had she +refreshed her child at the poor inn at which she stopped than she +inquired how far it was to that part of the town where William, +she knew, resided?</p> +<p>She received for answer, “about two miles.”</p> +<p>Upon this information, she thought that she would keep in +reserve, till some new sorrow befell her, the consolation of +passing his door (perchance of seeing him) which must ever be an +alleviation of her grief. It was not long before she had +occasion for more substantial comfort. She soon found she +was not likely to obtain a service here, more than in the +country. Some objected that she could not make caps and +gowns; some that she could not preserve and pickle; some, that +she was too young; some, that she was too pretty; and all +declined accepting her, till at last a citizen’s wife, on +condition of her receiving but half the wages usually given, took +her as a servant of all work.</p> +<p>In romances, and in some plays, there are scenes of dark and +unwholesome mines, wherein the labourer works, during the +brightest day, by the aid of artificial light. There are in +London kitchens equally dismal though not quite so much exposed +to damp and noxious vapours. In one of these, underground, +hidden from the cheerful light of the sun, poor Agnes was doomed +to toil from morning till night, subjected to the command of a +dissatisfied mistress; who, not estimating as she ought the +misery incurred by serving her, constantly threatened her +servants “with a dismission;” at which the unthinking +wretches would tremble merely from the sound of the words; for to +have reflected—to have considered what their purport +was—“to be released from a dungeon, relieved from +continual upbraidings, and vile drudgery,” must have been a +subject of rejoicing; and yet, because these good tidings were +delivered as a menace, custom had made the hearer fearful of the +consequence. So, death being described to children as a +disaster, even poverty and shame will start from it with +affright; whereas, had it been pictured with its benign aspect, +it would have been feared but by few, and many, many would +welcome it with gladness.</p> +<p>All the care of Agnes to please, her fear of offending, her +toilsome days, her patience, her submission, could not prevail on +her she served to retain her one hour after, by chance, she had +heard “that she was the mother of a child; that she wished +it should be kept a secret; and that she stole out now and then +to visit him.”</p> +<p>Agnes, with swimming eyes and an almost breaking heart, left a +place—where to have lived one hour would have plunged any +fine lady in the deepest grief.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> +<p>Agnes was driven from service to service—her deficiency +in the knowledge of a mere drudge, or her lost character, pursued +her wherever she went—at length, becoming wholly destitute, +she gladly accepted a place where the latter misfortune was not +of the least impediment.</p> +<p>In one of these habitations, where continual misery is dressed +in continual smiles; where extreme of poverty is concealed by +extreme of finery; where wine dispenses mirth only by dispensing +forgetfulness; and where female beauty is so cheap, so complying, +that, while it inveigles, it disgusts the man of pleasure: in one +of those houses, to attend upon its wretched inhabitants, Agnes +was hired. Her feelings of rectitude submitted to those of +hunger; her principles of virtue (which the loss of virtue had +not destroyed) received a shock when she engaged to be the +abettor of vice, from which her delicacy, morality, and religion +shrunk; but persons of honour and of reputation would not employ +her: was she then to perish? That, perhaps, was easy to +resolve; but she had a child to leave behind! a child, from whom +to part for a day was a torment. Yet, before she submitted +to a situation which filled her mind with a kind of loathing +horror, often she paced up and down the street in which William +lived, looked wistfully at his house, and sometimes, lost to all +her finer feelings of independent pride, thought of sending a +short petition to him; but, at the idea of a repulse, and of that +frowning brow which she knew William <i>could</i> dart on her +petitions, she preferred death, or the most degrading life, to +the trial.</p> +<p>It was long since that misfortune and dishonour had made her +callous to the good or ill opinion of all the world, except +<i>his</i>; and the fear of drawing upon her his increased +contempt was still, at the crisis of applying, so powerful, that +she found she dared not hazard a reproof from him even in the +person of his father, whose rigour she had already more than once +experienced, in the frequent harsh messages conveyed to her with +the poor stipend for her boy.</p> +<p>Awed by the rigid and pious character of the new bishop, the +growing reputation, and rising honours of his son, she mistook +the appearance of moral excellence for moral excellence itself, +and felt her own unworthiness even to become the supplicant of +those great men.</p> +<p>Day after day she watched those parts of the town through +which William’s chariot was accustomed to drive; but to see +the <i>carriage</i> was all to which she aspired; a feeling, not +to be described, forced her to cast her eyes upon the earth as it +drew near to her; and when it had passed, she beat her breast, +and wept that she had not seen <i>him</i>.</p> +<p>Impressed with the superiority of others, and her own abject +and disgustful state, she cried, “Let me herd with those +who won’t despise me; let me only see faces whereon I can +look without confusion and terror; let me associate with wretches +like myself, rather than force my shame before those who are so +good they can but scorn and hate me.”</p> +<p>With a mind thus languishing for sympathy in disgrace, she +entered a servant in the house just now described. There +disregarding the fatal proverb against “<i>evil +communications</i>,” she had not the firmness to be an +exception to the general rule. That pliant disposition, +which had yielded to the licentious love of William, stooped to +still baser prostitution in company still more depraved.</p> +<p>At first she shuddered at those practices she saw, at those +conversations she heard, and blest herself that poverty, not +inclination, had caused her to be a witness of such profligacy, +and had condemned her in this vile abode to be a servant, rather +than in the lower rank of mistress. Use softened those +horrors every day; at length self-defence, the fear of ridicule, +and the hope of favour, induced her to adopt that very conduct +from which her heart revolted.</p> +<p>In her sorrowful countenance and fading charms there yet +remained attraction for many visitors; and she now submitted to +the mercenary profanations of love, more odious, as her mind had +been subdued by its most captivating, most endearing joys.</p> +<p>While incessant regret whispered to her “that she ought +to have endured every calamity rather than this,” she thus +questioned her nice sense of wrong, “Why, why respect +myself, since no other respects me? Why set a value on my +own feelings when no one else does?”</p> +<p>Degraded in her own judgment, she doubted her own +understanding when it sometimes told her she had deserved better +treatment; for she felt herself a fool in comparison with her +learned seducer and the rest who despised her. “And +why,” she continued, “should I ungratefully persist +to contemn women who alone are so kind as to accept me for a +companion? Why refuse conformity to their customs, since +none of my sex besides will admit me to their society a partaker +of virtuous habits?”</p> +<p>In speculation these arguments appeared reasonable, and she +pursued their dictates; but in the practice of the life in which +she plunged she proved the fallacy of the system, and at times +tore her hair with frantic sorrow, that she had not continued in +the mid-way of guilt, and so preserved some portion of +self-approbation, to recompense her in a small degree, for the +total loss of the esteem of all the reputable world.</p> +<p>But she had gone too far to recede. Could she now have +recalled her innocence, even that remnant she brought with her to +London, experience would have taught her to have given up her +child, lived apart from him, and once more with the brute +creation, rather than to have mingled with her present +society. Now, alas! the time for flying was past; all +prudent choice was over, even all reflection was gone for ever, +or only admitted on compulsion, when it imperiously forced its +way amidst the scenes of tumultuous mirth or licentious passion, +of distracted riot, shameless effrontery, and wild intoxication, +when it <i>would</i> force its way, even through the walls of a +brothel.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> +<p>Is there a reader so little experienced in the human heart, so +forgetful of his own, as not to feel the possibility of the +following fact?</p> +<p>A series of uncommon calamities had been for many years the +lot of the elder Henry; a succession of prosperous events had +fallen to the share of his brother William. The one was the +envy, while the other had the compassion, of all who thought +about them. For the last twenty years, William had lived in +affluence, bordering upon splendour, his friends, his fame, his +fortune, daily increasing, while Henry throughout that very +period had, by degrees, lost all he loved on earth, and was now +existing apart from civilised society; and yet, during those +twenty years, where William knew one happy moment, Henry tasted +hundreds.</p> +<p>That the state of the mind, and not outward circumstances, is +the nice point on which happiness depends is but a trite remark; +but that intellectual power should have the force to render a man +discontented in extraordinary prosperity, such as that of the +present bishop, or contented in his brother’s extreme of +adversity, requires illustration.</p> +<p>The first great affliction to Henry was his brother’s +ingratitude; but reasoning on the frailty of man’s nature, +and the force of man’s temptations, he found excuses for +William, which made him support the treatment he had received +with more tranquillity than William’s proud mind supported +his brother’s marriage.</p> +<p>Henry’s indulgent disposition made him less angry with +William than William was with him.</p> +<p>The next affliction Henry suffered was the loss of his beloved +wife. That was a grief which time and change of objects +gradually alleviated; while William’s wife was to him a +permanent grief, her puerile mind, her talking vanity, her +affected virtues, soured his domestic comfort, and, in time, he +had suffered more painful moments from her society than his +brother had experienced, even from the death of her he loved.</p> +<p>In their children, indeed, William was the happier; his son +was a pride and pleasure to him, while Henry never thought upon +<i>his</i> without lamenting his loss with bitterest +anguish. But if the elder brother had in one instance the +advantage, still Henry had a resource to overbalance this +article. Henry, as he lay imprisoned in his dungeon, and +when, his punishment being remitted, he was again allowed to +wander, and seek his subsistence where he would, in all his +tedious walks and solitary resting-places, during all his lonely +days and mournful nights, had <i>this resource</i> to console +him—</p> +<p>“I never did an injury to any one; never was harsh, +severe, unkind, deceitful. I did not merely confine myself +to do my neighbour no harm; I strove to do him +service.”</p> +<p>This was the resource that cheered his sinking heart amidst +gloomy deserts and a barbarous people, lulled him to peaceful +slumber in the hut of a savage hunter, and in the hearing of the +lion’s roar, at times impressed him with a sense of +happiness, and made him contemplate with a longing hope the +retribution of a future world.</p> +<p>The bishop, with all his comforts, had no comfort like this; +he had <i>his</i> solitary reflections too, but they were of a +tendency the reverse of these. “I used my brother +ill,” was a secret thought of most powerful +influence. It kept him waking upon his safe and commodious +bed; was sure to recur with every misfortune by which he was +threatened to make his fears still stronger, and came with +invidious stabs, upon every successful event, to take from him a +part of his joy. In a word, it was <i>conscience</i> which +made Henry’s years pass happier than William’s.</p> +<p>But though, comparatively with his brother, William was the +less happy man, yet his self-reproach was not of such magnitude, +for an offence of that atrocious nature as to banish from his +breast a certain degree of happiness, a sensibility to the smiles +of fortune; nor was Henry’s self-acquittal of such +exquisite kind as to chase away the feeling of his desolate +condition.</p> +<p>As he fished or hunted for his daily dinner, many a time in +full view of his prey, a sudden burst of sorrow at his fate, a +sudden longing for some dear associate, for some friend to share +his thoughts, for some kind shoulder on which to lean his head, +for some companion to partake of his repast, would make him +instantaneously desist from his pursuit, cast him on the ground +in a fit of anguish, till a shower of tears and his +<i>conscience</i> came to his relief.</p> +<p>It was, after an exile of more than twenty-three years, when, +on one sultry morning, after pleasant dreams during the night, +Henry had waked with more than usual perception of his misery, +that, sitting upon the beach, his wishes and his looks all bent +on the sea towards his native land, he thought he saw a sail +swelling before an unexpected breeze.</p> +<p>“Sure I am dreaming still!” he cried. +“This is the very vessel I last night saw in my +sleep! Oh! what cruel mockery that my eyes should so +deceive me!”</p> +<p>Yet, though he doubted, he leaped upon his feet in transport, +held up his hands, stretched at their length, in a kind of +ecstatic joy, and, as the glorious sight approached, was near +rushing into the sea to hail and meet it.</p> +<p>For awhile hope and fear kept him in a state bordering on +distraction.</p> +<p>Now he saw the ship making for the shore, and tears flowed for +the grateful prospect. Now it made for another point, and +he vented shrieks and groans from the disappointment.</p> +<p>It was at those moments, while hope and fear thus possessed +him, that the horrors of his abode appeared more than ever +frightful. Inevitable afflictions must be borne; but that +calamity which admits the expectation of relief, and then denies +it, is insupportable.</p> +<p>After a few minutes passed in dreadful uncertainty, which +enhanced the wished-for happiness, the ship evidently drew near +the land; a boat was launched from her, and while Henry, now upon +his knees, wept and prayed fervently for the event, a youth +sprang from the barge on the strand, rushed towards him, and +falling on his neck, then at his feet, exclaimed, “My +father! oh, my father!”</p> +<p>William! dean! bishop! what are your honours, what your +riches, what all your possessions, compared to the happiness, the +transport bestowed by this one sentence, on your poor brother +Henry?</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> +<p>The crosses at land, and the perilous events at sea, had made +it now two years since young Henry first took the vow of a man no +longer dependent on the will of another, to seek his +father. His fatigues, his dangers, were well +recompensed. Instead of weeping over a silent grave, he had +the inexpressible joy to receive a parent’s blessing for +his labours. Yet, the elder Henry, though living, was so +changed in person, that his son would scarcely have known him in +any other than the favourite spot, which the younger (keeping in +memory every incident of his former life) knew his father had +always chosen for his morning contemplations; and where, +previously to his coming to England, he had many a time kept him +company. It was to that particular corner of the island +that the captain of the ship had generously ordered they should +steer, out of the general route, to gratify the filial tenderness +he expressed. But scarcely had the interview between the +father and the son taken place, than a band of natives, whom the +appearance of the vessel had called from the woods and hills, +came to attack the invaders. The elder Henry had no friend +with whom he wished to shake hands at his departure; the old +negro servant who had assisted in young Henry’s escape was +dead; and he experienced the excessive joy of bidding adieu to +the place, without one regret for all he left behind.</p> +<p>On the night of that day, whose morning had been marked by +peculiar sadness at the louring prospect of many exiled years to +come, he slept on board an English vessel, with Englishmen his +companions, and his son, his beloved son—who was still more +dear to him for that mind which had planned and executed his +rescue—this son, his attentive servant, and most +affectionate friend.</p> +<p>Though many a year passed, and many a rough encounter was +destined to the lot of the two Henrys before they saw the shores +of Europe, yet to them, to live or to die together was happiness +enough: even young Henry for a time asked for no greater +blessing—but, the first glow of filial ardour over, he +called to mind, “Rebecca lived in England;” and every +exertion which love, founded on the highest reverence and esteem, +could dictate, he employed to expedite a voyage, the end of which +would be crowned by the sight of her.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> +<p>The contrast of the state of happiness between the two +brothers was nearly resembled by that of the two +cousins—the riches of young William did not render him +happy, nor did the poverty of young Henry doom him to +misery. His affectionate heart, as he had described in his +letter to Rebecca, loved <i>persons</i> rather than +<i>things</i>; and he would not have exchanged the society of his +father, nor the prospect of her hand and heart, for all the +wealth and splendour of which his cousin William was the +master.</p> +<p>He was right. Young William, though he viewed with +contempt Henry’s inferior state, was far less happy than +he. His marriage had been the very counterpart of his +father’s; and having no child to create affection to his +home, his study was the only relief from that domestic +incumbrance called his wife; and though, by unremitting +application there (joined to the influence of the potent +relations of the woman he hated), he at length arrived at the +summit of his ambitious desires, still they poorly repaid him for +the sacrifice he had made in early life of every tender +disposition.</p> +<p>Striding through a list of rapid advancements in the +profession of the law, at the age of thirty-eight he found +himself raised to a preferment such as rarely falls to the share +of a man of his short experience—he found himself invested +with a judge’s robe; and, gratified by the exalted office, +curbed more than ever that aversion which her want of charms or +sympathy had produced against the partner of his honours.</p> +<p>While William had thus been daily rising in fortune’s +favour, poor Agnes had been daily sinking deeper and deeper under +fortune’s frowns: till at last she became a midnight +wanderer through the streets of London, soliciting, or rudely +demanding, money of the passing stranger. Sometimes, hunted +by the watch, she affrighted fled from street to street, from +portico to portico; and once, unknowing in her fear which way she +hurried, she found her trembling knees had sunk, and her wearied +head was reclined against the stately pillars that guarded +William’s door.</p> +<p>At the sudden recollection where she was, a swell of passion, +composed of horror, of anger, of despair, and love, gave +reanimated strength to her failing limbs; and, regardless of her +pursuer’s steps, she ran to the centre of the street, and, +looking up to the windows of the mansion, cried, “Ah! there +he sleeps in quiet, in peace, in ease—he does not even +dream of me—he does not care how the cold pierces, or how +the people persecute me! He does not thank me for all the +lavish love I have borne him and his child! His heart is so +hard, he does not even recollect that it was he who brought me to +ruin.”</p> +<p>Had these miseries, common to the unhappy prostitute, been +alone the punishment of Agnes—had her crimes and sufferings +ended in distress like this, her story had not perhaps been +selected for a public recital; for it had been no other than the +customary history of thousands of her sex. But Agnes had a +destiny yet more fatal. Unhappily, she was endowed with a +mind so sensibly alive to every joy, and every sorrow, to every +mark of kindness, every token of severity, so liable to excess in +passion, that, once perverted, there was no degree of error from +which it would revolt.</p> +<p>Taught by the conversation of the dissolute poor, with whom +she now associated, or by her own observation on the worldly +reward of elevated villainy, she began to suspect “that +dishonesty was only held a sin to secure the property of the +rich; and that, to take from those who did not want, by the art +of stealing, was less guilt, than to take from those who did +want, by the power of the law.”</p> +<p>By false yet seducing opinions such as these, her reason +estranged from every moral and religious tie, her necessities +urgent, she reluctantly accepted the proposal to mix with a band +of practised sharpers and robbers, and became an accomplice in +negotiating bills forged on a country banker.</p> +<p>But though ingenious in arguments to excuse the deed before +its commission, in the act she had ever the dread of some +incontrovertible statement on the other side of the +question. Intimidated by this apprehension, she was the +veriest bungler in her vile profession—and on the alarm of +being detected, while every one of her confederates escaped and +absconded, she alone was seized—was arrested for issuing +notes they had fabricated, and committed to the provincial jail, +about fifty miles from London, where the crime had been +perpetrated, to take her trial for—life or death.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XL.</h2> +<p>The day at length is come on which Agnes shall have a sight of +her beloved William! She who has watched for hours near his +door, to procure a glimpse of him going out, or returning home; +who has walked miles to see his chariot pass: she now will behold +him, and he will see her by command of the laws of their +country. Those laws, which will deal with rigour towards +her, are in this one instance still indulgent.</p> +<p>The time of the assizes, at the county town in which she is +imprisoned, is arrived—the prisoners are demanded at the +shire-hall—the jail doors are opened—they go in sad +procession—the trumpet sounds—it speaks the arrival +of the judge—and that judge is William!</p> +<p>The day previous to her trial, Agnes had read, in the printed +calendar of the prisoners, his name as the learned justice before +whom she was to appear. For a moment she forgot her +perilous state in the excess of joy which the still unconquerable +love she bore to him permitted her to taste even on the brink of +the grave! After-reflection made her check those worldly +transports, as unfit for the present solemn occasion. But +alas! to her, earth and William were so closely united that, till +she forsook the one, she could never cease to think, without the +contending passions of hope, of fear, of joy, of love, of shame, +and of despair, on the other.</p> +<p>Now fear took place of her first immoderate joy—she +feared that, although much changed in person since he had seen +her, and her real name now added to many an +<i>alias</i>—yet she feared that same well-known glance of +the eye, turn of the action, or accent of speech, might recall +her to his remembrance; and at that idea shame overcame all her +other sensations—for still she retained pride, in respect +to <i>his</i> opinion, to wish him not to know Agnes was that +wretch she felt she was! Once a ray of hope beamed on her, +“that if he knew her, he recognised her, he might possibly +befriend her cause;” and life bestowed through +William’s friendship seemed a precious object! But +again, that rigorous honour she had often heard him boast, that +firmness to his word, of which she had fatal experience, taught +her to know, he would not for any unproper compassion, any +unmanly weakness, forfeit his oath of impartial justice.</p> +<p>In meditations such as these she passed the sleepless +night. When, in the morning, she was brought to the bar, +and her guilty hand held up before the righteous judgment seat of +William—imagination could not form two figures, or two +situations more incompatible with the existence of former +familiarity, than the judge and the culprit—and yet, these +very persons had passed together the most blissful moments that +either ever tasted! Those hours of tender dalliance were +now present to <i>her</i> mind. <i>His</i> thoughts were +more nobly employed in his high office; nor could the haggard +face, hollow eye, desponding countenance, and meagre person of +the poor prisoner, once call to his memory, though her name was +uttered among a list of others which she had assumed, his former +youthful, lovely Agnes!</p> +<p>She heard herself arraigned with trembling limbs and downcast +looks; and many witnesses had appeared against her before she +ventured to lift her eyes up to her awful judge. She then +gave one fearful glance, and discovered William, unpitying but +beloved William, in every feature! It was a face she had +been used to look on with delight, and a kind of absent smile of +gladness now beamed on her poor wan visage.</p> +<p>When every witness on the part of the prosecutor had been +examined, the judge addressed himself to her—“What +defence have you to make?”</p> +<p>It was William spoke to Agnes! The sound was sweet; the +voice was mild, was soft, compassionate, encouraging! It +almost charmed her to a love of life!—not such a voice as +when William last addressed her; when he left her undone and +pregnant, vowing never to see or speak to her more.</p> +<p>She could have hung upon the present words for ever! She +did not call to mind that this gentleness was the effect of +practice, the art of his occupation: which, at times, is but a +copy, by the unfeeling, from his benevolent brethren of the +bench. In the present judge, tenderness was not designed +for the consolation of the culprit, but for the approbation of +the auditors.</p> +<p>There were no spectators, Agnes, by your side when last he +parted from you: if there had, the awful William had been awed to +marks of pity.</p> +<p>Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known tongue +directed to her, she stood like one just petrified—all +vital power seemed suspended.</p> +<p>Again he put the question, and with these additional +sentences, tenderly and emphatically +delivered—“Recollect yourself. Have you no +witnesses? No proof in your behalf?”</p> +<p>A dead silence followed these questions.</p> +<p>He then mildly, but forcibly, added—“What have you +to say?”</p> +<p>Here a flood of tears burst from her eyes, which she fixed +earnestly upon him, as if pleading for mercy, while she faintly +articulated,</p> +<p>“Nothing, my lord.”</p> +<p>After a short pause, he asked her, in the same forcible but +benevolent tone—</p> +<p>“Have you no one to speak to your +character?” The prisoner answered—</p> +<p>A second gush of tears followed this reply, for she called to +mind by <i>whom</i> her character had first been blasted.</p> +<p>He summed up the evidence; and every time he was compelled to +press hard upon the proofs against her she shrunk, and seemed to +stagger with the deadly blow; writhed under the weight of +<i>his</i> minute justice, more than from the prospect of a +shameful death.</p> +<p>The jury consulted but a few minutes. The verdict +was—</p> +<p>“Guilty.”</p> +<p>She heard it with composure.</p> +<p>But when William placed the fatal velvet on his head, and rose +to pronounce her sentence, she started with a kind of convulsive +motion; retreated a step or two back, and, lifting up her hands, +with a scream exclaimed—</p> +<p>“Oh! not from <i>you</i>!”</p> +<p>The piercing shriek which accompanied these words prevented +their being heard by part of the audience; and those who heard +them thought little of their meaning, more than that they +expressed her fear of dying.</p> +<p>Serene and dignified, as if no such exclamation had been +uttered, William delivered the fatal speech, ending with, +“Dead, dead, dead.”</p> +<p>She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried back to +prison in a swoon; while he adjourned the court to go to +dinner.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> +<p>If, unaffected by the scene he had witnessed, William sat down +to dinner with an appetite, let not the reader conceive that the +most distant suspicion had struck his mind of his ever having +seen, much less familiarly known, the poor offender whom he had +just condemned. Still this forgetfulness did not proceed +from the want of memory for Agnes. In every peevish or +heavy hour passed with his wife, he was sure to think of her: yet +it was self-love, rather than love of <i>her</i>, that gave rise +to these thoughts: he felt the lack of female sympathy and +tenderness to soften the fatigue of studious labour; to sooth a +sullen, a morose disposition—he felt he wanted comfort for +himself, but never once considered what were the wants of +Agnes.</p> +<p>In the chagrin of a barren bed, he sometimes thought, too, +even on the child that Agnes bore him; but whether it were male +or female, whether a beggar in the streets, or dead—various +and important public occupations forbade him to waste time to +inquire. Yet the poor, the widow, and the orphan, +frequently shared William’s ostentatious bounty. He +was the president of many excellent charities, gave largely, and +sometimes instituted benevolent societies for the unhappy; for he +delighted to load the poor with obligations, and the rich with +praise.</p> +<p>There are persons like him, who love to do every good but that +which their immediate duty requires. There are servants who +will serve every one more cheerfully than their masters; there +are men who will distribute money liberally to all except their +creditors; and there are wives who will love all mankind better +than their husbands. Duty is a familiar word which has +little effect upon an ordinary mind; and as ordinary minds make a +vast majority, we have acts of generosity, valour, self-denial, +and bounty, where smaller pains would constitute greater +virtues. Had William followed the <i>common</i> dictates of +charity; had he adopted private pity, instead of public +munificence; had he cast an eye at home before he sought abroad +for objects of compassion, Agnes had been preserved from an +ignominious death, and he had been preserved +from—<i>Remorse</i>—the tortures of which he for the +first time proved, on reading a printed sheet of paper, +accidentally thrown in his way, a few days after he had left the +town in which he had condemned her to die.</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: right">“<i>March the</i> +12th, 179-</p> +<p>“The last dying words, speech, and confession; birth, +parentage, and education; life, character, and behaviour, of +Agnes Primrose, who was executed this morning, between the hours +of ten and twelve, pursuant to the sentence passed upon her by +the Honourable Justice Norwynne.</p> +<p>“AGNES PRIMROSE was born of honest parents, in the +village of Anfield, in the county of ---” [William +started at the name of the village and county]; “but being +led astray by the arts and flattery of seducing man, she fell +from the paths of virtue, and took to bad company, which +instilled into her young heart all their evil ways, and at length +brought her to this untimely end. So she hopes her death +will be a warning to all young persons of her own sex, how they +listen to the praises and courtship of young men, especially of +those who are their betters; for they only court to +deceive. But the said Agnes freely forgives all persons who +have done her injury, or given her sorrow, from the young man who +first won her heart to the jury who found her guilty, and the +judge who condemned her to death.</p> +<p>“And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not +only in respect of the crime for which she suffers, but in regard +to many other heinous sins of which she has been guilty, more +especially that of once attempting to commit a murder upon her +own helpless child, for which guilt she now considers the +vengeance of God has overtaken her, to which she is patiently +resigned, and departs in peace and charity with all the world, +praying the Lord to have mercy on her parting soul.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">“POSTSCRIPT TO THE +CONFESSION.</p> +<p>“So great was this unhappy woman’s terror of +death, and the awful judgment that was to follow, that when +sentence was pronounced upon her, she fell into a swoon, from +that into convulsions, from which she never entirely recovered, +but was delirious to the time of her execution, except that short +interval in which she made her confession to the clergyman who +attended her. She has left one child, a youth about +sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother during all the time of +her imprisonment, but waited on her with true filial duty; and no +sooner was her fatal sentence passed than he began to droop, and +now lies dangerously ill near the prison from which she is +released by death. During the loss of her senses, the said +Agnes Primrose raved continually on this child; and, asking for +pen, ink, and paper, wrote an incoherent petition to the judge +recommending the youth to his protection and mercy. But +notwithstanding this insanity, she behaved with composure and +resignation when the fatal morning arrived in which she was to be +launched into eternity. She prayed devoutly during the last +hour, and seemed to have her whole mind fixed on the world to +which she was going. A crowd of spectators followed her to +the fatal spot, most of whom returned weeping at the recollection +of the fervency with which she prayed, and the impression which +her dreadful state seemed to make upon her.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>No sooner had the name of “Anfield” struck William +than a thousand reflections and remembrances flashed on his mind +to give him full conviction whom it was he had judged and +sentenced. He recollected the sad remains of Agnes, such as +he once had known her; and now he wondered how his thoughts could +have been absent from an object so pitiable, so worthy of his +attention, as not to give him even a suspicion who she was, +either from her name, or from her person, during the whole +trial!</p> +<p>But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sensation +was absorbed by—<i>Remorse</i>:—it wounded, it +stabbed, it rent his hard heart, as it would do a tender +one. It havocked on his firm inflexible mind, as it would +on a weak and pliant brain! Spirit of Agnes! look down, and +behold all your wrongs revenged! William +feels—<i>Remorse</i>.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> +<p>A few momentary cessations from the pangs of a guilty +conscience were given to William, as soon as he had despatched a +messenger to the jail in which Agnes had been communed, to +inquire after the son she had left behind, and to give orders +that immediate care should be taken of him. He likewise +charged the messenger to bring back the petition she had +addressed to him during her supposed insanity; for he now +experienced no trivial consolation in the thought that he might +possibly have it in his power to grant her a request.</p> +<p>The messenger returned with the written paper, which had been +considered by the persons to whom she had intrusted it, as the +distracted dictates of an insane mind; but proved to William, +beyond a doubt, that she was perfectly in her senses.</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“TO LORD CHIEF +JUSTICE NORWYNNE.</p> +<p>“<span class="smcap">My Lord</span>,—I am Agnes +Primrose, the daughter of John and Hannah Primrose, of +Anfield. My father and mother lived by the hill at the side +of the little brook where you used to fish, and so first saw +me.</p> +<p>“Pray, my lord, have mercy on my sorrows; pity me for +the first time, and spare my life. I know I have done +wrong. I know it is presumption in me to dare to apply to +you, such a wicked and mean wretch as I am; but, my lord, you +once condescended to take notice of me; and though I have been +very wicked since that time, yet if you would be so merciful as +to spare my life, I promise to amend it for the future. But +if you think it proper I should die, I will be resigned; but then +I hope, I beg, I supplicate, that you will grant my other +petition. Pray, pray, my lord, if you cannot pardon me, be +merciful to the child I leave behind. What he will do when +I am gone, I don’t know, for I have been the only friend he +has had ever since he was born. He was born, my lord, about +sixteen years ago, at Anfield, one summer a morning, and carried +by your cousin, Mr. Henry Norwynne, to Mr. Rymer’s, the +curate there; and I swore whose child he was before the dean, and +I did not take a false oath. Indeed, indeed, my lord, I did +not.</p> +<p>“I will say no more for fear this should not come safe +to your hand, for the people treat me as if I were mad; so I will +say no more, only this, that, whether I live or die, I forgive +everybody, and I hope everybody will forgive me. And I pray +that God will take pity on my son, if you refuse; but I hope you +will not refuse.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“<span class="smcap">Agnes +Primrose</span>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>William rejoiced, as he laid down the petition, that she had +asked a favour he could bestow; and hoped by his protection of +the son to redress, in some degree, the wrongs he had done the +mother. He instantly sent for the messenger into his +apartment, and impatiently asked, “If he had seen the boy, +and given proper directions for his care.”</p> +<p>“I have given directions, sir, for his +funeral.”</p> +<p>“How!” cried William.</p> +<p>“He pined away ever since his mother was confined, and +died two days after her execution.”</p> +<p>Robbed, by this news, of his only gleam of +consolation—in the consciousness of having done a mortal +injury for which he never now by any means could atone, he saw +all his honours, all his riches, all his proud selfish triumphs +fade before him! They seemed like airy nothings, which in +rapture he would exchange for the peace of a tranquil +conscience!</p> +<p>He envied Agnes the death to which he first exposed, then +condemned, her. He envied her even the life she struggled +through from his neglect, and felt that his future days would be +far less happy than her former existence. He calculated +with precision.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> +<p>The progressive rise of William and fall of Agnes had now +occupied nearly the term of eighteen years. Added to these, +another year elapsed before the younger Henry completed the +errand on which his heart was fixed, and returned to +England. Shipwreck, imprisonment, and other ills to which +the poor and unfriended traveller is peculiarly exposed, detained +the father and son in various remote regions until the present +period; and, for the last fifteen years, denied them the means of +all correspondence with their own country.</p> +<p>The elder Henry was now past sixty years of age, and the +younger almost beyond the prime of life. Still length of +time had not diminished, but rather had increased, their anxious +longings for their native home.</p> +<p>The sorrows, disappointments, and fatigues, which, throughout +these tedious years, were endured by the two Henrys, are of that +dull monotonous kind of suffering better omitted than +described—mere repetitions of the exile’s woe, that +shall give place to the transporting joy of return from +banishment! Yet, often as the younger had reckoned, with +impatient wishes, the hours which were passed distant from her he +loved, no sooner was his disastrous voyage at an end, no sooner +had his feet trod upon the shore of Britain, than a thousand +wounding fears made him almost doubt whether it were happiness or +misery he had obtained by his arrival. If Rebecca were +living, he knew it must be happiness; for his heart dwelt with +confidence on her faith, her unchanging sentiments. +“But death might possibly have ravished from his hopes what +no mortal power could have done.” And thus the lover +creates a rival in every ill, rather than suffer his fears to +remain inanimate.</p> +<p>The elder Henry had less to fear or to hope than his son; yet +he both feared and hoped with a sensibility that gave him great +anxiety. He hoped his brother would receive him with +kindness, after his long absence, and once more take his son +cordially to his favour. He longed impatiently to behold +his brother; to see his nephew; nay, in the ardour of the renewed +affection he just now felt, he thought even a distant view of +Lady Clementina would be grateful to his sight! But still, +well remembering the pomp, the state, the pride of William, he +could not rely on <i>his</i> affection, so much he knew that it +depended on external circumstances to excite or to extinguish his +love. Not that he feared an absolute repulsion from his +brother; but he feared, what, to a delicate mind, is still +worse—reserved manners, cold looks, absent sentences, and +all that cruel retinue of indifference with which those who are +beloved so often wound the bosom that adores them.</p> +<p>By inquiring of their countrymen (whom they met as they +approached to the end of their voyage), concerning their relation +the dean, the two Henrys learned that he was well, and had for +some years past been exalted to the bishopric of ---. This +news gave them joy, while it increased their fear of not +receiving an affectionate welcome.</p> +<p>The younger Henry, on his landing, wrote immediately to his +uncle, acquainting him with his father’s arrival in the +most abject state of poverty; he addressed his letter to the +bishop’s country residence, where he knew, as it was the +summer season, he would certainly be. He and his father +then set off on foot towards that residence—a palace!</p> +<p>The bishop’s palace was not situated above fifty miles +from the port where they had landed; and at a small inn about +three miles from the bishop’s they proposed (as the letter +to him intimated) to wait for his answer before they intruded +into his presence.</p> +<p>As they walked on their solitary journey, it was some small +consolation that no creature knew them.</p> +<p>“To be poor and ragged, father,” the younger +smilingly said, “is no disgrace, no shame, thank Heaven, +where the object is not known.”</p> +<p>“True, my son,” replied Henry; “and perhaps +I feel myself much happier now, unknowing and unknown to all but +you, than I shall in the presence of my fortunate brother and his +family; for there, confusion at my ill success through life may +give me greater pain than even my misfortunes have +inflicted.”</p> +<p>After uttering this reflection which had preyed upon his mind, +he sat down on the road side to rest his agitated limbs before he +could proceed farther. His son reasoned with him—gave +him courage; and now his hopes preponderated, till, after two +days’ journey, on arriving at the inn where an answer from +the bishop was expected, no letter, no message had been left.</p> +<p>“He means to renounce us,” said Henry, trembling, +and whispering to his son.</p> +<p>Without disclosing to the people of the house who they were, +or from whom the letter or the message they inquired for was to +have come, they retired, and consulted what steps they were now +to pursue.</p> +<p>Previously to his writing to the bishop, the younger +Henry’s heart, all his inclinations, had swayed him towards +a visit to the village in which was his uncle’s former +country-seat, the beloved village of Anfield, but respect to him +and duty to his father had made him check those wishes; now they +revived again, and, with the image of Rebecca before his eyes, he +warmly entreated his father to go with him to Anfield, at present +only thirty miles distant, and thence write once more; then again +wait the will of his uncle.</p> +<p>The father consented to this proposal, even glad to postpone +the visit to his dignified brother.</p> +<p>After a scanty repast, such as they had been long inured to, +they quitted the inn, and took the road towards Anfield.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> +<p>It was about five in the afternoon of a summer’s day, +that Henry and his son left the sign of the Mermaid to pursue +their third day’s journey: the young man’s spirits +elated with the prospect of the reception he should meet from +Rebecca: the elder dejected at not having received a speedy +welcome from his brother.</p> +<p>The road which led to Anfield by the shortest course of +necessity took our travellers within sight of the bishop’s +palace. The turrets appeared at a distance; and on the +sudden turn round the corner of a large plantation, the whole +magnificent structure was at once exhibited before his +brother’s astonished eyes. He was struck with the +grandeur of the habitation; and, totally forgetting all the +unkind, the contemptuous treatment he had ever received from its +owner (like the same Henry in his earlier years), smiled with a +kind of transport “that William was so great a +man.”</p> +<p>After this first joyous sensation was over, “Let us go a +little nearer, my son,” said he; “no one will see us, +I hope; or, if they should, you can run and conceal yourself; and +not a creature will know me; even my brother would not know me +thus altered; and I wish to take a little farther view of his +fine house, and all his pleasure grounds.”</p> +<p>Young Henry, though impatient to be gone, would not object to +his father’s desire. They walked forward between a +shady grove and a purling rivulet, snuffed in odours from the +jessamine banks, and listened to the melody of an adjoining +aviary.</p> +<p>The allurements of the spot seemed to enchain the elder Henry, +and he at length sauntered to the very avenue of the dwelling; +but, just as he had set his daring yet trembling feet upon the +turf which led to the palace gates, he suddenly stopped, on +hearing, as he thought, the village clock strike seven, which +reminded him that evening drew on, and it was time to go. +He listened again, when he and his son, both together, said, +“It is the toll of the bell before some funeral.”</p> +<p>The signals of death, while they humble the rich, inspire the +poor with pride. The passing bell gave Henry a momentary +sense of equality; and he courageously stepped forward to the +first winding of the avenue.</p> +<p>He started back at the sight which presented itself.</p> +<p>A hearse—mourning coaches—mutes—plumed +horses—with every other token of the person’s +importance who was going to be committed to the earth.</p> +<p>Scarcely had his terrified eyes been thus unexpectedly struck, +when a coffin borne by six men issued from the gates, and was +deposited in the waiting receptacle; while gentlemen in mourning +went into the different coaches.</p> +<p>A standard-bearer now appeared with an escutcheon, on which +the keys and mitre were displayed. Young Henry, upon this, +pathetically exclaimed, “My uncle! it is my uncle’s +funeral!”</p> +<p>Henry, his father, burst into tears.</p> +<p>The procession moved along.</p> +<p>The two Henrys, the only real mourners in the train, followed +at a little distance—in rags, but in tears.</p> +<p>The elder Henry’s heart was nearly bursting; he longed +to clasp the dear remains of his brother without the dread of +being spurned for his presumption. He now could no longer +remember him either as the dean or bishop; but, leaping over that +whole interval of pride and arrogance, called only to his memory +William, such as he knew him when they lived at home together, +together walked to London, and there together almost perished for +want.</p> +<p>They arrived at the church; and, while the coffin was placing +in the dreary vault, the weeping brother crept slowly after to +the hideous spot. His reflections now fixed on a different +point. “Is this possible?” said he to +himself. “Is this the dean, whom I ever feared? +Is this the bishop, of whom within the present hour I stood in +awe? Is this William, whose every glance struck me with his +superiority? Alas, my brother! and is this horrid abode the +reward for all your aspiring efforts? Are these sepulchral +trappings the only testimonies of your greatness which you +exhibit to me on my return? Did you foresee an end like +this, while you treated me, and many more of your youthful +companions, with haughtiness and contempt; while you thought it +becoming of your dignity to shun and despise us? Where is +the difference now between my departed wife and you? Or, if +there be a difference, she, perchance, has the advantage. +Ah, my poor brother! for distinction in the other world, I trust, +some of your anxious labours have been employed; for you are now +of less importance in this than when you and I first left our +native town, and hoped for nothing greater than to be suffered to +exist.”</p> +<p>On their quitting the church, they inquired of the bystanders +the immediate cause of the bishop’s death, and heard he had +been suddenly carried off by a raging fever.</p> +<p>Young Henry inquired “if Lady Clementina was at the +palace, or Mr. Norwynne?”</p> +<p>“The latter is there,” he was answered by a poor +woman; “but Lady Clementina has been dead these four +years.”</p> +<p>“Dead! dead!” cried young Henry. “That +worldly woman! quitted this world for ever!”</p> +<p>“Yes,” answered the stranger; “she caught +cold by wearing a new-fashioned dress that did not half cover +her, wasted all away, and died the miserablest object you ever +heard of.”</p> +<p>The person who gave this melancholy intelligence concluded it +with a hearty laugh, which would have surprised the two hearers +if they had not before observed that amongst all the village +crowd that attended to see this solemn show not one afflicted +countenance appeared, not one dejected look, not one watery +eye. The pastor was scarcely known to his flock; it was in +London that his meridian lay, at the levée of ministers, +at the table of peers, at the drawing-rooms of the great; and now +his neglected parishioners paid his indifference in kind.</p> +<p>The ceremony over, and the mourning suite departed, the +spectators dispersed with gibes and jeering faces from the sad +spot; while the Henrys, with heavy hearts, retraced their steps +back towards the palace. In their way, at the crossing of a +stile, they met a poor labourer returning from his day’s +work, who, looking earnestly at the throng of persons who were +leaving the churchyard, said to the elder +Henry—“Pray, master, what are all them folk gathered +together about? What’s the matter there?”</p> +<p>“There has been a funeral,” replied Henry.</p> +<p>“Oh, zooks! what! a burying!—ay, now I see it is; +and I warrant of our old bishop—I heard he was main +ill. It is he they have been putting into the ground! is +not it?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“Why, then, so much the better.”</p> +<p>“The better!” cried Henry.</p> +<p>“Yes, master; though I should be loth to be where he is +now.”</p> +<p>Henry started—“He was your pastor, man!”</p> +<p>“Ha! ha! ha! I should be sorry that my +master’s sheep, that are feeding yonder, should have no +better pastor—the fox would soon get them all.”</p> +<p>“You surely did not know him!”</p> +<p>“Not much, I can’t say I did; for he was above +speaking to poor folks, unless they did any mischief—and +then he was sure to take notice of them.”</p> +<p>“I believe he meant well,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“As to what he meant, God only knows; but I know what he +<i>did</i>.”</p> +<p>“And what did he?”</p> +<p>“Nothing at all for the poor.”</p> +<p>“If any of them applied to him, no +doubt—”</p> +<p>“Oh! they knew better than all that comes to; for if +they asked for anything, he was sure to have them sent to +Bridewell, or the workhouse. He used to say, ‘<i>The +workhouse was a fine place for a poor man</i>—<i>the food +good enough</i>, <i>and enough of it</i>;’ yet he kept a +dainty table himself. His dogs, too, fared better than we +poor. He was vastly tender and good to all his horses and +dogs, I <i>will</i> say that for him; and to all brute beasts: he +would not suffer them to be either starved or struck—but he +had no compassion for his fellow-creatures.”</p> +<p>“I am sensible you do him wrong.”</p> +<p>“That <i>he</i> is the best judge of by this time. +He has sent many a poor man to the house of correction; and now +’tis well if he has not got a place there himself. +Ha, ha, ha!”</p> +<p>The man was walking away, when Henry called to +him—“Pray can you tell me if the bishop’s son +be at the palace?”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes! you’ll find master there treading in the +old man’s shoes, as proud as Lucifer.”</p> +<p>“Has he any children?”</p> +<p>“No, thank God! There’s been enow of the +name; and after the son is gone, I hope we shall have no more of +the breed.”</p> +<p>“Is Mrs. Norwynne, the son’s wife, at the +palace?”</p> +<p>“What, master! did not you know what’s become of +her?”</p> +<p>“Any accident?—”</p> +<p>“Ha, ha, ha! yes. I can’t help +laughing—why, master, she made a mistake, and went to +another man’s bed—and so her husband and she were +parted—and she has married the other man.”</p> +<p>“Indeed!” cried Henry, amazed.</p> +<p>“Ay, indeed; but if it had been my wife or yours, the +bishop would have made her do penance in a white sheet; but as it +was a lady, why, it was all very well—and any one of us, +that had been known to talk about it, would have been sent to +Bridewell straight. But we <i>did</i> talk, +notwithstanding.”</p> +<p>The malicious joy with which the peasant told this story made +Henry believe (more than all the complaints the man uttered) that +there had been want of charity and Christian deportment in the +whole conduct of the bishop’s family. He almost +wished himself back on his savage island, where brotherly love +could not be less than it appeared to be in this civilised +country.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> +<p>As Henry and his son, after parting from the poor labourer, +approached the late bishop’s palace, all the charms of its +magnificence, its situation, which, but a few hours before, had +captivated the elder Henry’s mind, were vanished; and, from +the mournful ceremony he had since been witness of, he now viewed +this noble edifice but as a heap of rubbish piled together to +fascinate weak understandings, and to make even the wise and +religious man, at times, forget why he was sent into this +world.</p> +<p>Instead of presenting themselves to their nephew and cousin, +they both felt an unconquerable reluctance to enter under the +superb, the melancholy, roof. A bank, a hedge, a tree, a +hill, seemed, at this juncture, a pleasanter shelter, and each +felt himself happy in being a harmless wanderer on the face of +the earth rather than living in splendour, while the wants, the +revilings of the hungry and the naked were crying to Heaven for +vengeance.</p> +<p>They gave a heartfelt sigh to the vanity of the rich and the +powerful; and pursued a path where they hoped to meet with virtue +and happiness.</p> +<p>They arrived at Anfield.</p> +<p>Possessed by apprehensions, which his uncle’s funeral +had served to increase, young Henry, as he entered the well-known +village, feared every sound he heard would convey information of +Rebecca’s death. He saw the parsonage house at a +distance, but dreaded to approach it, lest Rebecca should no +longer be an inhabitant. His father indulged him in the +wish to take a short survey of the village, and rather learn by +indirect means, by observation, his fate, than hear it all at +once from the lips of some blunt relater.</p> +<p>Anfield had undergone great changes since Henry left it. +He found some cottages built where formerly there were none; and +some were no more where he had frequently called, and held short +conversations with the poor who dwelt in them. Amongst the +latter number was the house of the parents of Agnes—fallen +to the ground! He wondered to himself where that poor +family had taken up their abode. Henry, in a kinder +world!</p> +<p>He once again cast a look at the old parsonage house: his +inquisitive eye informed him there no alteration had taken place +externally; but he feared what change might be within.</p> +<p>At length he obtained the courage to enter the churchyard in +his way to it. As he slowly and tremblingly moved along, he +stopped to read here and there a gravestone; as mild, instructive +conveyers of intelligence, to which he could attend with more +resignation, than to any other reporter.</p> +<p>The second stone he came to he found was erected <i>To the +memory of the Reverend Thomas Rymer</i>, Rebecca’s +father. He instantly called to mind all that poor +curate’s quick sensibility of wrong towards <i>himself</i>; +his unbridled rage in consequence; and smiled to think; how +trivial now appeared all for which he gave way to such excess of +passion!</p> +<p>But, shocked at the death of one so near to her he loved, he +now feared to read on; and cast his eyes from the tombs +accidentally to the church. Through the window of the +chancel, his sight was struck with a tall monument of large +dimensions, raised since his departure, and adorned with the +finest sculpture. His curiosity was excited—he drew +near, and he could distinguish (followed by elegant poetic +praise) “<i>To the memory of John Lord Viscount +Bendham</i>.”</p> +<p>Notwithstanding the solemn, melancholy, anxious bent of +Henry’s mind, he could not read these words, and behold +this costly fabric, without indulging a momentary fit of +indignant laughter.</p> +<p>“Are sculpture and poetry thus debased,” he cried, +“to perpetuate the memory of a man whose best advantage is +to be forgotten; whose no one action merits record, but as an +example to be shunned?”</p> +<p>An elderly woman, leaning on her staff, now passed along the +lane by the side of the church. The younger Henry accosted +her, and ventured to inquire “where the daughters of Mr. +Rymer, since his death, were gone to live?”</p> +<p>“We live,” she returned, “in that small +cottage across the clover field.”</p> +<p>Henry looked again, and thought he had mistaken the word +<i>we</i>; for he felt assured that he had no knowledge of the +person to whom he spoke.</p> +<p>But she knew him, and, after a pause, +cried—“Ah! Mr. Henry, you are welcome +back. I am heartily glad to see you, and my poor sister +Rebecca will go out of her wits with joy.”</p> +<p>“Is Rebecca living, and will be glad to see me?” +he eagerly asked, while tears of rapture trickled down his +face. “Father,” he continued in his ecstasy, +“we are now come home to be completely happy; and I feel as +if all the years I have been away were but a short week; and as +if all the dangers I have passed had been light as air. But +is it possible,” he cried to his kind informer, “that +you are one of Rebecca’s sisters?”</p> +<p>Well might he ask; for, instead of the blooming woman of +seven-and-twenty he had left her, her colour was gone, her teeth +impaired, her voice broken. She was near fifty.</p> +<p>“Yes, I am one of Mr. Rymer’s daughters,” +she replied.</p> +<p>“But which?” said Henry.</p> +<p>“The eldest, and once called the prettiest,” she +returned: “though now people tell me I am altered; yet I +cannot say I see it myself.”</p> +<p>“And are you all living?” Henry inquired.</p> +<p>“All but one: she married and died. The other +three, on my father’s death, agreed to live together, and +knit or spin for our support. So we took that small +cottage, and furnished it with some of the parsonage furniture, +as you shall see; and kindly welcome I am sure you will be to all +it affords, though that is but little.”</p> +<p>As she was saying this, she led him through the clover field +towards the cottage. His heart rebounded with joy that +Rebecca was there: yet, as he walked he shuddered at the +impression which he feared the first sight of her would +make. He feared, what he imagined (till he had seen this +change in her sister) he should never heed. He feared +Rebecca would look no longer young. He was not yet so far +master over all his sensual propensities as, when the trial came, +to think he could behold her look like her sister, and not give +some evidence of his disappointment.</p> +<p>His fears were vain. On entering the gate of their +little garden, Rebecca rushed from the house to meet them: just +the same Rebecca as ever.</p> +<p>It was her mind, which beaming on her face, and actuating her +every motion, had ever constituted all her charms: it was her +mind which had gained her Henry’s affection. That +mind had undergone no change; and she was the self-same woman he +had left her.</p> +<p>He was entranced with joy.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> +<p>The fare which the Henrys partook at the cottage of the female +Rymers was such as the sister had described—mean, and even +scanty; but this did not in the least diminish the happiness they +received in meeting, for the first time since their arrival in +England, human beings who were glad to see them.</p> +<p>At a stinted repast of milk and vegetables, by the glimmering +light of a little brushwood on the hearth, they yet could feel +themselves comparatively blest, while they listened to the +recital of afflictions which had befallen persons around that +very neighbourhood, for whom every delicious viand had been +procured to gratify the taste, every art devised to delight the +other senses.</p> +<p>It was by the side of this glimmering fire that Rebecca and +her sisters told the story of poor Agnes’s fate, and of the +thorn it had for ever planted in William’s bosom—of +his reported sleepless, perturbed nights; and his gloomy, or +half-distracted days; when in the fullness of <i>remorse</i>, he +has complained—“of a guilty conscience! of the +weariness attached to a continued prosperity! the misery of +wanting an object of affection.”</p> +<p>They told of Lord Bendham’s death from the effects of +intemperance; from a mass of blood infected by high-seasoned +dishes, mixed with copious draughts of wine—repletion of +food and liquor, not less fatal to the existence of the rich than +the want of common sustenance to the lives of the poor.</p> +<p>They told of Lady Bendham’s ruin, since her lord’s +death, by gaming. They told, “that now she suffered +beyond the pain of common indigence by the cutting triumph of +those whom she had formerly despised.”</p> +<p>They related (what has been told before) the divorce of +William, and the marriage of his wife with a libertine; the +decease of Lady Clementina, occasioned by that incorrigible +vanity which even old age could not subdue.</p> +<p>After numerous other examples had been recited of the dangers, +the evils that riches draw upon their owner; the elder Henry rose +from his chair, and embracing Rebecca and his son, +said—“How much indebted are we to Providence, my +children, who, while it inflicts poverty, bestows peace of mind; +and in return for the trivial grief we meet in this world, holds +out to our longing hopes the reward of the next!”</p> +<p>Not only resigned, but happy in their station, with hearts +made cheerful rather than dejected by attentive meditation, Henry +and his son planned the means of their future support, +independent of their kinsman William—nor only of him, but +of every person and thing but their own industry.</p> +<p>“While I have health and strength,” cried the old +man, and his son’s looks acquiesced in all the father said, +“I will not take from any one in affluence what only +belongs to the widow, the fatherless, and the infirm; for to such +alone, by Christian laws—however custom may subvert +them—the overplus of the rich is due.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> +<p>By forming a humble scheme for their remaining life, a scheme +depending upon their <i>own</i> exertions alone, on no light +promises of pretended friends, and on no sanguine hopes of +certain success, but with prudent apprehension, with fortitude +against disappointment, Henry, his son, and Rebecca (now his +daughter), found themselves, at the end of one year, in the +enjoyment of every comfort with such distinguished minds knew how +to taste.</p> +<p>Exempt both from patronage and from +control—healthy—alive to every fruition with which +Nature blesses the world; dead to all out of their power to +attain, the works of art—susceptible of those passions with +endear human creatures one to another, insensible to those which +separate man from man—they found themselves the thankful +inhabitants of a small house, or hut, placed on the borders of +the sea.</p> +<p>Each morning wakes the father and the son to cheerful labour +in fishing, or the tending of a garden, the produce of which they +carry to the next market town. The evening sends them back +to their home in joy: where Rebecca meets them at the door, +affectionately boasts of the warm meal that is ready, and +heightens the charm of conversation with her taste and +judgment.</p> +<p>It was after a supper of roots from their garden, poultry that +Rebecca’s hand had reared, and a jug brewed by young Henry, +that the following discourse took place.</p> +<p>“My son,” said the elder Henry, “where under +Heaven shall three persons be met together happy as we three +are? It is the want of industry, or the want of reflection, +which makes the poor dissatisfied. Labour gives a value to +rest which the idle can never taste; and reflection gives to the +mind a degree of content which the unthinking never can +know.”</p> +<p>“I once,” replied the younger Henry, +“considered poverty a curse; but after my thoughts became +enlarged, and I had associated for years with the rich, and now +mix with the poor, my opinion has undergone a total change; for I +have seen, and have enjoyed, more real pleasure at work with my +fellow-labourers, and in this cottage, than ever I beheld, or +experienced, during my abode at my uncle’s; during all my +intercourse with the fashionable and the powerful of this +world.”</p> +<p>“The worst is,” said Rebecca, “the poor have +not always enough.”</p> +<p>“Who has enough?” asked her husband. +“Had my uncle? No: he hoped for more; and in all his +writings sacrificed his duty to his avarice. Had his son +enough, when he yielded up his honour, his domestic peace, to +gratify his ambition? Had Lady Bendham enough, when she +staked all she had, in the hope of becoming richer? Were +we, my Rebecca, of discontented minds, we have now too +little. But conscious, from observation and experience, +that the rich are not so happy as ourselves, we rejoice in our +lot.”</p> +<p>The tear of joy which stole from her eye expressed, more than +his words, a state of happiness.</p> +<p>He continued: “I remember, when I first came a boy to +England, the poor excited my compassion; but now that my judgment +is matured, I pity the rich. I know that in this opulent +kingdom there are nearly as many persons perishing through +intemperance as starving with hunger; there are as many miserable +in the lassitude of having nothing to do as there are of those +bowed down to the earth with hard labour; there are more persons +who draw upon themselves calamity by following their own will +than there are who experience it by obeying the will of +another. Add to this, that the rich are so much afraid of +dying they have no comfort in living.”</p> +<p>“There the poor have another advantage,” said +Rebecca; “for they may defy not only death, but every loss +by sea or land, as they have nothing to lose.”</p> +<p>“Besides,” added the elder Henry, “there is +a certain joy of the most gratifying kind that the human mind is +capable of tasting, peculiar to the poor, and of which the rich +can but seldom experience the delight.”</p> +<p>“What can that be?” cried Rebecca.</p> +<p>“A kind word, a benevolent smile, one token of esteem +from the person whom we consider as our superior.”</p> +<p>To which Rebecca replied, “And the rarity of obtaining +such a token is what increases the honour.”</p> +<p>“Certainly,” returned young Henry, “and yet +those in poverty, ungrateful as they are, murmur against that +Government from which they receive the blessing.”</p> +<p>“But this is the fault of education, of early +prejudice,” said the elder Henry. “Our children +observe us pay respect, even reverence, to the wealthy, while we +slight or despise the poor. The impression thus made on +their minds in youth is indelible during the more advanced +periods of life; and they continue to pine after riches, and +lament under poverty: nor is the seeming folly wholly destitute +of reason; for human beings are not yet so deeply sunk in +voluptuous gratification, or childish vanity, as to place delight +in any attainment which has not for its end the love or +admiration of their fellow-beings.”</p> +<p>“Let the poor, then,” cried the younger Henry, +“no more be their own persecutors—no longer pay +homage to wealth—instantaneously the whole idolatrous +worship will cease—the idol will be broken!”</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NATURE AND ART***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3787-h.htm or 3787-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/8/3787 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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