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