“What is that lovely cottage—what are the choicest flowers of that garden, in comparison with thy love, my dearest—dearest mother?” exclaimed Agnes: “and, oh! if I must decide between you, on the one hand, and my father on the other——And yet he has been so kind—so very kind to me—that it goes to my very heart——”
“Agnes—Agnes—you love your father better than me!” exclaimed the mother, in a voice of the most piercing, rending anguish. “But it is natural—oh! it is natural—for you never knew me until now—at least not since your infancy! Yes, it is natural, I say! Oh! fool that I was to hope that you could love me well enough to consent to dwell beneath my roof in future! No—no—it is impossible: I see it all, Agnes—you would be wretched—miserable, were you to part from your father! I will take you back to your cottage, then, my child—I will leave you then—and we must separate upon its threshold, never—never to meet again, perhaps, in this life!”
“No, dearest mother—speak not thus despairingly—or you will kill me—you will break my heart!” cried Agnes, her voice choking with sobs. “You are unhappy—and it is my duty to remain with you——Oh! and God forgive me for saying it, if it be a crime—but—but—it is also my wish!”
And with these words, the maiden again threw herself upon her mother’s bosom and wept plenteously, while her arms clasped that parent’s neck with almost convulsive violence—as if she feared to lose her.
“Now, Agnes, I am happy—oh! supremely happy!” exclaimed the fond woman. “You will remain with me—and I shall not again submit your feelings to a painful test by proposing the alternatives which have already rent your bosom. Listen, however, to me for a short space. I am a lonely and desolate woman, and have experienced a recent affliction of an almost overpowering nature. Indeed, I should have succumbed beneath its weight, had not accident—an accident of a most extraordinary character—last night revealed to me the place where you dwelt in such seclusion. Then I suddenly felt that I had something worth living for—and I came to you this evening, with the hope of seeing you—yes—and also with the hope of inducing you to accompany me, that we might dwell together in future. For, oh! Agnes, you cannot divine how tender—how lasting—how invincible is the love of a mother for her child. Years and years have passed since I saw you; and I have pictured to myself my darling daughter growing up in beauty and in virtue—endowed with elegant accomplishments, and trained in all that she ought to learn or that would become her—save a knowledge of her mother! Now, my dearest Agnes, you repay me for that immense—that boundless love which I have ever cherished for you: now you reward me for the anxious years—the age of sorrow, as I may term the period which has elapsed, for me, between your infancy and the present time. Your father is rich—is possessed of many resources for recreation and pleasure in the world, which a woman cannot enjoy. He has many, many friends;—and, deeply though he loves you, he will not miss you so much as I have missed you, and should miss you still, were you now to be separated from me. It is, then, a mother who implores her daughter to give her a daughter’s love—to yield her a daughter’s affection—and perform towards her a daughter’s duty. All this, my Agnes, I see that you are prepared to accomplish—even at the sacrifice of your feelings in respect to your sire. Moreover, that sire has been blessed with your smiles ever since your birth—or at least has had you under his guardianship and control: and now—oh! now, am I asking too much when I beseech you to devote a few years of love to me,—to me who am your mother—who am unhappy—and who, without you, should now feel so lonely and desolate that the sooner the cold grave were to close over me, the better!”
“I will not leave you—I will die sooner!” murmured Agnes, her eyes streaming and her bosom heaving with convulsive sobs. “But you will not leave my father—nor that kind and good Mrs. Gifford—in ignorance of what has become of me?”
“I could not be guilty of such cruelty, my darling child,” responded the mother. “And now,” she continued, after a rapid glance from the window of the vehicle, which was at this moment passing by Kennington Common,—“and now listen again to what I have to say to you. My own house is in the northern suburb of London; and it is possible that Mrs. Gifford may be acquainted with the place of my abode. I know not whether she be; and I should conceive that she is not—nevertheless, there is the possibility, as I observed—and, in that case, she would adopt measures to tear you from my arms. For this night, then, you must consent to remain at the house of some ladies of my acquaintance. They will take care of you—they will be rejoiced to have you with them, though only for a few hours; and by to-morrow evening I shall have a dwelling fitted up for our reception. It is my intention to give up my villa which I now possess—and I know of a sweet cottage, with a beautiful garden, in the neighbourhood of Bayswater, which I shall hire at once. All these arrangements can be effected in the course of to-morrow—for by means of money incredible things are accomplished in London.”
“Be it as you say, my dear mother,” observed Agnes. “But you will remain with me this night?—you will not leave me with strangers?” she exclaimed anxiously.
“Certainly, my child, if you wish it, I will stay with you,” returned her mother. “Listen, however, to me once again. The friends in whose care I propose to place you, are two elderly ladles, who will receive you as the daughter of one whom they sincerely love—for they are as devoted to me as if I were a near and dear relative, and are acquainted with much that concerns me. You will be as safe in their charge as if I myself were with you: for, remember,—by to-morrow night I must have a home—a good home—prepared for my Agnes,—and it will occupy me until a late hour this night to make the arrangements for the removal of all my furniture and other property in the morning. In addition to all this, Agnes, I should be compelled in any case to return to my house this evening,—as there may be a communication of importance for me there,—a communication from a generous friend—noble by nature as well as by name—and who is interesting himself for me and for another——”
“Say no more, my dearest parent,” interrupted Agnes. “I am ready to obey you in all things and to follow your counsel: but promise to return and take me away with you as early as you can to-morrow,” she added imploringly.