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.
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."
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.