<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>
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