When they arrived near the place of her destination, Agnes stopped, and told the cottager that they must part.—"So much the worse," said the good man: "I do now know how it is, but you are so sorrowful, yet so kind and gentle, somehow, that both my wife and I have taken a liking to you:—you must not be angry, but we cannot help thinking you are not one of us, but a lady, though you are so disguised and so humble;—but misfortune spares no one, you know."
Agnes, affected and gratified by these artless expressions of good will, replied, "I have, indeed, known better days…."—"And will again, I hope with all my heart and soul," interrupted the cottager with great warmth.—"I fear, not," replied Agnes, "my dear worthy friend."—"Nay, young lady," rejoined he, "my wife and I are proper to be your servants, not friends."—"You are my friends, perhaps my only friends," returned Agnes mournfully: "perhaps there is not, at this moment, another hand in the universe that would not reject mine, or another tongue that would not upbraid me."—"They must be hard-hearted wretches, indeed, who could upbraid a poor woman for her misfortunes," cried the cottager: "however, you shall never want a friend while I live. You know I saved your life; and somehow, I feel therefore as if you belonged to me. I once saved one of my pigeons from a hawk, and I believe, were I starving, I could not now bear to kill the little creature; it would seem like eating my own flesh and blood—so I am sure I could never desert you."—"You have not yet heard my story," replied Agnes: "but you shall know who I am soon; and then, if you still feel disposed to offer me your friendship, I shall be proud to accept it."
The house to which Agnes was hastening was that of her nurse, from whom she had always experienced the affection of a mother, and hoped now to receive a temporary asylum; but she might not be living—and, with a beating heart, Agnes knocked at the door. It was opened by Fanny, her nurse's daughter, the play-fellow of Agnes's childhood.—"Thank Heaven!" said Agnes, as she hastened back to the cottager, "I hope I have, at least, one friend left;" and telling him he might go home again, as she was almost certain of shelter for the night, the poor man shook her heartily by the hand, prayed God to bless her, and departed.
Agnes then returned to Fanny, who was still standing by the door, wondering who had knocked at so late an hour, and displeased at being kept so long in the cold.—"Will you admit me, Fanny, and give me shelter for the night?" said Agnes in a faint and broken voice.—"Gracious Heaven! who are you?" cried Fanny, starting back. "Do you not know me?" she replied, looking earnestly in her face.—Fanny again started; then, bursting into tears, as she drew Agnes forward, and closed the door—"O God! it is my dear young lady!"—"And are you sorry to see me?" replied Agnes.—"Sorry!" answered the other—"Oh, no! but to see you thus!—O! my dear lady, what you must have suffered! Thank Heaven my poor mother is not alive to see this day!"
"And is she dead?" cried Agnes, turning very faint, and catching hold of a chair to keep her from falling. "Then is the measure of my affliction full: I have lost my oldest and best friend!"—"I am not dead," said Fanny respectfully.—"Excellent, kind creature!" continued Agnes, "I hoped so much alleviation of my misery from her affection."—"Do you hope none from mine?" rejoined Fanny in a tone of reproach:—"Indeed, my dear young lady, I love you as well as my mother did, and will do as much for you as she would have done. Do I not owe all I have to you? and now that you are in trouble, perhaps in want too—But no, that cannot and shall not be," wringing her hands and pacing the room with frantic violence: "I can't bear to think of such a thing. That ever I should live to see my dear young lady in want of the help which she was always so ready to give!"
Agnes tried to comfort her: but the sight of her distress notwithstanding was soothing to her, as it convinced her that she was still dear to one pure and affectionate heart.
During this time little Edward remained covered up so closely that Fanny did not know what the bundle was that Agnes held in her lap: but when she lifted up the cloak that concealed him, Fanny was in an instant kneeling by his side, and gazing on him with admiration. "Is it—is it—" said Fanny with hesitation—"It is my child," replied Agnes, sighing; and Fanny lavished on the unconscious boy the caresses which respect forbade her to bestow on the mother.
"Fanny," said Agnes, "you say nothing of your husband?"—"He is dead," replied Fanny with emotion.—"Have you any children?"—"None."—"Then will you promise me, if I die, to be a mother to this child?"—Fanny seized her hand, and, in a voice half choked by sobs, said, "I promise you."—"Enough," cried Agnes; then holding out her arms to her humble friend, Fanny's respect yielded to affection, and, falling on Agnes's neck, she sobbed aloud.
"My dear Fanny," said Agnes, "I have a question to ask, and I charge you to answer it truly."—"Do not ask me, do not ask me, for indeed I dare not answer you," replied Fanny in great agitation. Agnes guessed the cause, and hastened to tell her that the question was not concerning her father, as she was acquainted with his situation already, and proceeded to ask whether her elopement and ill conduct had at all hastened the death of her nurse, who was in ill health when she went away.—"Oh no," replied Fanny; "she never believed that you could be gone off willingly, but was sure you was spirited away; and she died expecting that you would some day return, and take the law of the villain: and no doubt she was right, (though nobody thinks so now but me,) for you were always too good to do wrong."
Agnes was too honourable to take to herself the merit which she did not deserve: she therefore owned that she was indeed guilty; "nor should I," she added, "have dared to intrude myself on you, or solicit you to let me remain under your roof, were I not severely punished for my crime, and resolved to pass the rest of my days in solitude and labour."—"You should not presume to intrude yourself on me!" replied Fanny—"Do not talk thus, if you do not mean to break my heart."—"Nay, Fanny," answered Agnes, "it would be presumption in any woman who has quitted the path of virtue to intrude herself, however high her rank might be, on the meanest of her acquaintance whose honour is spotless. Nor would I thus throw myself on your generosity were I not afraid that, if I were to be unsoothed by the presence of a sympathizing friend, I should sink beneath my sorrows, and want resolution to fulfill the hard task which my duty enjoins me."