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<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> Absence is said to increase strong and virtuous love, but to destroy that which is weak and sensual.  In the parallel between young William and young Henry, this was the case; for Henry’s real love increased, while William’s turbulent passion declined in separation: yet had the latter not so much abated that he did not perceive a sensation, like a sudden shock of sorrow, on a proposal made him by his father, of entering the marriage state with a young woman, the dependent niece of Lady Bendham; who, as the dean informed him, had signified her lord’s and her own approbation of his becoming their nephew. At the first moment William received this intimation from his father, his heart revolted with disgust from the object, and he instantly thought upon Agnes with more affection than he had done for many weeks before.  This was from the comparison between her and his proposed wife; for he had frequently seen Miss Sedgeley at Lord Bendham’s, but had never seen in her whole person or manners the least attraction to excite his love.  He pictured to himself an unpleasant home, with a companion so little suited to his taste, and felt a pang of conscience, as well as of attachment, in the thought of giving up for ever his poor Agnes. But these reflections, these feelings, lasted only for the moment.  No sooner had the dean explained why the marriage was desirable, recited what great connections and what great patronage it would confer upon their family, than William listened with eagerness, and both his love and his conscience were, if not wholly quieted, at least for the present hushed. Immediately after the dean had expressed to Lord and Lady Bendham his son’s “sense of the honour and the happiness conferred on him, by their condescension in admitting him a member of their noble family,” Miss Sedgeley received from her aunt nearly the same shock as William had done from his father.  For she (placed in the exact circumstance of her intended husband) had frequently seen the dean’s son at Lord Bendham’s, but had never see in his whole person or manners the least attraction to excite her love.  She pictured to herself an unpleasant home, with a companion so little suited to her taste; and at this moment she felt a more than usual partiality to the dean’s nephew, finding the secret hope she had long indulged of winning his affections so near being thwarted. But Miss Sedgeley was too much subjected to the power of her uncle and aunt to have a will of her own, at least, to dare to utter it.  She received the commands of Lady Bendham with her accustomed submission, while all the consolation for the grief they gave her was, “that she resolved to make a very bad wife.” “I shall not care a pin for my husband,” said she to herself; “and so I will dress and visit, and do just as I like; he dare not be unkind because of my aunt.  Besides, now I think again, it is not so disagreeable to marry him as if I were obliged to marry into any other family, because I shall see his cousin Henry as often, if not oftener than ever.” For Miss Sedgeley—whose person he did not like, and with her mind thus disposed—William began to force himself to shake off every little remaining affection, even all pity, for the unfortunate, the beautiful, the sensible, the doating Agnes; and determined to place in a situation to look down with scorn upon her sorrows, this weak, this unprincipled woman. Connections, interest, honours, were powerful advocates.  His private happiness William deemed trivial compared to public opinion; and to be under obligations to a peer, his wife’s relation, gave greater renown in his servile mind than all the advantages which might accrue from his own intrinsic independent worth. In the usual routine of pretended regard and real indifference—sometimes disgust—between parties allied by what is falsely termed prudence, the intended union of Mr. Norwynne with Miss Sedgeley proceeded in all due form; and at their country seats at Anfield, during the summer, their nuptials were appointed to be celebrated. William was now introduced into all Lord Bendham’s courtly circles.  His worldly soul was entranced in glare and show; he thought of nothing but places, pensions, titles, retinues; and steadfast, alert, unshaken in the pursuit of honours, neglected not the lesser means of rising to preferment—his own endowments.  But in this round of attention to pleasures and to study, he no more complained to Agnes of “excess of business.”  Cruel as she had once thought that letter in which he thus apologised for slighting her, she at last began to think it was wondrous kind, for he never found time to send her another.  Yet she had studied with all her most anxious care to write him an answer; such a one as might not lessen her understanding, which he had often praised, in his esteem. Ah, William! even with less anxiety your beating, ambitious heart panted for the admiration of an attentive auditory, when you first ventured to harangue in public!  With far less hope and fear (great as yours were) did you first address a crowded court, and thirst for its approbation on your efforts, than Agnes sighed for your approbation when she took a pen and awkwardly scrawled over a sheet of paper.  Near twenty times she began, but to a gentleman—and one she loved like William—what could she dare to say?  Yet she had enough to tell, if shame had not interposed, or if remaining confidence in his affection had but encouraged her. Overwhelmed by the first, and deprived of the last, her hand shook, her head drooped, and she dared not communicate what she knew must inevitably render her letter unpleasing, and still more depreciate her in his regard, as the occasion of encumbrance, and of injury to his moral reputation. Her free, her liberal, her venturous spirit subdued, intimidated by the force of affection, she only wrote— <blockquote>“Sir,—I am sorry you have so much to do, and should be ashamed if you put it off to write to me.  I have not been at all well this winter.  I never before passed such a one in all my life, and I hope you will never know such a one yourself in regard to not being happy.  I should be sorry if you did—think I would rather go through it again myself than you should.  I long for the summer, the fields are so green, and everything so pleasant at that time of the year.  I always do long for the summer, but I think never so much in my life as for this that is coming; though sometimes I wish that last summer had never come.  Perhaps you wish so too; and that this summer would not come either. “Hope you will excuse all faults, as I never learnt but one month. “Your obedient humble servant, “A. P.” </blockquote> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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