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<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> Summer arrived, and lords and ladies, who had partaken of all the dissipation of the town, whom opera-houses, gaming-houses, and various other houses had detained whole nights from their peaceful home, were now poured forth from the metropolis, to imbibe the wholesome air of the farmer and peasant, and disseminate, in return, moral and religious principles. Among the rest, Lord and Lady Bendham, strenuous opposers of vice in the poor, and gentle supporters of it in the rich, never played at cards, or had concerts on a Sunday, in the village, where the poor were spies—he, there, never gamed, nor drank, except in private, and she banished from her doors every woman of sullied character.  Yet poverty and idiotism are not the same.  The poor can hear, can talk, sometimes can reflect; servants will tell their equals how they live in town; listeners will smile and shake their heads; and thus hypocrisy, instead of cultivating, destroys every seed of moral virtue. The arrival of Lord Bendham’s family at Anfield announced to the village that the dean’s would quickly follow.  Rebecca’s heart bounded with joy at the prospect.  Poor Agnes felt a sinking, a foreboding tremor, that wholly interrupted the joy of her expectations.  She had not heard from William for five tedious months.  She did not know whether he loved or despised, whether he thought of or had forgotten her.  Her reason argued against the hope that he loved her; yet hope still subsisted.  She would not abandon herself to despair while there was doubt.  She “had frequently been deceived by the appearance of circumstances; and perhaps he might come all kindness—perhaps, even not like her the less for that indisposition which had changed her bloom to paleness, and the sparkling of her eyes to a pensive languor.” Henry’s sensations, on his return to Anfield, were the self-same as Rebecca’s were; sympathy in thought, sympathy in affection, sympathy in virtue made them so.  As he approached near the little village, he felt more light than usual.  He had committed no trespass there, dreaded no person’s reproach or inquiries; but his arrival might prove, at least to one object, the cause of rejoicing. William’s sensations were the reverse of these.  In spite of his ambition, and the flattering view of one day accomplishing all to which it aspired, he often, as they proceeded on their journey, envied the gaiety of Henry, and felt an inward monitor that told him “he must first act like Henry, to be as happy.” His intended marriage was still, to the families of both parties (except to the heads of the houses), a profound secret.  Neither the servants, nor even Henry, had received the slightest intimation of the designed alliance; and this to William was matter of some comfort. When men submit to act in contradiction to their principles, nothing is so precious as a secret.  In their estimation, to have their conduct known is the essential mischief.  While it is hid, they fancy the sin but half committed; and to the moiety of a crime they reconcile their feelings, till, in progression, the whole, when disclosed, appears trivial.  He designed that Agnes should receive the news from himself by degrees, and in such a manner as to console her, or at least to silence her complaints; and with the wish to soften the regret which he still felt on the prudent necessity of yielding her wholly up when his marriage should take place, he promised to himself some intervening hours of private meetings, which he hoped would produce satiety. While Henry flew to Mr. Rymer’s house with a conscience clear, and a face enlightened with gladness—while he met Rebecca with open-hearted friendship and frankness, which charmed her soul to peaceful happiness—William skulked around the cottage of Agnes, dreading detection; and when, towards midnight, he found the means to obtain the company of the sad inhabitant, he grew so impatient at her tears and sobs, at the delicacy with which she withheld her caresses, that he burst into bitter upbraidings at her coyness, and at length (without discovering the cause of her peculiar agitation and reserve) abruptly left her vowing “never to see her more.” As he turned away, his heart even congratulated him “that he had made so discreet a use of his momentary disappointment, as thus to shake her off at once without further explanation or excuse.” She, ignorant and illiterate as she was, knew enough of her own heart to judge of his, and to know that such violent affections and expressions, above all, such a sudden, heart-breaking manner of departure, were not the effects of love, nor even of humanity.  She felt herself debased by a ruffian—yet still, having loved him when she thought him a far different character, the blackest proof of the deception could not cause a sentiment formed whilst she was deceived. She passed the remainder of the night in anguish: but with the cheerful morning some cheery thoughts consoled her.  She thought “perhaps William by this time had found himself to blame; had conceived the cause of her grief and her distant behaviour, and had pitied her.” The next evening she waited, with anxious heart, for the signal that had called her out the foregoing night.  In vain she watched, counted the hours, and the stars, and listened to the nightly stillness of the fields around: they were not disturbed by the tread of her lover.  Daylight came; the sun rose in its splendour: William had not been near her, and it shone upon none so miserable as Agnes. She now considered his word, “never to see her more,” as solemnly passed: she heard anew the impressive, the implacable tone in which the sentence was pronounced; and could look back on no late token of affection on which to found the slightest hope that he would recall it. Still, reluctant to despair—in the extremity of grief, in the extremity of fear for an approaching crisis which must speedily arrive, she (after a few days had elapsed) trusted a neighbouring peasant with a letter to deliver to Mr. Norwynne in private. This letter, unlike the last, was dictated without the hope to please: no pains were taken with the style, no care in the formation of the letters: the words flowed from necessity; strong necessity guided her hand. <blockquote>“Sir,—I beg your pardon—pray don’t forsake me all at once—see me one time more—I have something to tell you—it is what I dare tell nobody else—and what I am ashamed to tell you—yet pray give me a word of advice—what to do I don’t know—I then will part, if you please, never to trouble you, never any more—but hope to part friends—pray do, if you please—and see me one time more. “Your obedient, “A. P.” </blockquote> These incorrect, inelegant lines produced this immediate reply <blockquote>“TO AGNES PRIMROSE. “I have often told you, that my honour is as dear to me as my life: my word is a part of that honour—you heard me say I would never see you again.  I shall keep my word.” </blockquote> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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