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<h2>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> The progressive rise of William and fall of Agnes had now occupied nearly the term of eighteen years.  Added to these, another year elapsed before the younger Henry completed the errand on which his heart was fixed, and returned to England.  Shipwreck, imprisonment, and other ills to which the poor and unfriended traveller is peculiarly exposed, detained the father and son in various remote regions until the present period; and, for the last fifteen years, denied them the means of all correspondence with their own country. The elder Henry was now past sixty years of age, and the younger almost beyond the prime of life.  Still length of time had not diminished, but rather had increased, their anxious longings for their native home. The sorrows, disappointments, and fatigues, which, throughout these tedious years, were endured by the two Henrys, are of that dull monotonous kind of suffering better omitted than described—mere repetitions of the exile’s woe, that shall give place to the transporting joy of return from banishment!  Yet, often as the younger had reckoned, with impatient wishes, the hours which were passed distant from her he loved, no sooner was his disastrous voyage at an end, no sooner had his feet trod upon the shore of Britain, than a thousand wounding fears made him almost doubt whether it were happiness or misery he had obtained by his arrival.  If Rebecca were living, he knew it must be happiness; for his heart dwelt with confidence on her faith, her unchanging sentiments.  “But death might possibly have ravished from his hopes what no mortal power could have done.”  And thus the lover creates a rival in every ill, rather than suffer his fears to remain inanimate. The elder Henry had less to fear or to hope than his son; yet he both feared and hoped with a sensibility that gave him great anxiety.  He hoped his brother would receive him with kindness, after his long absence, and once more take his son cordially to his favour.  He longed impatiently to behold his brother; to see his nephew; nay, in the ardour of the renewed affection he just now felt, he thought even a distant view of Lady Clementina would be grateful to his sight!  But still, well remembering the pomp, the state, the pride of William, he could not rely on his affection, so much he knew that it depended on external circumstances to excite or to extinguish his love.  Not that he feared an absolute repulsion from his brother; but he feared, what, to a delicate mind, is still worse—reserved manners, cold looks, absent sentences, and all that cruel retinue of indifference with which those who are beloved so often wound the bosom that adores them. By inquiring of their countrymen (whom they met as they approached to the end of their voyage), concerning their relation the dean, the two Henrys learned that he was well, and had for some years past been exalted to the bishopric of ---.  This news gave them joy, while it increased their fear of not receiving an affectionate welcome. The younger Henry, on his landing, wrote immediately to his uncle, acquainting him with his father’s arrival in the most abject state of poverty; he addressed his letter to the bishop’s country residence, where he knew, as it was the summer season, he would certainly be.  He and his father then set off on foot towards that residence—a palace! The bishop’s palace was not situated above fifty miles from the port where they had landed; and at a small inn about three miles from the bishop’s they proposed (as the letter to him intimated) to wait for his answer before they intruded into his presence. As they walked on their solitary journey, it was some small consolation that no creature knew them. “To be poor and ragged, father,” the younger smilingly said, “is no disgrace, no shame, thank Heaven, where the object is not known.” “True, my son,” replied Henry; “and perhaps I feel myself much happier now, unknowing and unknown to all but you, than I shall in the presence of my fortunate brother and his family; for there, confusion at my ill success through life may give me greater pain than even my misfortunes have inflicted.” After uttering this reflection which had preyed upon his mind, he sat down on the road side to rest his agitated limbs before he could proceed farther.  His son reasoned with him—gave him courage; and now his hopes preponderated, till, after two days’ journey, on arriving at the inn where an answer from the bishop was expected, no letter, no message had been left. “He means to renounce us,” said Henry, trembling, and whispering to his son. Without disclosing to the people of the house who they were, or from whom the letter or the message they inquired for was to have come, they retired, and consulted what steps they were now to pursue. Previously to his writing to the bishop, the younger Henry’s heart, all his inclinations, had swayed him towards a visit to the village in which was his uncle’s former country-seat, the beloved village of Anfield, but respect to him and duty to his father had made him check those wishes; now they revived again, and, with the image of Rebecca before his eyes, he warmly entreated his father to go with him to Anfield, at present only thirty miles distant, and thence write once more; then again wait the will of his uncle. The father consented to this proposal, even glad to postpone the visit to his dignified brother. After a scanty repast, such as they had been long inured to, they quitted the inn, and took the road towards Anfield. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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