, 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 th