CHAPTER CLXXII.

A MAIDEN’S FIRST LOVE.

The day, the incidents of which we are describing, and which are so

numerous and diversified, was destined to be a memorable one in the

life of Agnes Vernon.

The young maiden, on abruptly quitting Mrs. Mortimer, returned to the

cottage; and, seating herself at the table in the elegant parlour,

she arranged her drawing materials with the intention of continuing a

landscape which she had commenced a few days previously.

But she was unsettled and restless: new sensations stole upon her--new

feelings were excited in her bosom.

The solitude of the cottage suddenly appeared to be irksome; and she

felt discontented with her condition--she knew not why.

Laying down her pencil, she rose from her seat, approached the window,

and gazed forth upon the open country.

A carriage passed by: in it were two young ladies and two young

gentlemen--and they were all in high spirits, conversing cheerfully and

laughing gaily. Agnes sighed--for the thought struck her that she too

might be happy, and she too might laugh gaily, if she only had friends

and companions!

Presently a lady and gentleman, each on horseback, passed along the

road in front of the cottage. They were proceeding at a very gentle

pace, and were engaged in conversation. The veil was raised from the

fair Amazon’s countenance, and was thrown back over her riding-hat;

her cheeks were blooming with a carnation tinge, and her eyes were

bent with melting tenderness on her companion, whose face was turned

towards her, and whose language was doubtless pleasing to her ears.

The countenance of that lady indicated such real pleasure--denoted

such pure and genuine happiness, that again did a sigh escape from the

bosom of Agnes Vernon, as she marvelled why she herself was retained

in the prisonage of solitude, while other maidens of her own age had

their acquaintances and their associates, and were allowed to divert

themselves in walking or riding about the rural lanes and the roads

that stretched amidst the green fields.

Never before had anything in the form of repining--never until this

time had a sentiment partaking of discontent, arisen in the breast

of Agnes Vernon. She endeavoured to conquer the feeling: she turned

away from the window and played with a beautiful canary bird that

fluttered from its perch towards the front of its handsome cage the

moment she approached it;--but its chirping sounded no longer as sweet

music in her ears--and, in the natural goodness of her gentle soul,

she reproached herself for her indifference to the joyous testimonials

offered by the little feathered chorister to its mistress.

She resumed her seat, and once more directed her attention to her

drawing: but she felt in no humour for an employment that until now was

amongst her most favourite recreations. Closing her portfolio, she took

up “Ivanhoe,” in order to read the concluding pages of the tale: she

however found her thoughts speedily wandering to other subjects,--the

letter of Lord William Trevelyan--the discourse of Mrs. Mortimer--and

the abrupt termination of her interview with that female. Throwing

aside the book, she seated herself at the piano, and ran her taper

fingers over the keys: but the music had no cheering influence upon

her--produced no soothing effect on her restless soul.

Vexed and annoyed with herself for what she could not help, and almost

alarmed at the change which had come over her, despite of her exertions

to the contrary, the bewildered maiden returned to the garden and

gathered fresh flowers wherewith to fill the vases in the parlour:

but the tulip seemed less beautiful, the rose less fragrant, and the

pink less sweet than she had ever before known them;--and her task was

accomplished hurriedly and even neglectfully.

At length she sought an arbour in the most shady and retired part of

the garden; and there--alone with her own thoughts--she fell into a

profound reverie upon her secluded life, the mystery that enveloped her

condition, the letter of Lord William Trevelyan, and the explanations

that Mrs. Mortimer had given her respecting the passion of love.

For, oh! the gentle Agnes loved now:--hence this restlessness--hence

this change which had come upon her!

She did not blame herself for the part she had enacted in respect

to Trevelyan’s letter: her conscience told her that she had behaved

with prudence and propriety;--but she was grieved to think that any

words which had fallen from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer should have cast

suspicion upon the sincerity of the individual who had penned the

contents of that missive.

Then she thought within herself that perhaps the old woman had deceived

her--that Trevelyan could not possibly empower his messenger to

contradict with her lips the assurances he had committed to paper!

“Did he not say in his letter that he sought no secresy nor concealment

in respect to my father?” she asked herself, in the course of her

musings: “how, then, could he prompt his agent to enjoin the necessity

of such secresy and such concealment? Ah! she has deceived _me_--and I

have wronged _him_!”

A feeling of bitterness smote the tender heart of Agnes as she came to

this conclusion: but, in the course of a few moments, the idea struck

her that if Lord William Trevelyan received a faithful report of the

particulars of her interview with Mrs. Mortimer that morning, he would

recognise the propriety of her conduct in returning the letter.

But, ah! had she not bade Mrs. Mortimer desire the young nobleman to

think no more of Agnes Vernon?--and might he not obey the injunction?

Poor, innocent Agnes! thine own love is as yet only in its infancy--and

therefore thou comprehendest not the extent of that devotion which

Trevelyan’s bosom harbours with regard to thee! Although within the

space of a few hours thou hast learnt thy first lesson in the school

of love, and though thy mental vision has obtained some insight into

the mysteries of that passion which has at length shed its influence

on thee,--although a portion of the veil has fallen from thine eyes,

and thou canst now read more of the human heart than ever thou could’st

before,--nevertheless, it is but a nascent flame--a germinating

affection that animates thee,--a feeling as yet vague and undefinable:

for thou art still so much the child of natural simplicity and artless

ingenuousness, that thou canst not entertain a conception of the

lasting and persevering nature of love;--thou knowest not enough of its

essence and its power to initiate in thine imagination the thought that

Trevelyan would no more heed thine injunction, even if it reached his

ears, than the tempest will obey the human voice which dares to order

its fury to subside!

For some hours did the beauteous Agnes remain in the arbour, plunged in

love’s first reverie; and when the pretty housemaid appeared to inform

her that dinner was served up, Miss Vernon started from the seat,

exclaiming, “Is it possible that it can be four o’clock? I did not

suppose that it was more than an hour past mid-day?”

Jane cast a look of surprise upon her mistress--but said nothing; and

almost immediately afterwards the servant ceased to remember that

there had been anything peculiar in the young lady’s manner--for Agnes

composed her countenance, recalled her scattered thoughts, and hurried

back to the cottage,--so that this very haste on her part was mistaken

by the domestic for her usual gleesomeness of disposition.

The afternoon repast was soon disposed of; and Agnes returned to the

garden, where she roamed about until the hour of sunset approached. The

evening was warm and beautiful--the air was fragrant with the perfume

of the flowers--and the hum of insect life was heard around. The scene

had a soothing effect upon the young maiden’s soul; and, though she

was wearied, she was unwilling as yet to return to the cottage. She

felt less lonely in the spacious garden than she should be, as she well

knew, in that parlour where she had vainly endeavoured in the morning

to divert herself with her drawings, her music, and her books.

We know not how it was--but more than once during this evening ramble

in her garden, did Agnes Vernon pass by that very spot where she had

stood in the morning when held in conversation with Mrs. Mortimer.

Those who love, or who have loved, will probably assert that it was

the influence of some vague and undefined hope which thus occasionally

directed the maiden’s footsteps thither,--a hope which nature prompted,

although thus dimly, and in spite of the virgin purity and immaculate

candour of her soul,--a hope, in fine, which whispered, softly as

zephyr’s breath, in her ear, that Trevelyan’s messenger _might_ return

with an assurance from him that no instructions which he had given to

that emissary in any way militated against the honourable, frank, and

straightforward declarations contained in his letter.

And now, then, behold the beauteous Agnes standing on the very spot

where in the morning she had read the letter that first awoke a

scintillation of love’s fire in her bosom: behold her, motionless as

a statue, amidst the foliage of that secluded part of the garden--her

white dress delineating the soft and graceful outlines of her

symmetrical form--and the rays of the sun, now low in the western

horizon, playing upon her angelic countenance, as they penetrated

through the trees that skirted the lane overlooked by the hedge.

Suddenly the maiden starts and listens--like the timid roe disturbed in

the forest by a far-off sound resembling the bay of the hound.

The noise of wheels and of horses’ hoofs falls upon her ear: nearer and

nearer that noise approaches--the vehicle is evidently coming down the

lane!

Yet why does her heart palpitate?--why seems it like the fluttering

bird in its cage? Is it an unusual thing for a carriage or a cart to

pass that way? No: but there is in the maiden’s soul a presentiment

that the occurrence _now_ is not altogether unconnected with her

destinies.

The sounds cease: the vehicle, whatever it may be, has stopped--and

silence once more reigns around.

The sun is sinking lower and lower in the western horizon: yet it is

still quite light;--but the ruddy lustre of the setting orb imparts a

deep autumnal hue to the foliage--brings out into bolder relief the

ripening apples, the yellow pears, and the crimson cherries that gem

the boughs with their fruitage--and imparts a delicate glow to the

beauteous countenance of the young lady, as, with lips apart and in

attitude of suspense, she listens to catch the slightest sound that may

indicate the approach of a human being.

And now there is a rustling as of silk and a tread as of light

footsteps; and Agnes, who, in consequence of the surface of the garden

being much higher than the lane on the other side of the hedge, can

look over that verdant boundary,--Agnes beholds a lady advancing

rapidly down the narrow thoroughfare.

A feeling of disappointment seizes upon her: she sees that it is not

Mrs. Mortimer--and something tells her that Trevelyan would not employ

another female emissary.

[Illustration]

Then it strikes her that she ought to rejoice that no farther progress

should be made in the young nobleman’s suit during her father’s

absence; and she feels that she has done wrong even to remain standing

in that spot under the influence of a contrary expectation and of a

tender though dimly significant hope.

With a sigh, the beauteous creature is about to turn away and re-enter

the cottage, when,--oh! wonder and amazement!--with renewed suspense

and reviving hope, she hears herself called by her name--called, too,

in the tenderest, most melting tones of a woman’s voice.

“Agnes--dearest Agnes! Stay--oh! stay--if only for a few moments!

Stay--I implore you--beloved girl: you know not who it is that thus

addresses you!”

These words were uttered in a voice of warm and passionate

affection--so that a deep and absorbing interest was at once created

in the bosom of Agnes towards that lady of whose handsome countenance

she had now a full view, and the earnest, appealing expression of whose

features gave additional import to her enthusiastic exclamations.

“Madam--I will stay--I will not depart immediately,” faltered Agnes,

forgetting her father’s injunctions relative to the caution which she

was to exercise in regard to strangers: “but how do you know who I

am?--and who are you?”

“Oh! that she should ask me who I am!” cried the lady, clasping her

hands together in deep anguish. “But how beautiful she is!” exclaimed

the stranger, in an altered and rejoicing tone: “how faithful, too, is

the portrait! Agnes--dearest Agnes--I have much to say to you--much

to impart that you will be delighted to learn: but must we continue

to discourse thus, with this barrier between us? Can you not come to

me?--or will you permit me to come to you? I long--oh! how I long to

embrace you, dear girl that you are; and though we are but a few feet

apart--yet does this garden-boundary separate us most cruelly!”

“Madam--I know not how to answer you,” murmured Agnes, strange

feelings of mingled pleasure, apprehension, and hope agitating in her

heart, as if that heart were a well of deep, inexhaustible, and yet

incomprehensible emotions. “Your words seem to move me more than I can

explain----”

“Yes--Agnes--dear Agnes,” ejaculated the lady, stretching out her arms

in an appealing manner towards the maiden: “’tis the voice of nature

that speaks within you! But you hesitate to trust yourself with me?

Ah! doubtless you have been warned--doubtless you have been urged to

act with caution----Oh! my God--that you should look with an eye of

suspicion upon me!”

And with these words, which were uttered in a tone indicative of the

most acute anguish, the lady burst into a flood of tears.

Agnes stood blanched, and trembling, and speechless,--having a deep

conviction that the lady’s fate was in some way linked with her

own--yet not daring to form a conjecture as to the nature of the tie

that thus mysteriously bound them together. A secret impulse appeared

to urge her towards the weeping stranger; and she felt that were the

arms again extended towards her, and were there no barrier in her way,

she should precipitate herself upon that stranger’s bosom, that they

might mingle their tears together and interchange the sympathies that

already drew them to each other.

“Agnes--dearest Agnes,” exclaimed the lady, suddenly breaking silence

and wiping away the traces of her grief,--speaking, too, in a voice of

heart-touching appeal,--“I implore you to come to me--or to show me how

I may enter those precincts without being observed by the inmates of

the dwelling! But, say--tell me,” she added, a sudden thought striking

her,--“is he--your father--_there_?”

“My father is in Paris,” replied Agnes: “he----”

“Thank God!” ejaculated the stranger, with an enthusiasm that

astonished and even startled the maiden. “But Mrs. Gifford--is she

still alive?--is she still in attendance on you?”

“She is in the house at this moment,” returned Agnes, more and more

surprised at these questions--not only on account of their nature,

which showed that the lady was acquainted with many circumstances

regarding her condition; but also in consequence of the vehemence with

which they were put.

“Then how can I join you in that garden?” demanded the lady, in a tone

of bitter disappointment. “Oh! Agnes, you know not how ardent are the

yearnings--how intense the longings that prompt me even to dash through

this hedge and fold you to my bosom! Cruel girl--keep me not thus in an

agony of suspense; but come--come to my arms--as if I were your mother!”

“My mother!” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of mingled hope and

amazement--while such indescribable emotions started into existence in

her bosom, that she felt overpowered by their influence, and staggering

back a few paces, would have fallen to the ground had she not leant

against a tree for support.

“Agnes--Agnes!” cried the lady, imploringly: “give not way to thoughts

that will deprive you of your presence of mind--for you need all your

self-possession now! Agnes--dear Agnes--answer me----”

“Who are you? O heaven! such strange ideas--such wild hopes--such

bewildering presentiments crowd upon my soul,” exclaimed the beauteous

maiden, “that I know not how to act nor what to conjecture!”

And, again approaching the hedge, she passed her hand across her brow,

throwing from her face the shower of curls that had fallen in disorder

over that charming countenance--the luxuriant locks having been

disturbed by the movement given to the neat little straw bonnet when

she staggered against the tree.

“You ask me who I am,” said the lady: “oh! pity my suspense--have mercy

upon me--come to my arms--and I will tell you all.”

“Stay there, madam--dear madam,” cried Agnes, without another instant’s

hesitation--so earnest, so pathetic was that last appeal: “and I will

join you at all risks!”