Thus adjured, the young maiden—innocent, artless, and unsophisticated as she was—hesitated no longer, but, opening the letter, commenced its perusal.
The first paragraph, as the reader will remember, ran thus:—
“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence, were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his intentions:—pardon me, I implore you—and refuse not to read those few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you, Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your father’s presence, he solemnly declares.”
At first the maiden’s countenance wore an expression of profound astonishment when she found herself addressed by a person who avowed himself to be “a stranger,” and who proceeded to speak of sincerity of language and honourable intentions. What intentions, then, had he? This was the thought that flashed to her mind. In the next moment she discovered that the letter came from the gentleman whom she had observed, on more occasions than one, in the neighbourhood of the cottage; and now it struck her, as if with a ray of light darting into her soul, that he must have had some object, beyond that of a mere lounge, in so frequently loitering about the precincts of the garden. Something—a something that was nevertheless incomprehensible—told her that she ought to read no more; but at that instant the concluding words of the paragraph above quoted met her eyes—and she murmured to herself, “There can be no harm in perusing the words that he would speak to me in my father’s presence.”
She accordingly read on, until she came to the termination of the next paragraph:—
“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again: let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart—and that, if any thing were wanting to render me your slave, the description which the bearer of this letter has given me of your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am rich—and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest—a sincere—and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to know more of me—if I might venture to solicit you to accord me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how fervently I should thank you—how delighted I should feel! Let this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how can I convince you of my sincerity?—how can I testify my devotion?—how can I prove the extent of my love?”
While she perused this portion of the letter, the following thoughts and ideas ran rapidly through her mind:—
“My beauty has captivated his heart——Oh! then he believes me to be beautiful! Mrs. Mortimer has spoken well of me to him: in this case, she cannot be a bad woman, and she cannot mean me any harm. Assuredly my dear papa was wrong to suspect her. He has no selfish motive in addressing me—even if I be rich: then, whatever his intentions be, they must be honourable, as he says—because all wickedness is undertaken for the sake of gold. He is afraid of offending me. Oh! how can I be offended with one who addresses me in such a respectful manner, and who seems to fear that the simple fact of thus writing to me will excite my anger? ‘A sincere and a devoted attachment!’ Ah! such was the attachment that Rebecca entertained for Wilfrid, and that Wilfrid experienced for Rowena;—and now I perceive something different between their attachment and that which the Templar harboured towards the beautiful Jewess. He wishes to see my father—he wishes to obtain an interview with me!”—And the maiden’s heart began to palpitate, she knew not why: but at this moment it struck her that the writer of the letter was of agreeable person, and that he must be what the author of “Ivanhoe” would have denominated handsome. With a gradually increasing fluttering in her bosom, the artless maiden read on—until she suddenly found the paragraph close with the mystic name of love!
Then a gentle flush appeared upon her damask cheek; and a veil rapidly fell from her eyes. She now comprehended how it was possible for Rebecca to be attached to Wilfrid of Ivanhoe:—Agnes had already learnt by heart the alphabet of love! At the same time, her soul retained all its chaste purity, though it lost a trifle of its girlish artlessness:—love began to be comprehensible to her as a refined and poetic sentiment—and not as a less divine passion or earthly sensuousness. A dreamy and unknown joy was stealing into her bosom—as if she had just been blessed with a glimpse of the realms of ethereal bliss;—and, under the influence of these feelings, she read the letter on to its close:—
“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in order to make my sentiments known to you;—and scorn not the honest—the pure—the ardent affection which an honourable man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I love you;—and your silence would prove a punishment severe and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous Agnes,—(the words—those delightful words, ‘beauteous Agnes,’ are written now, and I cannot—will not erase them)—at the same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged—if a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of your hand, accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never more shall you be molested by me—never again will I intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite an angry feeling in your soul.
“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
“WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”