While she perused this last paragraph in the letter, Agnes more than once felt an involuntary sigh stealing from her bosom—as if it were called up by a strain of music familiar to her childhood, and reviving many pleasing reflections.
The last portion of the letter became clearly intelligible to her, in consequence of the suggestive incidents which she had been reading in Scott’s novel. For would not Rebecca have received Wilfrid’s hand, had his love not been already plighted to Rowena? It was evident, then, that William Trevelyan sought her—yes, her—Agnes Vernon—as his wife; and that he feared lest she should be engaged to wed another! Oh! now she comprehended the full intent—the full meaning of that letter which he had addressed to her: she perceived that he loved her—that he had loitered about the cottage in order to behold her—that he wrote to her, because he feared to offend by accosting her—and that he dreaded no refusal on the part of her father, provided that she was not already pledged to become the wife of another suitor!
“You have read the letter, my child?” asked the old woman, who, even through the verdant foliage of the hedge, had watched every change in the expression of the maiden’s countenance, and had thereby obtained a complete insight into what was passing in her mind.
“Yes, madam,” murmured Agnes, in a tone that was scarcely audible—for she now felt embarrassed, bashful, and timid, she knew not wherefore.
“And you are not offended with Lord William Trevelyan——”
“Lord William Trevelyan!” exclaimed the beauteous girl, now seized with surprise: “is he indeed a nobleman? Oh! I am sorry for that!” she added, giving vent in her artlessness to an expression which confirmed the old woman’s already existing suspicion that her employer was by no means indifferent to the Recluse of the Cottage.
“You are sorry that he is a nobleman, my sweet child?” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Are you afraid that he is too proud to make a humble maiden his wife?”
Agnes blushed deeply, and remained silent.
“Fear nothing on that head,” continued the old woman. “He is no deceiver: his intentions are honourable. And now tell me frankly and candidly—has his letter displeased you?”
“I should be deceiving you were I to answer in the affirmative,” responded Agnes; “and yet I feel—at least, it seems as if I feel that I ought to be displeased, although I cannot in truth declare that I am. But I will send this letter to my dear father, who is in Paris——”