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.