I opened it, and found ’twas writ in a woman’s hand, and subscribed Anne Varley; and the marrow of it was fond affection.
Why, ’twas but a common love billet he had given me, of the which I have seen dozens and received very many—some from persons of quality that would astonish you. But what had I to do with this honest ninny and his mistress? I had no nose for it, and so said I, handing him back his letter.
“It has a sweet smack and ’tis pretty enough inditing.”
“Ah,” says he quickly, “’tis her nature, Captain. ’Tis her heart that speaks. Yet is she denied by her parents. They will have none of me.”
“The more to their shame,” I said.
“They aspire high,” says he, “as Anne’s beauty and virtues of themselves would justify. Yet she does love me, and I her, and we are of one spirit and heart. See you how she loves me, poor thing, poor silly puss! And they would persuade her to renunciation. But she shall not—she shall not; I swear it!” he cried in excitement. “She shall be free to choose where she will.”
“Spoke like a man of temper,” said I approvingly. “You will go win her forthright.”
“I am on my journey to accomplish that now,” says he. “She has writ in this letter, as you have seen, that her father dissuades her, and she sighs her renunciation, adding sweet words of comfort that her affection will not die—no, never, never, and that she will die virgin for me. Say you not, sir, that this is beautiful conduct, and, am I not right to ride forth and seize her from her unnatural parents, to make her mine?”
“Young gentleman,” said I, being stirred by his honest sincerity and his bubbling over, “were you brother to me, or I to Mistress Anne, you should have my blessing.”
At that he glowed, and his spirits having risen with this communication, he babbled on the road of many things cheerfully, but mostly of love and beauty, and the virtues of Mistress Anne of Effingham Manor.