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.

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!”