But
Imogen now formed the principal figure in these waking dreams. It was
Imogen with whom he wandered beside the brawling rill. It was Imogen
with whom he sat beneath the straw-built shed, and listened to the
pealing rain, and the hollow roaring of the northern blast. If a moment
of forlornness and despair fell to his lot, he wandered upon the heath
without his Imogen, and he climbed the upright precipice without her
harmonious voice to cheer and to animate him. In a word, passion had
taken up her abode in his guileless heart before he was aware of her
approach. Imogen was fair; and the eye of Edwin was enchanted. Imogen
was gentle; and Edwin loved.
Simple as was the character of the inhabitants of this happy valley, it
is not to be supposed that Edwin found many obstacles to the enjoyment
of the society of his mistress. Though strait as the pine, and beautiful
as the gold-skirted clouds of a summer morning, the parents of Imogen
had not learned to make a traffic of the future happiness of their care.
They sought not to decide who should be the fortunate shepherd that
should carry her from the sons of the plain. They left the choice to her
penetrating wit, and her tried discretion. They erected no rampart to
defend her chastity; they planted no spies to watch over her reputation.
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