For the first
time he was dissatisfied with the expressions that nature dictated. For
the first time he dreaded to utter the honest wishes of his heart,
apprehensive that he might do violence to the native delicacy of Imogen.
But he needed not have feared. Imogen was not blind to those perfections
which every mouth conspired to praise. Her heart was not cold and
unimpassioned; she could not see these perfections, united with youth
and personal beauty, without being attracted. The accents of Edwin were
music to her ear. The tale that Edwin told, interested her twice as much
as what she heard from vulgar lips. To wander with Edwin along the
flowery mead, to sit with Edwin in the cool alcove, had charms for her
for which she knew not how to account, and which she was at first
unwilling to acknowledge to her own heart. When she heard of the feats
of the generous lover, his gallantry in the rural sports, and his
reverence for the fair, it was under the amiable figure of Edwin that he
came painted to her treacherous imagination. She was a stranger to
artifice and disguise, and the renown of Edwin was to her the feast of
the soul, and with visible satisfaction she dwelt upon his praise. Even
in sleep her dreams were of the deserving shepherd.
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