Janet had no young friends, no admirers, no debts, no duns; she was poor, and the begging-letter writers spared her; she had never worked for fancy fairs, nor written for albums, nor subscribed to public charities; it was not in her power to confer a favor on anybody, and people thus situated escape a vast influx of correspondence. The letter had been posted in a neighboring street; the direction was written in an evidently feigned hand, and the seal bore the simple impression of a flower. Janet opened it with a kind of vague feeling that some mystery clung about it. Little did she dream of the good fortune that awaited her. The inclosed sheet of paper was a valentine! It boasted of no flowers, cupids, hearts, or darts; it was superscribed "A Valentine to be read when the others are forgotten."
Delightful phrase! not only was she deemed worthy of receiving a valentine, but the writer evidently considered that she had received others! The charm, however, of this valentine did not consist in the heading, nor even in the love-breathing stanzas that followed; but in the handwriting. It was unquestionably, unmistakably, the handwriting of Heathcote! There was a peculiarity in the formation of the letters that Janet had more than once remarked to Philippa, when he had written notes on some trifling subject to their guardian or themselves. There was no attempt to disguise the hand--no attempt to disguise the feelings. These were the words that electrified poor Janet, or perhaps I should say "mesmerized" her; for she certainly seemed translated to a very different kind of existence from that of the everyday world, dull and vexatious occasionally to all of us, but invariably dull and vexatious to her.
St. Valentine returns--the pleasant time Of opening verdure and of singing birds Noted for mystic fantasies in rhyme, Where gay devices, mingled with soft words, To many a blushing ladye-love impart The feelings of her timid lover's heart.
Beneath St. Valentine's protecting shroud, Lady, I dare thy favor to beseech; I am at once too humble and too proud To woo thee in a fluent form of speech; Methinks my trembling spirit could not brook Thy cold rejoinder, or thy grave rebuke.