Shrewsbury by Stanley J. Weyman

Doubtless there have been men able to boast, and with truth, that they carried to their first assignation with a woman an even pulse. But as I do not presume to rank myself among these, who have been commonly men of high station (of whom my late Lord Rochester was, I believe, the chief in my time), neither -- the unhappy occurrence which I am in the way to relate, notwithstanding -- -have I, if I may say so without disrespect, so little heart as to crave the reputation. In truth, I experienced that evening, as I crept out of the back door of Mr. D -- -- 's house, and stole into the gloom of the whispering garden, a full share of the guilty feeling that goes with secrecy; and more than my share of the agitation of spirit natural in one who knows (and is new to the thought) that under cover of the darkness a woman stands trembling and waiting for him. A few paces from the house -- which I could leave without difficulty, though at the risk of detection -- I glanced back to assure myself that all was still: then shivering, as much with excitement as at the chill greeting the night air gave me, I hastened to the gap in the fence, through which I had before seen my mistress.

I felt for the gap with my hand and peered through it, and called her name softly -- "Jennie! Jennie! " and listened; and after an interval called again, more boldly. Still hearing nothing, I discovered by the sinking at my heart -- which was such that, for all my eighteen years, I could have sat down and cried -- how much I had built on her coming. And I called again and again; and still got no answer.