Accident, circumstance, fate, fortune, luck, chance, or whatever it may be called, which rules the life of man, and keeps him on, or throws him off, the railroad of existence, is certainly, to all appearance, the most wayward, whimsical, unaccountable sort of power that human nature was ever subjected to. I made up my mind, disappointed in what seemed a fair opportunity, to come to a full explanation with Bessy Davenport on the following day. I was very confident I should easily find some happy moment, when we were alone together, to bring about this explanation easily; for of all hideous and detestable things to which man sometimes bows himself, formal declarations of love and proposals of marriage are the most abhorrent to my notions. I was disappointed in my expectations, however, by a dozen little incidents of the most trifling nature. In the morning, before breakfast, it rained; Bessy and the housemaid were both late; and the mulatto girl continued brushing carpets and tables, and dusting very ancient and curious Chinese cups and saucers, and opening and shutting windows, and rubbing knobs of doors, until it was breakfast time; and then Mrs. Stringer, for a marvel, came down herself to distribute the good things of life to her guests with her own hands. Before breakfast was over, Billy Byles appeared, congratulating me upon my recovery, which might be considered complete; and telling us that Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Thornton and Lucy, and perhaps one of the other girls, would be over in half-an-hour with a budget of news and some papers on business. We easily conceived his object in preceding them; and Bessy laughed at him a little, and told Mrs. Stringer she had better have dinner ready for a large party, as it was clear, from Mr. Byles's manner, that their friends were going to stay all day and he with them. So it proved; and, what between reading over and signing the deed of gift to Bessy Davenport, and a dozen other matters of no importance, I had not one single moment to speak a word to Bessy during the whole day. She knew not that I was somewhat fretting with impatience; and, full of life and spirit, and gay good humour, she gave way to everything that was proposed in the way of amusement. At length, towards evening, our friends departed; but Bessy and I were not left alone; and I knew that my object was hopeless for the rest of that day, as Bessy would retire when Mrs. Stringer did. The next day Mr. Stringer and his sons were to return; and I saw no resource but to make an opportunity, if I could not find one. We had just had some coffee, and I was asking Bessy to sing, when the man-servant, Henry, came in with a packet in his hand which he gave to Miss Davenport, saying,--

"Mr. Robert Thornton sends his compliments, Miss Bessy, and says he has found a number of old letters and papers of importance which belong to you, and therefore he has sent them to you."

"They can't be very valuable," said Bessy, "or he would not have sent them. Let us see what they are." And, sitting down at the table by the lamp, she opened the packet. Its contents seemed entirely to consist of letters, yellow with age, and somewhat stained with damp. They were all neatly folded, and docketed with what I supposed to be an abstract of the contents of each. The first two or three Bessy turned over carelessly, after looking at what was written on the back; but then she came to one which seemed to interest her more; and, opening it, she read it through with a straining eye. The next had still more effect; for I could see her give a start when she read the docket, and her hands trembled violently as she opened the paper. She had not read above ten lines, when, suddenly gathering all the papers together, she started up and ran out of the room. She was evidently terribly affected, how or why, of course I could not tell; but my uncertainty was soon removed by Mrs. Stringer, who had been sitting near her fair guest, and who, with a curiosity which cynics would say was natural to women, had taken a glance from time to time at the papers which lay before Miss Davenport.

"That hateful man, Robert Thornton," she said, "will never miss a chance of giving pain. Only think of his sending those letters to poor Bessy."

"I see they have grieved and agitated her," I replied; "but I do not know how."

"Oh, I took a little look from time to time," said Mrs. Stringer, with a laugh, "and I could see what was written on the backs, for it is all in a good, legal-like round-hand. The last one was marked, 'Statement of the death of General Davenport;' that was her father, you know, who was killed in a duel when she was quite a child." This explanation satisfied me. The occurrence passed as a piece of petty spite on the part of Robert Thornton; but neither I, nor Mrs. Stringer, nor Robert Thornton himself, fully knew how painful and terrible was the influence which that unfeeling act of his was to exercise upon the fate of Bessy Davenport and myself. He might guess it in part, but he could not know the whole. Somewhat more than an hour elapsed before Bessy returned. Her face was very pale, and she had evidently been weeping; but her manner at first was calm, and she sat down and took up some woman's work and employed herself listlessly. Poor girl! she had nobody to consult, nobody to confide in. Mrs. Stringer was not a person with whom she could trust the inmost secrets of her heart, and they were all involved at that moment. What an invaluable thing is a wise friend, at those times when the thoughts, and the feelings, and the passions (which work calmly and silently in the human heart so long as intellect and reason reign) are cast free from subjection by some of those strong emotions which shake the ruling power upon its throne, and each clamours loudly, like different parties in an excited crowd, drowning the voice of the others, and urging this course or that in the excited impulse of the moment. But Bessy had no such friend; or, at least, the only one she could have consulted securely, whether wise or not, was shut out from her counsels by emotions of which I then knew nothing. I tried, as best I could, quietly to cheer her. I strove to lead her mind away from subjects of painful thought; but conversation was evidently an effort to her, and at length she rose, saying to Mrs. Stringer,--

"I do not feel well, my dear madam. I think I will go to bed."

"I will go up with you, my dear," said Mrs. Stringer, "if Sir Richard will excuse me. Bed is the best place for either headache or heartache." Bessy moved towards the door, at first turning her eyes away from me, without wishing me good night; but the next instant she stopped suddenly, returned, and gave me her hand, saying,--

"Good night, Richard--good night." Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and she ran hastily out of the room. A vague, confused apprehension of, I know not what, look possession of my mind; her conduct seemed strange to me--stranger than could be explained by the interpretation which Mrs. Stringer had first put upon it. That she was sensitive, full of strong feeling, and, when moved, deeply moved, I was sure; and I could easily conceive that, reading the account of her father's violent death, even though it had occurred many years ago, and she had no personal recollection of him, might affect her greatly. Yet there seemed to me to be something more. I betook myself speedily to my room, and as I passed thither I heard Mrs. Stringer's voice in conversation with Bessy in the chamber opposite. Sleep did not visit me soon; nevertheless, I was awake almost by daylight, and dressed and down stairs before any one else was up in the house. It was a beautiful, clear day, and I doubted not, for habit is very potent, that Bessy would take her usual morning walk. The great door of the house, as usual, was unlocked, for few at that time thought of locking a door in Virginia, and, going out into the porch, I sat down to wait for her, who I now felt more than ever was inexpressibly dear to me. I saw the negroes go out to their work, the cattle driven towards the stream, the long shadows of the trees grow shorter, the sparkling dew dried up from the grass, but Bessy did not come, and I began to be really apprehensive lest the shock should have affected her health. I waited till I was summoned to breakfast, and then I found Mrs. Stringer alone. I was disappointed and agitated; but, concealing my feelings as much as I could, I inquired if she had seen Miss Davenport, and how she was.

"She won't come down just yet," answered Mrs. Stringer. "That horrid man has shaken her nerves desperately. He sent her a long and detailed account of her father's death, she says written to her aunt Barbara by the gentleman who was his second. He has filled her mind with dreadful thoughts, and she has hardly been able to sleep all night. I dare say, you having been wounded in a duel so lately, Sir Richard," she added, with a smile, "has given greater effect to the letter." I could not smile in return; and the morning passed away very heavily till shortly after noon, when Mr. Stringer and his sons returned. They had a great deal to tell of the marvels they had seen, and of the enjoyments of their tour, and I was congratulated warmly by my worthy host on my recovery. In the course of the afternoon, when the whole family were present, Bessy Davenport glided in, pale, and evidently suffering. To any not very watchful eye no difference would have been perceived in her conduct towards me; but to mine there was a very great difference indeed. She shook hands with me kindly, nay, warmly; but a deep sigh, almost like a gasp for breath, accompanied the simple mark of good will. During the evening her eyes never met mine; when I spoke to her, she answered without raising them, and I became exceedingly uneasy. What could be the cause of such a change? I had done nothing, I had said nothing, that could give her the slightest cause for offence. Could that wretched man have written something in the papers which he sent to poison her mind against me? I could not believe it; and yet, in the folly of agitated passion, I almost wished I had shot him dead on the spot when he had stood before me, instead of sparing his miserable life to be the bane of mine. I resolved, however, to have a clear and full explanation. Candour and straitforwardness are nowhere so necessary as in love. A moment or two after Bessy had retired for the night, I went up into my own room, telling one of the servants I met in the hall to send my servant up to me. I then sat down and wrote to Bessy, saying:--

"You cannot be ignorant, dearest Bessy, of my feelings towards you; and I have flattered myself--perhaps vainly, perhaps foolishly--that they were returned. Since last night great changes have come over me; your sadness has infinitely distressed me, and I would fain share your sorrow. But your manner towards me has agitated and alarmed me. I have in vain sought for an opportunity of speaking with you in private to-day. Do not deny it to me to-morrow.

"By all the many memories that are between us of the last two months, I adjure you deny me not this favour, nor leave me in uncertainty, which is terrible to me."

"There, go to Miss Davenport's door," I said, giving the note to Zed; "knock, and wait for an answer." Of course, his absence seemed long; but at length he returned, bringing me a few words written with a pencil on a little scrap of paper. They ran thus:--

"Dearest Richard,--You shall have what you desire. I will find an opportunity to-morrow; but do not try to force one. I grieve to have given you pain, and shall always grieve to do so."

Then came some words which had been carefully scratched out with the pencil. They seemed to me to have been--"But I must do it!" And then she went on:--

"It will probably be towards evening, when Mrs. Stringer will not let the boys go out. In the morning I shall not be down, for I am ill and wretched.

"Your affectionate cousin,

"Bessy Davenport."

There was matter both for pain and relief in Bessy's short note. Those sweet first words--"Dearest Richard"--gave me back at once to full hope and happiness. My love was not unreturned; her affection was not withdrawn from me. I was still dear to her--nay, dearest; and Bessy was too frank to write that which she did not mean. Yet what was I to infer from those mysterious words scratched out; if I read them rightly, they were--"But I must do it!" Do what? Give me pain? What earthly compulsion could force her to do so? She was free; her hand was at her own disposal. No one could dictate to her; no one could say, "You shall, or you shall not, wed him." Then came those last words, "I am ill and wretched." What could have rendered her so? Surely not a mere brief account of an event which, however painful, had happened twenty years ago to one of whom she had no remembrance. I was puzzled, and by no thought or reflection could I find any clue to the mystery.

"Well, to-morrow will give me a full explanation," I thought. Yet I continued well nigh half the night reading Bessy's note again and again, and trying in vain to draw from it some indication, however slight, of that which had affected her so deeply.