I will not pause upon the passing of the following day, although its earlier part was, for me, full of that agitated, I might say painful, expectation which is often more difficult to endure than actual grief or disappointment. The only events of which I have a distinct recollection were delayed till evening. Bessy did not appear below till nearly ten o'clock in the morning. She was very pale, and greatly subdued in manner; and there was something in her eyes, whenever they turned towards me, which grieved and alarmed me. It was nothing unkind, nothing cold, nothing indifferent; but a sort of tender, beseeching look, as if she would have said: "Do not look so wretched, Richard. It wrings my heart to make you suffer, but I cannot help it." Those scratched-out words, "But I must do it," kept vibrating in my ears; and I would have given all I had in the world to hasten the moment of explanation. Mr. Stringer was in a fuss; he saw there was something wrong, and he knew not what; and, with very questionable tact, he gave a great deal of his company to two people who heartily wished him away. Mrs. Stringer was very quiet, but seemed to be omnipresent; and the boys thought their recent return to their home gave them a right to be exceedingly vociferous and troublesome. It was one of the most miserable days I ever passed in my life. In the evening, we all assembled in the porch; and, once or twice before she did so, I thought Bessy was going to rise; but she hesitated, and retained her seat. At length, however, she started up, saying, "Come, Richard, and take a little walk with me."

"My dear, it is very late," said Mrs. Stringer; "and you have not been well. The sun will soon set."

"Oh, a walk will do me good," answered Bessy, with a touch of the old spirit; "and we shall not be long; besides, my dear Mrs. Stringer, I want to speak with Richard in private." And she laughed, but not gaily; adding, "You know we have got a great deal of important business to transact. Did not Mr. Hubbard tell you that he had made over to me vast possessions--to have and to hold, &c. &c. &c.? Come, Richard, get me my veil out of the hall, and give me your arm, like a good knight and true." I went for the veil and cast it over her head. I gave her my arm, and felt her hand tremble violently as she took it. We walked down the steps in silence, across the grass-plot, through the little peach-orchard, into the field bordered by the wood through the devious paths of which we had wandered some time before to escape the companionship of the Rev. Mr. McGrubber. I was impatient; and as we entered the field, I said,--

"Now, Bessy----" But she cut me short, murmuring,--

"Not yet, Richard; not yet, dear Richard." We walked on, and entered a path in the wood; and at the end of about a hundred yards further, found a little open space, with one large old tree separated from the rest. The rays of the sinking sun found their way in here over the turf, and chequered the green with gold. Bessy paused here, near the foot of the tree, raised her eyes to my face with a look of solemn earnestness, and placed her hand in mine, uttering the one simple word,--

"Richard." We were both terribly agitated; and it seemed to me that she could hardly support herself. Therefore, before I said a word that could increase her emotion, I made her seat herself upon the mossy root, and placed myself beside her. What I had to say needed no long consideration.

"Bessy," I ejaculated, holding her hand in mine, "you must have seen my feelings towards you. You must have learned, long ere this, that I love you dearly--most dearly." She cast down her eyes, and a slight rosy colour came up into her cheek; but she answered slowly and firmly, "I have, Richard, I have some time ago; I have seen all, known all, just as well as if your tongue had spoken it."

"Then surely, dearest Bessy," responded I, "you could not have given me the encouragement you have, you could not have continued to make yourself all-in-all to me in this world, without resolving to make my love happy, and to be all-in-all to me through life."

"I did resolve it," answered Bessy, in a sad and solemn tone. "I cast all my former vain notions aside--all the idle, thoughtless, unreasonable determinations of a wild girl--and resolved to give you my hand whenever you should ask it."

"Then you are mine," I cried, pressing my lips on hers; "you are mine. I ask it now."

"Stay, stay, stay, Richard," she cried; "stay till you hear me out, if I have voice and heart to speak. An obstacle has arisen. An unforeseen, insurmountable obstacle. Alas, alas! I can never be your wife." And she burst into a violent flood of tears.

"But what is it?" I exclaimed. "There may be a thousand means of remedy left."

"None, none!" she answered. "It is connected with the irrevocable past. It never can be removed, changed, or modified. I might, it is true, become your wife; but I should find wretchedness instead of happiness; remorse instead of love; my misery would make you miserable; and in less than six months after I gave you my hand, the never-ceasing reproaches of my own conscience would bring Bessy Davenport to the grave."

"But what is it?" I cried. "For Heaven's sake, explain!"

"Do not ask me, Richard--do not ask me," she said; "at least not now. Have pity upon me, have compassion! I dare not dwell upon it. The truth came upon me with a crushing weight--the truth, which I never knew till two nights ago, fell upon my heart as if a mountain had been cast upon it, and it has left me very weak. Some time hence, when we are both calmer--when we can look back upon this time as people who have been asleep look back upon sweet dreams that have faded away for ever--when the dreadful reality will serve but to strengthen and to tranquillize, though it may chill us--then I will write to you, Richard. Perhaps then you may be the happy husband of another, and can look upon Bessy Davenport as a sister, and compassionate the sorrows she has endured; then I will write to you, and tell you all." Grief and disappointment are the most selfish things upon earth--often the most unjust, the most unreasoning. No language can tell the anguish I had that moment endured, the irritating, fiery, maddening feeling of disappointment. It is my only excuse for the cruelty and unkindness of my next words. There was a struggle even to prevent myself from bursting forth in vehement and angry reproach; but the habit of self-restraint in some degree conquered, and my answer was apparently calm and cold, though all beneath was fiery excitement.

"Bessy," I said, bitterly, "may you be happy! Me you have rendered miserable for ever. I have loved you with the truth, and tenderness, and passion, and force of a first and only love; not as a boy loves, but as a man, once and for ever. And you talk to me as being the happy husband of another! Bessy, Bessy, you have never loved, or such a wild, impossible vision could never cross your brain!" She started on her feet like a fawn frightened from her ferny bed, and gazed at me with a look of agony I shall never forget.

"Oh, how have I deserved this?" she exclaimed. But then recovering herself, she took my hand in one of hers, and raising the other towards heaven, she said, in a low and earnest voice,--"May God above judge my heart, Richard; may He cease to bless, protect, and comfort me; may He never help me at the hour of need, support me in the hour of sorrow, save me in the hour of danger--if I have not loved you as well as woman ever loved man! What is it makes me miserable now--has broken my heart, crushed my spirit, enfeebled my body? Loved you!--Oh, God, how I have loved you!" And casting herself on my bosom, she pressed her lips again and again upon my cheek.

"Bessy, I am wrong, I am wrong," I said; "forgive me, dearest Bessy. Only confide in me--only put full trust and reliance upon me--let me not be sent blindfold to the sacrifice of every hope of happiness in life. Talk not to me of ever marrying another. I have never loved but once, and never can----"

"Hear me, Richard," interrupted she, more calmly and gently, putting back the arm I had cast around her. "You yourself shall be the arbiter of our destiny. You yourself shall condemn me, if you will, to death--to a death of remorse and self-reproach. I will be your wife, if you command me; but it must be some time hence. When we are both calmer, when we can both look with reasonable eyes upon our relative position to each other; when I can venture to let my mind rest upon the past, of which you are now as ignorant as I was a few days ago; when you can give due weight and have consideration to a woman's feelings, I will write to you, and leave you yourself to decide. You shall say to me in reply,--'Bessy, be mine, though death be the consequence;' or, 'Bessy, you are right. We must not attempt to pass the barrier which God has placed between us.' But mark me, Richard, and remember, should you view the matter as I do, and see that our marriage is impossible, Bessy Davenport will be to you as another sister. Never, never, so help me God, shall my hand be given to any other! I have loved you, when I thought I could never love any man; and for you I was ready to cast away every prejudice, every resolution of my life. My love is yours for ever; and I should as soon think of breaking a vow as of allowing one thought of another to cross my mind." A slight flush covered her face as she spoke; but strong emotions often bring their own calm with them, and she went on in a manner much more tranquil.

"And, Richard," she said, "I have gone perhaps beyond what maiden modesty would warrant. I have told--I have shown you--how I love you. But you will not, I think, misunderstand or blame me; first, because I am, as you know, a wild, untutored girl, accustomed to speak frankly whatever thought, or fancy, or feeling, crosses my brain or heart; and, secondly, because this is an occasion in which concealment would be wrong to me and wrong to you--when I must tell you how I love you in order that you may see how terrible is the sacrifice of that love to duty."

"I do not misunderstand you, dear Bessy," I answered; "I will try to be more calm, more reasonable. You have said that I shall be the arbiter. When will you give me the explanations which will enable me to be so rightly? At present I can conceive no cause, I can imagine no possible motive, why you should not be my wife; and I fondly hope and trust that when all is explained, I can remove every doubt and scruple from your mind. But I promise you, my beloved, that if I see a reasonable motive, a just and righteous cause, I will endeavour by no sophistry to persuade you against your better judgment. I will endeavour to think for Bessy Davenport as I would think for myself, were my mind free and without passion. But, dearest Bessy, make the time short; tell me when you will give the whole explanation."

"Oh, Richard," she answered, with a mournful shake of the head, "I would fain give time for both you and myself to think deliberately. I may be wrong in the view I take at present, and I am certain you would be wrong if you were to decide now. Well, well, within three months, I will write to you the whole, and enclose you the old letter which I received two nights ago. After you know all, you shall wait a fortnight, a full fortnight, before you decide, and then your decision shall be final. I will say not one word against it; you shall command, and I will obey."

"My commands shall not be very hard, Bessy," I answered; "for though you think so very ill of mankind, if I have the slightest knowledge of my own spirit, I would rather insure your happiness than mine. If we must live as brother and sister, without a dearer tie, so be it."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Richard," she answered; "those words relieve my mind of a great weight. I see you will have consideration for me."

"I will, indeed," I replied. "But now tell me, beloved, how are we to pass the intermediate time?"

"I have determined," she said, "to go over to my uncle Henry's, and to remain there with him. I have already told my maid to have everything in readiness, and have written for my uncle to come for me to-morrow." She paused for a moment, and then added,--"But you will let me see you from time to time, will you not, Richard? There can be no harm in that. We are not parted by inclination, but by fate."

"Assuredly, I will come to see you often," I answered; "for till this is decided, you are still my own Bessy; and although I thought of returning speedily to England, I will not quit this land till our fate is fixed." She drew a deep sigh, as if there was some relief in the words I spoke, and then she said, suddenly,--

"Now let us go back, Richard. It is growing quite dark, and they will send somebody to see after us." I drew her arm through mine, and we walked slowly homeward, nearly in silence. We both thought that it was the last solitary walk we should take together for many a day, and the present had been a very eventful one. But, as usual with human calculations, our conclusions were all wrong. We had another walk to take ere long, and that more eventful still.