"O no, do as you like," cried the sheriff; "you are beyond my competence." Bessy had spoken perfectly calmly and quietly throughout, with not the slightest trace of doubt or agitation. And when she had wished the sheriff and his sister good night, I walked with her to the door, and into the passage.
"I wish I could be as calm as you are, Bessy," I said, with a sigh. She looked up in my face, and put her hand upon mine, gazing at me with an earnest, steadfast gaze.
"I am calm, Richard," she answered, "because the decision of my fate and of him whom I love best on earth is entirely in his own hands, and because I have such faith and trust in his judgment, that I have almost taught myself to believe his decision will satisfy my conscience whatever pre-conceived opinions I might now entertain. But let us not enter on it now. Let us decide all to-morrow. Good night, dear Richard, good night!"
"Stay a moment," I said, holding her hand. "I have got something in trust for you here. These papers were found upon your table at Beavors by Nat Turner, and he gave them to me. Believe me, dear Bessy, when I tell you, that although I knew they contained a clue to all the painful mystery, which, within the last week or so, has made our intercourse one of doubt and anxiety instead of joy and hope, I have not read one word."
"Oh, you might have read them," she said; "but never mind; you shall read them to-morrow, and then tell me what I am to do. You are the lord of my fate, and I will obey you as--as my----"
"Husband," I added, hope springing up anew. "I must have one kiss before we part, after such scenes. If to-morrow I find I am wrong in taking it, I will give it back again." She gave it readily, murmuring,--
"Oh, Richard, if such are your bargains, I know already how you will decide." Then, freeing herself from my arms, she ran away, and left me. At the end of little more than an hour, Zed and Julia, Bessy's maid, made their appearance, with a quantity of goods and chattels, sufficient to half-fill the cart in which they came. Soon after their arrival, I, too, went to bed, and only feared that, in the unwonted softness of my couch, I might oversleep myself on the the following morning.
[CHAPTER XLI.]
What it was that woke me, I know not. It certainly was not the lark, for there is no such heavenly benison of dawn on this side of the Atlantic. It might, indeed, be a crowd of those large birds of the swallow tribe which they call here the bee-martins, who had congregated round the windows, daring each other to wanton, purposeless flights. But I think it was something within, rather than without--some of those strange, silent operations, amidst which the mind still lives and acts when apparently dead in sleep--some of the heart's sentinels calling the watches of the night. I was to rise to meet Bessy in the early morning, and I did not lie awake to count the hours; I was too weary for that. I slept, and slept soundly, the allotted time; and then I woke, as if a voice had said, "Arise!" The day was yet unconfirmed; the hues of the east were still russet, rather than red; but, as I dressed myself, the rose and the gold must have grown stronger in the sky, for many a magic hue poured varying through the pathways amongst the trunks of the old trees, and, streaming across the turf that covered the little rise on which the house stood, seemed to spread a many-coloured carpet before the windows. I took some pains in my toilet, but I was in the parlour and at the window some time before five o'clock struck. I amused myself with gazing forth, and the quiet, pleasant scene, with the sun at length, "perfundens omnia luce," sank into, and refreshed the spirit. But that spirit was all the time busy with other things. It was like thinking in the midst of music--one of the sweetest things I know in life when the heart is at ease--when we feel that harmony, are harmonized by it, and yet lose not one thread of the golden web we are weaving. There was a certain degree of waywardness in my mood, which, perhaps, that morning-scene encouraged, though I know not whence it originally sprung--a feeling of power, which I was inclined to sport with. May I own it? I experienced, I fancy, some of the sensations of the despot, when he remembers how much happiness or misery hung upon his will. Could it be that the treacherous heart was too conscious of the power Bessy had given me to decide her fate and mine for both? No, no, I will not believe it; and, at all events, if I was inclined, as I have said, to sport with the power, I was not inclined to abuse it. But, somehow, during the calm, refreshing sleep of the preceding night, confidence had returned; and I felt as if something was ever whispering in my ear that there could be no possible circumstance in the past or the present which could place a barrier between me and her I loved. Bessy did not keep me long waiting; for she was by my side before the clock had finished striking; and, oh, she looked very lovely, though her cheek was paler than usual, and her eyes somewhat languid. The eyelashes looked longer and darker than ever, the iris more full, though more shaded by the drooping lid. The beautiful, dark, silky hair was perhaps not arranged with all the trim care of former days; but the wavy lines were more plainly seen, making, as some old poet called it, "traps for sunbeams." I could see that she had made up her mind to her fate during the night--that she had prejudged my decision--or else felt that, after all that had passed, we could not be separated; for when she gave me her hand, she held up her lips to me also for the morning kiss, as if she would have said,--"I know how it must be." Bessy had got the packet of letters in her hand; and I was leading her to the sofa, but she stopped me, saying,--
"Let us go out amongst the trees, dear Richard. You know what a wild, fanciful girl I am; and when I have to encounter anything that is likely to agitate me, I would rather have breathing-room in the free air, and trees, and flowers, and birds around me, in preference to tables and chairs."