"Your saving me from death a second time," she added.
"The strange, close intimacy into which we were thrown during our long wanderings--intimacy such as, perhaps, never before existed between two unmarried persons."
"And which you used so nobly," she added. "Oh, Richard, if there were nothing else but your generous, delicate kindness during that night and day--kindness which, while I loved you as a wife, made me trust and rely upon you as a brother--were there nothing but that, I should, I believe, feel myself justified in overleaping barriers which would be insurmountable in other circumstances, and casting away all consideration but of what is due to you."
"But my happiness must not be alone consulted," I replied. "Whatever we do must be for your happiness also. Dear Bessy, you have lain and slept in these arms; your head has been pillowed on this bosom; your heart has beat fondly against mine. Now tell me, would you withdraw yourself from that resting-place?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" she cried; "never, never! I can never have any other upon earth." And, leaning her head upon my bosom again, she wept.
"And will you be perfectly happy here?" I said, putting my arm around her.
"There," she said, raising her head with a start, but without answering my question--"there, you need not read those papers, Richard. It needs no further consideration. I am yours, willingly, readily--without a doubt. Give me the letters. I will throw them away; and, with them, I will try to cast off all memory of what they contain. But you must promise me one thing, Richard. If, in after times, when I am your wife, you should see some shade of sadness come upon me, a slight and temporary gloom, as if a cloud were passing across a summer's sky, you must not for a moment think that Bessy regrets what she has done--that there is even a shade of repentance, or, as I once called it, remorse, for you have opened my eyes. I see what is right to be done, and I will do it, both for your happiness and for my own. A memory, however, of what these pages contain may, perhaps, from time to time, come back and sadden me, whether I will or not. But it is well that it should be so--that there should be some little thing to take away from the very sweetness of the cup. Were it not for that, I should be too, too happy. Life would be too bright, and I should hardly know how to bear it. Give me the papers, Richard. We will think of them no more."
"May I not read them?" I asked.
"Yes, if you will," she answered; "though I see no use in it. They may make you sad too; and my course is now completely decided, If you still wish it, this hand is yours, and nothing but death shall take it from you. It can serve no good purpose to read those sad words." I drew her very close to me, and kissed her cheek, saying,--
"It may serve a very good purpose, Bessy. If I am not mistaken, it will enable me, I do believe, to remove from your mind an error, which, as you have said, might grow into a sad memory, might overshadow our mutual happiness as we stood together at the altar, and often come like a dark cloud over the brightness of our future fate."