"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."