"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 My love was not unreturned; her affection was not withdrawn from me.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.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
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."