"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!"