"It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet girl; but my love
is, in some inconceivable way, different from the passion which that
_other_ creature will produce. She is no stranger to my thoughts. I will
impart every thought over and over to her. I question not but I shall
make her happy without forfeiting my own." "Would marriage with her be a forfeiture of your happiness?" "Not absolutely or forever, I believe. I love her company. Her absence
for a long time is irksome. I cannot express the delight with which I
see and hear her. To mark her features, beaming with vivacity; playful
in her pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle,
always musically voluble, always sweetly tender, or artlessly
intelligent--and this you will say is the dearest privilege of marriage;
and so it is; and dearly should I prize it; and yet, I fear my heart
would droop as often as that _other_ image should occur to my fancy. For
then, you know, it would occur as something never to be possessed by me. "Now, this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The intervals, at least,
would be serene. It would be my interest to prolong these intervals as
much as possible, and my endeavours to this end would, no doubt, have
some effect. Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would be
lessened by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my beloved
girl. "I should likewise have to remember, that to continue unmarried would
not necessarily secure me the possession of the _other_ good----"

"But these reflections, my friend," (broke she in upon me,) "are of as
much force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile you to a marriage
already contracted." "Perhaps they are. Assuredly, I have not a hope that the _fancied_
excellence will ever be mine. Such happiness is not the lot of humanity,
and is, least of all, within my reach." "Your diffidence," replied my friend, in a timorous accent, "has not
many examples; but your character, without doubt, is all your own,
possessing all and disclaiming all,--is, in few words, your picture." "I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever shall be happy to that
degree which I have imagined? Think you I shall ever meet with an exact
copy of _yourself_?" "Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many better. Your
Bess, in personals, is, beyond measure, _my_ superior, and in mind,
allowing for difference in years, quite as much so." "But that," returned I, with quickness and fervour, "is not the object. The very counterpart of _you_ I want; neither worse nor better, nor
different in any thing. Just such form, such features, such hues. Just
that melting voice, and, above all, the same habits of thinking and
conversing. In thought, word, and deed; gesture, look, and form, that
rare and precious creature whom I shall love must be your resemblance. Your----"

"Have done with these comparisons," interrupted she, in some hurry, "and
let us return to the country-girl, thy Bess. "You once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of yours as my
sister. Do you know what the duties of a sister are?" "They imply no more kindness or affection than you already feel towards
my Bess. Are you not her sister?" "I ought to have been so. I ought to have been proud of the relation you
ascribe to me, but I have not performed any of its duties. I blush to
think upon the coldness and perverseness of my heart. With such means as
I possess, of giving happiness to others, I have been thoughtless and
inactive to a strange degree; perhaps, however, it is not yet too late. Are you still willing to invest me with all the rights of an elder
sister over this girl? And will she consent, think you?" "Certainly she will; she has." "Then the first act of sistership will be to take her from the country;
from persons on whose kindness she has no natural claim, whose manners
and characters are unlike her own, and with whom no improvement can be
expected, and bring her back to her sister's house and bosom, to provide
for her subsistence and education, and watch over her happiness. "I will not be a nominal sister. I will not be a sister by halves. _All_
the rights of that relation I will have, or none. As for you, you have
claims upon her on which I must be permitted to judge, as becomes the
elder sister, who, by the loss of all other relations, must occupy the
place, possess the rights, and fulfil the duties, of father, mother, and
brother. "She has now arrived at an age when longer to remain in a cold and
churlish soil will stunt her growth and wither her blossoms. We must
hasten to transplant her to a genial element and a garden well enclosed. Having so long neglected this charming plant, it becomes me henceforth
to take her wholly to myself. "And now, for it is no longer in her or your power to take back the
gift, since she is fully mine, I will charge you with the office of
conducting her hither. I grant it you as a favour. Will you go?" "Go! I will fly!" I exclaimed, in an ecstasy of joy, "on pinions swifter
than the wind. Not the lingering of an instant will I bear. Look! one,
two, three--thirty minutes after nine. I will reach Curling's gate by
the morn's dawn. I will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon she
shall throw herself into the arms of her sister. But first, shall I not,
in some way, manifest my gratitude?" My senses were bewildered, and I knew not what I did. I intended to
kneel, as to my mother or my deity; but, instead of that, I clasped her
in my arms, and kissed her lips fervently. I stayed not to discover the
effects of this insanity, but left the room and the house, and, calling
for a moment at Stevens's, left word with the servant, my friend being
gone abroad, that I should not return till the morrow. Never was a lighter heart, a gayety more overflowing and more buoyant,
than mine. All cold from a boisterous night, at a chilly season, all
weariness from a rugged and miry road, were charmed away. I might have
ridden; but I could not brook delay, even the delay of inquiring for and
equipping a horse. I might thus have saved myself fatigue, and have lost
no time; but my mind was in too great a tumult for deliberation and
forecast. I saw nothing but the image of my girl, whom my tidings would
render happy. The way was longer than my fond imagination had foreseen. I did not
reach Curling's till an hour after sunrise. The distance was full
thirty-five miles. As I hastened up the green lane leading to the house,
I spied my Bess passing through a covered way, between the dwelling and
kitchen. I caught her eye. She stopped and held up her hands, and then
ran into my arms. "What means my girl? Why this catching of the breath? Why this sobbing? Look at me, my love. It is Arthur,--he who has treated you with
forgetfulness, neglect, and cruelty." "Oh, do not," she replied, hiding her face with her hand. "One single
reproach, added to my own, will kill me. That foolish, wicked letter--I
could tear my fingers for writing it."