“I blame myself that I ever gave the opportunity for a renewal of your old friendliness.  That is the secret of your wilfulness.”

“I loved Harry best—­that is the secret of it,” said Bessie; and she turned away to close the discussion.

It was a profound mortification to Lady Latimer to hear within the week from various quarters that Mr. Cecil Burleigh was at Ryde, and to all appearance on the happiest terms with Miss Julia Gardiner.  And in fact they were quietly married one morning by special license, and the next news of them was that they were travelling in the Tyrol.

It was about a week after this, when Bessie was spending a few hours with her mother, that she heard of Harry Musgrave’s arrival at Brook.  It was the doctor who brought the intelligence.  He came into the little drawing-room where his wife and Bessie were sitting, and said, “I called at Brook in passing and saw poor Harry.”

“Well, Thomas, and how is he?” inquired Mrs. Carnegie in the anxious tone a kind voice takes when asking after the health of a friend who may be in a critical way.  Bessie dropped her work and looked from one to the other.

The doctor did not answer directly, but, addressing Bessie, he said, “You must not be shocked, my dear, when you see Harry Musgrave.”

“What is the matter?  I have heard nothing:  is he ill again?” cried Bessie.

“He must never go back to London,” said Mr. Carnegie with a great sigh.

“Is it so bad as that?  Poor Harry!” said his wife in a sad, suppressed tone.  Bessie said nothing:  her throat ached, her eyes burnt, but she was too stunned and bewildered to inquire further, and yet she thought she had been prepared for something like this.

“He asked after you, Bessie, and when you would go to see him,” the doctor went on.

“I will go now.  It is not too late? he is not too tired? will he be glad?” Bessie said, all in a breath.

“Yes, he wants to talk to you; but you will have to walk all the way, dear, and alone, for I have to go the other road.”

“Oh, the walk will not hurt me.  And when I have seen him I will go back to Fairfield.  But tell me what ails him:  has he been over-working, or is it the results of his illness?” Bessie was very earnest to know all there was to be known.

“Work is not to blame:  the lad was always more or less delicate, though his frame was so powerful,” Mr. Carnegie said with gravity.  “He is out of spirits, and he has had a warning to beware of the family complaint.  That is not to say it has marked him yet—­he may live for years, with care and prudence live to a good old age—­but there is no public career before him; and it is a terrible prospect, this giving up and coming down, to a young fellow of his temper.  His mother sits and looks at him, beats on her knee, deplores the money spent on his college education, and frets; you must try your hand at some other sort of consolation, Bessie, for that will never do.  Now, if you are going, my dear, you had better start.”