The morning but one after this Bessie’s anxious desire that my lady and her dear Harry should meet was unexpectedly gratified.  It was about halfway towards noon when she was considering whether or no she could with peace and propriety bring forward her wish to go again to Brook, when Lady Latimer hurried down from her sanctum, which overlooked the drive, saying, “Elizabeth, here is young Mr. Musgrave on horseback; run and bid him come in and rest.  He is giving some message to Roberts and going away.”

“Oh, please ask him yourself,” said Bessie, but at the same moment she hastened out to the door.

It was a sultry, oppressive morning, and Harry looked languid and ill—­more ill than Bessie had ever seen him look.  She felt inexpressibly shocked and pained, and he smiled as if to relieve her, while he held out a letter that he had been on the point of entrusting to Roberts:  “From that excellent fellow, Christie.  Your independent criticism has opened his eyes to the beauties of my story, and he declares that he shall claim the landscape bits himself.”

Lady Latimer advanced with a pale, grave face, and invited the young man to dismount.  There was something of entreaty in her voice:  “The morning-room is the coolest, Elizabeth—­take Mr. Musgrave there.  I shall be occupied until luncheon, but I hope you will be able to persuade him to stay.”

Bessie’s lips repeated, “Stay,” and Harry not unthankfully entered the house.  He dropt into a great easy-chair and put up one hand to cover his eyes, and so continued for several minutes.  Lady Latimer stood an instant looking at him with a pitiful, scared gaze, and then, avoiding Bessie’s face, she turned and left the lovers together.  Bessie laid her hand on Harry’s shoulder and spoke kindly to him:  he was tired, the atmosphere was very close and took away his strength.  After a while he recovered himself and said something about Christie’s friendliness, and perhaps if he illustrated the story they should see reminiscences of the manor-garden and of Great-Ash Ford, and other favorite spots in the Forest.  They did not talk much or eagerly at all, but Christie’s commendation of the sad pretty story of true love was a distinct pleasure to them both, and especially to Harry.  His mother had begged him to stop at home and let the letter be sent over to Fairfield, but he wanted the gratification of telling Bessie his news himself; and the ride in the hot, airless weather had been too fatiguing.  Bessie took up a piece of work and sat by the window, silent, soothing.  He turned his chair to face her, and from his position he had a distant view of the sea—­a dark blue line on the horizon.  He had been fond of the sea and of boats from his first school-days at Hampton, and as he contemplated its great remote calm a longing to be out upon it took possession of him, which he immediately confessed to Bessie.  Bessie did not think he need long in vain for that—­it was easy of accomplishment.  He said yes—­Ryde was not far, and a Ryde wherry was a capital craft for sailing.