"I will despatch the story by to-day's post, and a few lines of what I think of it: independent criticism is useful sometimes."
Harry looked at her, laughing and saying with a humorous deprecation, "Bessie's independent criticism!"
Bessie blushed and laughed too, but steadfastly affirmed, "Indeed, Harry, if I did not think it the prettiest story I ever read I would not tell you so. Lady Latimer said it was pretty, and you cannot accuse her of loving you too much."
"No. And that brings me to another matter. I wish you would come away from Fairfield: come here, Bessie. In this rambling old house there is room enough and to spare, and you shall have all the liberty you please. I don't see you as often or for as long as I want, and the order of things is quite reversed: I would much rather set out to walk to you than wait and watch for your appearance."
"Had I not better go home? My little old nest under the thatch is empty, and the boys are away."
"Come here first for a week; we have never stayed in one house together since we were children. I want to see my dear little Bessie every hour of the day. At Fairfield you are caged. When her ladyship puts on her grand manner and towers she is very daunting to a poor lover."
"She has not seen you since you left London, Harry. I should like you to meet; then I think she might forgive us," said Bessie, with a wistful regret. Sometimes she was highly indignant with my lady, but in the depths of her heart there was always a fund of affection, admiration, and respect for the idol of her childish days.
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."