His confidence had suddenly failed him. He had
counted on Bessie Fairfax for his comrade since he was a boy; the idea
of her was woven into all his pleasant recollections of the past and
all his expectations in the future. Since that Sunday evening in the old
sitting-room at Brook her sweet, womanly figure had been the centre of
his thoughts, his reveries. He had imagined difficulties, obstacles, but
none with her. This real difficulty, this tangible obstacle, in the
shape of Mr. Cecil Burleigh, a suitor chosen by her family and supported
by Lady Latimer, gave him pause. He could not affect to despise Mr.
Cecil Burleigh, but he vowed a vow that he would not be cheated of his
dear little Bessie unless by her own consent. Was it possible that he
was deceived in her--that he and she mistook her old childish affection
for the passion that is strong as death? No--no, it could not be. If
there was truth in her eyes, in her voice, she loved him as dearly as he
loved her, though never a word of love had been spoken between them. The
young man wrought himself up into such a state of agitation and
excitement that he never reached Marsh-End nor saw Mr. Moxon at all that
day. He turned, and bent his steps by a circuitous path to a woodland
nook where he had left his friend Christie at work a couple of hours
ago.
"Back again so soon? Then you did not find Moxon at home," said the
artist, scarcely lifting an eye from the canvas.
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