Frederick Fairfax had kept his visits from the knowledge of his
school-girl niece. Now, however, concealment might be abandoned, for if
the facts were not communicated to her here, she would be sure to hear
them at Kirkham. And Mrs. Betts told her the pitiful story. Bessie was
inexpressibly awed and shocked at the revelation. She had not heard a
whisper of the tragedy before.
One evening in the cool Bessie walked with Miss Foster up the wide
thoroughfare, at the country end of which are the old convent walls and
gardens which enclose the modern buildings of the Bon Sauveur. They were
not a dozen paces from the gates when the wicket was opened by a sister,
and Mr. Frederick Fairfax came out. Bessie's face flushed and her eyes
filled with tears of compassion.
"You know where I have been, then, Elizabeth?" said he--"to visit my
poor wife. She seems happier in her little room full of birds and
flowers than on the yacht with me, yet the good nuns assure me she is
the better for her sea-trip. The nuns are most kind."
Bessie acquiesced, and Miss Foster remarked that it was at the Bon
Sauveur gentle usage of the insane had first superseded the cruel old
system of restraints and terror. Mr. Frederick Fairfax shivered, stood a
minute gazing dejectedly into space, and then walked on.
"He loves her," said Bessie, deeply touched. "I suppose death is a light
affliction in comparison with such a separation.
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