Mr. Fairfax had made his granddaughter an
allowance of pocket-money so liberal that she was never at a loss for a
substantial testimony of her gratitude to any one who earned it. And now
her farewell visits to all who had been kind to her were paid, and she
was surprised how much she was leaving that she regretted. The word had
come for her to be ready at a moment's call. The yacht was in the river,
her luggage was gone on board, and Mrs. Betts had completed her final
arrangements for the comfort of the young lady. Only Mr. Cecil Burleigh
was to wait for--that was the last news for Bessie: Mr. Cecil Burleigh
was to join the yacht, and to be carried to England with her.
There were three days to wait. The time seemed long in that large vacant
house, that sunburnt secluded garden, that glaring silent court. Bessie
spent hours in the church. It was cool there, and close by if her
summons came. The good _cure_ saw her often, and took no notice. She was
not devout. She was too facile, too philosophical of temper to have
violent preferences or aversions in religion. A less sober mind than
hers would have yielded to the gentle pressure of universal example, but
Bessie was not of those who are given to change. She would have made an
excellent Roman Catholic if she had been born and bred in that
communion, but she had disappointed everybody's pious hopes and efforts
for her conversion to it. She once said to the _cure_ that holiness of
life was the chief thing, and she could not make out that it was the
monopoly of any creed or any sect, or any age of the world.
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