moment. According to his own belief, he was just about to lay hold of
the key that would open for him the outer door of the Temple of Fame.
After that blessed drop-scene that he was on his way to execute at
Hampton, never more would he return to his mechanical painting and
graining. It was an epoch that they all dated from, this shining day of
September, when Bessie Fairfax bade farewell to the Forest, and little
Christie set out on his career of honor with a knapsack on his back and
seven guineas in his pocket. As for Harry Musgrave, his leading-strings
were broken before, and he was in some sort a citizen of the world
already.




CHAPTER X.

_BESSIE GOES INTO EXILE._


The rapid action and variety of the next few days were ever after like a
dream to Bessie Fairfax. A tiring day in Hampton town, a hurried walk to
the docks in the sunset, the gorgeous autumnal sunset that flushed the
water like fire; a splendid hour in the river, ships coming up full
sail, and twilight down to the sea; a long, deep sleep. Then sunrise on
rolling green waves, low cliffs, headlands of France; a vast turmoil,
hubbub, and confusion of tongues; a brief excursion into Havre, by gay
shops to gayer gardens, and breakfast in the gayest of glass-houses.
Then embarkation on board the boat for Caen; a gentle sea-rocking;
soldiers, men in blouses, women in various patterns of caps; the mouth
of the Orne; fringes on the coast of fashionable resort for sea-bathers.