CHAPTER XVII.

_BESSIE'S BRINGING HOME._


When Bessie Fairfax realized that the yacht was sailing away from Ryde
not to return, and carrying her quite out of reach of pursuit, her
spirits sank to zero. It was a perfect evening, and the light on the
water was lovely, but to her it was a most melancholy view--when she
could see it for the mist that obscured her vision. All her heart
desired was being left farther and farther behind, and attraction there
was none in Woldshire to which she was going. She looked at her uncle
Frederick, silent, absent, sad; she remembered her grandfather, cold,
sarcastic, severe; and every ensuing day she experienced fits of
dejection or fits of terror and repulsion, to which even the most
healthy young creatures are liable when they find themselves cut adrift
from what is dear and familiar. Happily, these fits were intermittent,
and at their worst easily diverted by what interested her on the voyage;
and she did not encourage the murky humor: she always tried to shake it
off and feel brave, and especially she made the effort as the yacht drew
towards its haven. It was her nature to struggle against gloom and pain
for a clear outlook at her horizon, and Madame Fournier had not failed
to supply her with moral precepts for sustenance when cast on the shore
of a strange and indifferent society.

The Foam touched at Hastings, at Dover, at semi-Dutch Harwich, and then
no more until it put into Scarcliffe Bay. Here Bessie's sea-adventures