_FAREWELL TO THE FOREST._
A few days after his meeting with Bessie Fairfax at Brook, young
Christie left at the doctor's door a neat, thin parcel addressed to her
with his respects. Lady Latimer and Mrs. Wiley, who were still
interesting themselves in her affairs, were with Mrs. Carnegie at the
time, giving her some instructions in Bessie's behalf. Mrs. Carnegie was
rather bothered than helped by their counsels, but she did not
discourage them, because of the advantage to Bessie of having their
countenance and example. Bessie, sitting apart at the farther side of
the round table, untied the string and unfolded the silver paper. Then
there was a blush, a smile, a cry of pleasure. At what? At a picture of
herself that little Christie had painted, and begged to make an offering
of. It was handed round for the inspection of the company.
"A slight thing," said Mrs. Wiley with a negligent glance. "Young
Christie fishes with sprats to catch whales, as Askew told him
yesterday. He brought his portfolio and a drawing of the church to show,
but we did not buy anything. We are afraid that he will turn out a sad,
idle fellow, going dawdling about instead of keeping to his trade. His
father is much grieved."
"This is sketchy, but full of spirit," said Lady Latimer, holding the
drawing at arm's length to admire.
"It is life itself! We must hear what your father says to it, Bessie,"
Mrs. Carnegie added in a pleased voice.
"If her father does not buy it, I will. It is a charming little
picture," said my lady.
Bessie was gratified, but she hoped her father would not let anybody
else possess it.
"A matter of a guinea, and it will be well paid for," said the rector's
wife.
No one made any rejoinder, but Mr. Carnegie gave the aspiring artist
five guineas (he would not have it as a gift, which little Christie
meant), and plenty of verbal encouragement besides. Lady Latimer further
invited him to paint her little friends, Dora and Dandy. He accepted the
commission, and fulfilled it with effort and painstaking, but not with
such signal success as his portrait of Bessie. That was an inspiration.
The doctor hung up the picture in the dining-room for company every day
in her absence, and promised that it should keep her place for her in
all their hearts and memories until she came home again.
There are not many more events to chronicle until the great event of
Bessie's farewell to Beechhurst. She gave a tea-party to her friends in
the Forest, a picnic tea-party at Great-Ash Ford; and on a fine morning,
when the air blew fresh from the sea, she and her handsome new baggage
were packed, with young Musgrave, into the back seat of the doctor's
chaise, the doctor sitting in front with his man to drive. Their
destination was Hampton, to take the boat for Havre. The man was to
return home with the chaise in the evening. The doctor was going on to
Caen, to deliver his dear little girl safely at school, and Harry was
going with them for a holiday. All the Carnegie children and their
mother, the servants and the house-dog, were out in the road to bid
Bessie a last good-bye; the rector and his wife were watching over the
hedge; and Miss Buff panted up the hill at the last moment, with fat
tears running down her cheeks. She had barely time for a word, Mr.
Carnegie always cutting short leave-takings. Bessie's nose was pink with
tears and her eyes glittered, but she was in good heart. She looked
behind her as long as she could see her mother, and Jack and Willie
coursing after the chaise with damp pocket-handkerchiefs a-flutter; and
then she turned her face the way she was going, and said with a shudder,
"It is a beautiful, sunny morning, but for all that it is cold."
"Have my coat-sleeve, Bessie," suggested Harry, and they both laughed,
then became quiet, then merry.
About two miles out of Hampton the travellers overtook little Christie
making the road fly behind him as he marched apace, a knapsack at his
back and his chin in the air.
"Whither away so fast, young man?" shouted the doctor, hailing him.
"To Hampton Theatre," shouted Christie back again, and he flourished his
hat round his head. Harry Musgrave repeated the triumphant gesture with
a loud hurrah. The artist that was to be had got that commission for the
new drop-scene at the theatre. His summons had come by this morning's
post.
The toil-worn, dusty little figure was long in sight, for now the road
ran in a direct line. Bessie wished they could have given him a lift on
his journey. Harry Musgrave continued to look behind, but he said
nothing. It is some men's fortune to ride cock-horse, it is some other
men's to trudge afoot; but neither is the lot of the first to be envied,
nor the lot of the last to be deplored. Such would probably have been
his philosophy if he had spoken. Bessie, regarding externals only, and
judging of things as they seemed, felt pained by the outward signs of
inequality.
In point of fact, little Christie was the happiest of the three at that
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.