CHAPTER XXXIV

It was the month of July.  The Solent ran up green waves before a full-blowing South-wester.  Gay little yachts bounded out like foam, and flashed their sails, light as sea-nymphs.  A crown of deep Summer blue topped the flying mountains of cloud.

By an open window that looked on the brine through nodding roses, our young bridal pair were at breakfast, regaling worthily, both of them.  Had the Scientific Humanist observed them, he could not have contested the fact, that as a couple who had set up to be father and mother of Britons, they were doing their duty.  Files of egg-cups with disintegrated shells bore witness to it, and they were still at work, hardly talking from rapidity of exercise.  Both were dressed for an expedition.  She had her bonnet on, and he his yachting-hat.  His sleeves were turned over at the wrists, and her gown showed its lining on her lap.  At times a chance word might spring a laugh, but eating was the business of the hour, as I would have you to know it always will be where Cupid is in earnest.  Tribute flowed in to them from the subject land.  Neglected lies Love’s penny-whistle on which they played so prettily and charmed the spheres to hear them.  What do they care for the spheres, who have one another?  Come, eggs! come, bread and butter! come, tea with sugar in it and milk! and welcome, the jolly hours.  That is a fair interpretation of the music in them just now.  Yonder instrument was good only for the overture.  After all, what finer aspiration can lovers have, than to be free man and woman in the heart of plenty?  And is it not a glorious level to have attained?  Ah, wretched Scientific Humanist! not to be by and mark the admirable sight of these young creatures feeding.  It would have been a spell to exorcise the Manichee, methinks.

The mighty performance came to an end, and then, with a flourish of his table-napkin, husband stood over wife, who met him on the confident budding of her mouth.  The poetry of mortals is their daily prose.  Is it not a glorious level to have attained?  A short, quick-blooded kiss, radiant, fresh, and honest as Aurora, and then Richard says without lack of cheer, “No letter to-day, my Lucy!” whereat her sweet eyes dwell on him a little seriously, but he cries, “Never mind! he’ll be coming down himself some morning.  He has only to know her, and all’s well! eh?” and so saying he puts a hand beneath her chin, and seems to frame her fair face in fancy, she smiling up to be looked at.

“But one thing I do want to ask my darling,” says Lucy, and dropped into his bosom with hands of petition.  “Take me on board his yacht with him to-day—­not leave me with those people!  Will he?  I’m a good sailor, he knows!”

“The best afloat!” laughs Richard, hugging her, “but, you know, you darling bit of a sailor, they don’t allow more than a certain number on board for the race, and if they hear you’ve been with me, there’ll be cries of foul play!  Besides, there’s Lady Judith to talk to you about Austin, and Lord Mountfalcon’s compliments for you to listen to, and Mr. Morton to take care of you.”