Not before Beauchamp was flying with the Winter gales to warmer climes could Rosamund reflect on his career unshadowed by her feminine mortification at the thought that he was unloved by the girl he had decided to marry.  But when he was away and winds blew, the clouds which obscured an embracing imagination of him—­such as, to be true and full and sufficient, should stretch like the dome of heaven over the humblest of lives under contemplation—­broke, and revealed him to her as one who had other than failed:  rather as one in mid career, in mid forest, who, by force of character, advancing in self-conquest, strikes his impress right and left around him, because of his aim at stars.  He had faults, and she gloried to think he had; for the woman’s heart rejoiced in his portion of our common humanity while she named their prince to men:  but where was he to be matched in devotedness and in gallantry? and what man of blood fiery as Nevil’s ever fought so to subject it?  Rosamund followed him like a migratory bird, hovered over his vessel, perched on deck beside the helm, where her sailor was sure to be stationed, entered his breast, communed with him, and wound him round and round with her love.  He has mine! she cried.  Her craving that he should be blest in the reward, or flower-crown, of his wife’s love of him lessened in proportion as her brooding spirit vividly realized his deeds.  In fact it had been but an example of our very general craving for a climax, palpable and scenic.  She was completely satisfied by her conviction that his wife would respect and must be subordinate to him.  So it had been with her.  As for love, let him come to his Rosamund for love, and appreciation, adoration!

Rosamund drew nigh to her hour of peril with this torch of her love of Beauchamp to illuminate her.

There had been a difficulty in getting him to go.  One day Cecilia walked down to Dr. Shrapnel’s with Mr. Tuckham, to communicate that the Esperanza awaited Captain Beauchamp, manned and provisioned, off the pier.  Now, he would not go without Dr. Shrapnel, nor the doctor without Jenny; and Jenny could not hold back, seeing that the wish of her heart was for Nevil to be at sea, untroubled by political questions and prowling Radical deputies.  So her consent was the seal of the voyage.  What she would not consent to, was the proposal to have her finger ringed previous to the voyage, altogether in the manner of a sailor’s bride.  She seemed to stipulate for a term of courtship.  Nevil frankly told the doctor that he was not equal to it; anything that was kind he was quite ready to say; and anything that was pretty:  but nothing particularly kind and pretty occurred to him:  he was exactly like a juvenile correspondent facing a blank sheet of letter paper:—­he really did not know what to say, further than the uncomplicated exposition of his case, that he wanted a wife and had found the very woman.  How, then, fathom Jenny’s mood for delaying?