To such effect, Lord Fleetwood wrote to Gower Woodseer, as though there had been no breach between them, from Jerusalem, expressing the wish to hear his cool wood-notes of the philosophy of Life, fresh drawn from Nature’s breast; and urgent for an answer, to be addressed to his hotel at Southampton, that he might be greeted on his return home first by his ‘friend Gower.’

He wrote in the month of January.  His arrival at Southampton was on the thirteenth day of March; and there he opened a letter some weeks old, the bearer of news which ought by rights to make husbands proudly happy.

CHAPTER XXVII

WE DESCEND INTO A STEAMER’S ENGINE-ROOM

Fleetwood had dropped his friend Lord Feltre at Ancona; his good fortune was to be alone when the clang of bells rang through his head in the reading of Gower’s lines.  Other letters were opened:  from the Countess Livia, from Lady Arpington, from Captain Kirby-Levellier.  There was one from his lawyers, informing him of their receipt of a communication dated South Wales, December 11th, and signed Owain Wythan; to the effect, that the birth of a son to the Earl of Fleetwood was registered on the day of the date, with a copy of the document forwarded.

Livia scornfully stated the tattling world’s ‘latest.’  The captain was as brief, in ordinary words, whose quick run to the stop could be taken for a challenge of the eye.  It stamped the adversary’s frown on Fleetwood reading.  Lady Arpington was more politic; she wrote of ‘a healthy boy,’ and ‘the healthy mother giving him breast,’ this being ’the way for the rearing of strong men.’  She condescended to the particulars, that she might touch him.

The earl had not been so reared:  his mother was not the healthy mother.  One of his multitudinous, shifty, but ineradicable ambitions was to exhibit an excellingly vigorous, tireless constitution.  He remembered the needed refreshment of the sea-breezes aboard his yacht during the week following the sleep-discarded nights at Scrope’s and the green tables.  For a week he hung to the smell of brine, in rapturous amity with Feltre, until they yellowed, differed, wrangled, hated.

A powerful leaven was put into him by the tidings out of Wales.  Gower, good fellow, had gone down to see the young mother three weeks after the birth of her child.  She was already renewing her bloom.  She had produced the boy in the world’s early manner, lightly, without any of the tragic modern hovering over death to give the life.  Gower compared it to a ‘flush of the vernal orchard after a day’s drink of sunlight.’  That was well:  that was how it should be.  One loathes the idea of tortured women.

The good fellow was perhaps absurdly poetical.  Still we must have poetry to hallow this and other forms of energy:  or say, if you like, the right view of them impels to poetry.  Otherwise we are in the breeding yards, among the litters and the farrows.  It is a question of looking down or looking up.  If we are poor creatures—­as we are if we do but feast and gamble and beget—­we shall run for a time with the dogs and come to the finish of swine.  Better say, life is holy!  Why, then have we to thank her who teaches it.