Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 133.djvu/343

Rh the resting yet hovering dome of Paul's, with its satellite spires, glittering in the tremulous hot air that swathed in multitudinous ripples the mighty city. Southwark Bridge and only London Bridge lay between them and the open river, still widening as it flowed to the aged ocean. Through the centre arch they shot, and lo! a world of masts waiting to woo with white sails the winds that should bear them across deserts of water to lands of wealth and mystery. Through the labyrinth led the highway of the stream, and downward they still swept — past the Tower and past the wharf where that morning, Malcolm had said good-bye for a time to his four-footed subject and friend. The smack's place was empty. With her hugest of sails she was tearing and flashing away out of their sight far down the river before them. Through dingy, dreary Limehouse they sank, and coasted the melancholy, houseless Isle of Dogs; but on all sides were ships and ships, and when they thinned at last Greenwich rose before them. London and the parks looked unendurable from this more varied life, more plentiful air, and, above all, more abundant space. The very spirit of freedom seemed to wave his wings about the yacht, fanning full her sails. Florimel breathed as if she never could have enough of the sweet wind; each breath gave her all the boundless region whence it blew. She gazed as if she would fill her soul with the sparkling gray of the water, the sun-melted blue of the sky and the incredible green of the flat shores. For minutes she would be silent, her parted lips revealing her absorbed delight, then break out in a volley of questions, now addressing Malcolm, now Travers. She tried Davy too, but Davy knew nothing except his duty here. The Thames was like an unknown eternity to the creature of the Wan Water — about which, however, he could have told her a thousand things. Down and down the river they flew, and not until miles and miles of meadows had come between her and London, not indeed until Gravesend appeared, did it occur to Florimel that perhaps it might be well to think by-and-by of returning. But she trusted everything to Malcolm, who of course would see that everything was as it ought to be.

Her excitement began to flag a little. She was getting tired. The bottle had been strained by the ferment of the wine. She turned to Malcolm. "Had we not better be putting about?" she said. "I should like to go on forever, but we must come another day, better provided. We shall hardly be in time for lunch."

It was nearly four o'clock, but she rarely looked at her watch, and indeed wound it up only now and then.

"Will you go below and have some lunch, my lady?" said Malcolm.

"There can't be anything on board," she answered.

"Come and see, my lady," rejoined Malcolm and led the way to the companion.

When she saw the little cabin she gave a cry of delight. "Why, it is just like our own cabin in the Psyche," she said, "only smaller! Is it not, Malcolm?"

"It is smaller, my lady," returned Malcolm, "but then there is a little stateroom beyond."

On the table was a nice meal — cold, but not the less agreeable in the summer weather. Everything looked charming. There were flowers, the linen was snowy, and the bread was the very sort Florimel liked best.

"It is a perfect fairy-tale!" she cried. "And I declare here is our crest on the forks and spoons! — What does it all mean, Malcolm?"

But Malcolm had slipped away and gone on deck again, leaving her to food and conjecture while he brought Rose up from the fore-cabin for a little air. Finding her fast asleep, however, he left her undisturbed.

Florimel finished her meal, and set about examining the cabin more closely. The result was bewilderment. How could a yacht, fitted with such completeness, such luxury, be lying for hire in the Thames? As for the crest on the plate, that was a curious coincidence: many people had the same crest. But both materials and colors were like those of the Psyche! Then the pretty bindings on the bookshelves attracted her: every book was either one she knew or one of which Malcolm had spoken to her. He must have had a hand in the business. Next she opened the door of the state-room, but when she saw the lovely little white berth, and the indications of every comfort belonging to a lady's chamber, she could keep her pleasure to herself no longer. She hastened to the companion-way and called Malcolm. "What does it all mean?" she said, her eyes and cheeks glowing with delight.

"It means, my lady, that you are on board your own yacht, the Psyche. I brought her with me from Portlossie, and have had her fitted up according to the 