A-sailing and a-sailing,
Let him come and make me glad!'"
sang Mr. St. George, and they went flying up the river.
"The south winds blow, the waters flow,
His sail is in the sun;
Though twenty storms between us go,
His heart and mine are one,"
sang Éloise, in jubilant response at her safety,—and Marlboro', fain to follow, echoed the air they trolled.
Up the stream, this way and that, tacking and veering, past the boats that hung on their oars and cheered them this time lustily themselves, touching shore,—and the hunters had their boat again. Then all trooping back across the turf, her hand in his, to the place where Marlboro's horse waited with pawing hoofs. What a mad evening it had been! And in the whirl of it Éloise had uttered no word to break her bonds. But broken they must be;—in what insanity had she riveted them,—set free this slave of his passion? His bottle-imp—had not her master once said it?—must grow into a demon that with his wide wings would blacken the sky. One experience of it was too much. Oh, why had nobody warned her?
Every one must have a cup of coffee to counteract the damp. Mrs. Arles had it ready. The horse at the door gave a loud, impatient neigh. The rider would not wait.
"You were right, Marlboro'," said, in his significant undertone, Mr. St. George to him from the other side, as he mounted, while Éloise stood on the step above. "Success perched on your banners. I should have lost, if I had tossed."
"You know it, then? Why, then, of course, it's true. I am half afraid lest it prove one of my cloud-capped dreams. I shall need no more opium to-night, I have other magic," said Marlboro',—bent down and would have kissed the forehead of Éloise, when the horse curvetted, reared, and galloped off.
Was she really pledged? then thought Éloise, as the bead of all her defiant effervescence fell. Was there no loop of escape? Had she so rashly given all at once? Should she inevitably become the wife of Marlboro'? Were the chains upon her? Was she doomed? Nobody guessed her misery, as she reëntered with a fanfare of jests, unless it were the gay St. George himself.
"Are you to be congratulated?" asked the low-voiced Mrs. Arles, having smilingly approached.
"No, no, indeed!" exclaimed Éloise, in a smothered agony; and Mrs. Arles, misunderstanding her, supposed it was not finally arranged.
"What a reckless rider!" cried Miss Murray, looking down the moonlit way after Marlboro'.
"It is not the only reckless thing he does," said her brother.
"No," interpolated Mr. Dean. "The way in which Marlboro' manages his affairs is too Plutonic. But what a gloss those shining sovereign manners of his do put upon it all!"
"Sovereign manners! Don't talk of sovereign manners, unless you mention Mr. St. George's," said Lottie Humphreys under her breath, and glancing to see if he could possibly hear with the length of the room between them. "Mr. St. George puts my heart in a flutter, when he asks will I have ice or cream."
"I've no doubt of it," whispered Emma Houghton, with meaning.
"Sure you're right, Dean?" asked Mr. Humphreys. "I should not like to have at home the dangerous cattle Marlboro' can put finger on."
"Perhaps they would be less dangerous, if the fingers were less weighty."
"Here's Marlboro's theory, and in the long run it's about the true one, you must confess.—Shut that door, Kate, my dear.—A cramped stature does not feel a cramped roof; but raise the stature, and the slave outgrows his institution, and there's revolt. Eh? There's such a thing as equally bad extremes. Our old friend Mr. Erne's of late, and St. George's now,—beg your pardon, St. George,—are both of them just as bad the other way."
"You are severe," said St. George, as he set the chessmen.
