When Mildred received Lady Bellamy’s telegram, she was so sure that it would prove the forerunner of Arthur’s arrival at Madeira that she had at once set about making arrangements for his amusement.
It so happened that there was at the time a very beautiful sea-going steam yacht of about two hundred and fifty tons burden lying in the roadstead. She belonged to a nobleman who was suddenly recalled to England by mail-steamer, and, through a series of chances, Mildred was enabled to buy her a bargain. The crew of the departed nobleman also continued in her service.
The morning after the storm broke sweet and clear, and, except that the flowers were somewhat shattered, all Nature looked the fresher for its violent visitation. Arthur, who had come up early to the Quinta, Mildred, and Miss Terry were all seated at breakfast in a room that looked out to the sea, which, although the wind had died away, still ran rather high. They made a pretty picture as they sat round the English-looking breakfast-table, with the light pouring in upon them from the open windows, Miss Terry, with her usual expression of good-humoured solemnity, pouring out the tea, and Mildred and Arthur, who sat exactly opposite to each other, drinking it. Never had the former looked more lovely than she did that morning.
“My dear,” said Agatha to her, “what have you done to yourself? You look beautiful.”
“Do I, dear? Then it is because I am happy.”
Agatha was quite right, thought Arthur, she did look beautiful, there was such depth and rest in her clear eyes, such a wealth of happy triumph written on her features. She might have sat that morning as a study of the “Venus Victrix.” Her talk, too, was as bright as herself. She laughed and shone and sparkled like the rain-drops on the bamboo sprays that rocked in the sunshine, and whenever she addressed herself to Arthur, which was often enough, every sentence seemed wrapped in tender meaning. Her whole life went out towards him, a palpable thing; she waited on his words and basked in his smile. Mildred Carr did nothing by halves.
Arthur was the least cheerful of the three, though at times he tried his best to join in Mildred’s merriment. Any one who knew him well could have told that he was suffering from one of his fits of constitutional melancholy, and a physiognomist, looking at the somewhat dreamy eyes and pensive face, would probably have added that he neither was nor ever would be an entirely happy man.
By degrees, however, he seemed to get the better of his thoughts, whatever they might be.
“Now, Arthur, if you are quite awake,” began, or rather went on, Mildred, “perhaps you will come to the window. I have something to show you.”
“Here I am at your service; what may it be?”
“Good. Now look; do you see that little vessel in the bay beneath there to the right of Leeuw Rock?”
“Yes, and uncommonly pretty she is; what of her?”
“What of her? Why, she is my yacht.”
“Your yacht?”
“Goodness gracious, Mildred, you don’t mean to say that you’ve been buying a yacht and told me nothing about it? Just think! Well, I call that sly.”
“Yes, my dear Agatha, I have; a yacht and a ready-made crew, and the very prettiest saloon in the world, and sleeping-cabins that you will think it an honour to be sea-sick in, and a cook’s galley with bright copper fittings, and a cook with a white cap, and steam-steering gear if you care to use it, and ——”
“For goodness sake, don’t overwhelm us; and what are you going to do with your white elephant, now that you have got it?”
“Do with it? why, ride on it, of course. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ or rather ‘lady and gentleman.’ Attention! You will both be in marching, or rather in sailing, order by four this afternoon, for at five we start for the Canaries. Now, no remarks; I’m a skipper, and I expect to be obeyed, or I’ll put you in irons.”
“You’ve done that already,” said Arthur, sotto voce.
