She reined in her horse. “We are going too fast and too far,” she said gravely. “The carriage is almost out of sight.”
“But your mother will trust you with me,” said Philip, looking at her.
“You do not know that; nor whether I care to be trusted.”
“Ah! that is what I fear,” said Philip, biting his lip. “You prefer to ride alone; I don’t.”
“You’re not accustomed to it, perhaps?”
“I have been alone all my life!”
Marion laughed again. “I thought the Marquise Desmoines was a horsewoman,” she said.
Philip blushed; and the carriage having by this time come up, the conversation was carried no further.
But it was impossible to be dispirited on a day like this. The deep smile of a summer morning, though it may seem to mock the dreariness of age, is generally found contagious by youth. The mind must be powerfully preoccupied that can turn its eyes inward, when such a throng of outward loveliness invites it. As the party approached the bridge, a narrow and hump-backed structure, which made up in picturesqueness what it lacked in convenience, the broad reaches of the river came into view, widening down on the left toward distant London, and, on the right, curving round the wooded shores of Kew. The stream echoed with inward tones the blue aloft, varying its clear serenity with a hundred frets and trills of sparkling light. Many boats plied to and fro, oared by jolly young watermen who dreamt not of railways and steam-launches. There were voices of merry-makers, laughter, and calling, after the British fashion, all taking so well the color of the scene as to appear to be its natural utterance; though when, with a finer ear, you caught the singing of the birds, that seemed the natural utterance too. Crossing the bridge, and winding past Kew Green, they began to behold, at the distance of a mile or so, the pleasant town of Richmond grouped betwixt the river and the hill. Leaving a venerable hostelry on the right, and turning sharply westward, carriage and horses trundled and tramped conspicuous along the high-shouldered street; butcher-boys and loafers turned to stare; shop-keepers stood in their doorways, rubbing super-serviceable hands, and smirking invitations; a postboy, standing at the door of the Castle Inn with a pot of ale in his hand, emptied it to Marion’s health; while the neat barmaid who had fetched it for him paused on the threshold with the corner of her apron to her lips, and giggled and reddened at handsome Philip’s nod. Anon they breasted the hill, whose sudden steepness made the horses bob their heads and dig their iron toes sharply into the road. As they mounted to higher air, so did the arc of the horizon seem to mount with them, and the wide levels of rich country lying between retired from verdurous green to remote blue, divided by the lazy curves of glancing Thames. It is the most cultivated prospect in the world, and second to none in wealth and variety of historical association. It gives range and breathing room to the spirits; it has endless comely charm, but it is not inspiring. It is redolent of the humdrum flatness of respectable and prosperous mediocrity. The trees look like smug green cauliflowers; and the blue of the distance seems artificial.
“I am sure there can be nothing so lovely as that in India, Mr. Grant,” said Mrs. Lockhart.