Had Nataly and Nesta known who was outside helping Skepsey to play ball with the boys, they would not have worked through their share of the performance with so graceful a composure. Even Simeon Fenellan was unaware that his half-brother Dartrey had landed in England. Dartrey went first to Victor’s office, where he found Skepsey packing the day’s letters and circulars into the bag for the delivery of them at Lakelands. They sprang a chatter, and they missed the last of the express trains which did, not greatly signify, Skepsey said, ‘as it was a Concert.’ To hear his hero talk, was the music for him; and he richly enjoyed the pacing along the railway-platform.
Arrived on the grounds, they took opposite sides in a game of rounders, at that moment tossing heads or tails for innings. These boys were slovenly players, and were made unhappy by Skepsey’s fussy instructions to them in smartness. They had a stupid way of feeding the stick, and they ran sprawling; it concerned Great Britain for them to learn how to use their legs. It was pitiful for the country to see how lumpish her younger children were. Dartrey knew his little man and laughed, after warning him that his English would want many lessons before they stomached the mixture of discipline and pleasure. So it appeared: the pride of the boys in themselves, their confidence, enjoyment of the game, were all gone; and all were speedily out but Skepsey; who ran for the rounder, with his coat off, sharp as a porpoise, and would have got it, he had it in his grasp, when, at the jump, just over the line of the goal, a clever fling, if ever was, caught him a crack on that part of the human frame where sound is best achieved. Then were these young lumps transformed to limber, lither, merry fellows. They rejoiced Skepsey’s heart; they did everything better, ran and dodged and threw in a style to win the nod from the future official inspector of Games and Amusements of the common people; a deputy of the Government, proposed by Skepsey to his hero with a deferential eagerness. Dartrey clapped him on the shoulder, softly laughing.
‘System—Mr. Durance is right—they must have system, if they are to appreciate a holiday,’ Skepsey said; and he sent a wretched gaze around, at the justification of some of the lurid views of Mr. Durance, in signs of the holiday wasted;—impoverishing the country’s manhood in a small degree, it may be argued, but we ask, can the country afford it, while foreign nations are drilling their youth, teaching them to be ready to move in squads or masses, like the fist of a pugilist. Skepsey left it to his look to speak his thought. He saw an enemy in tobacco. The drowsiness of beer had stretched various hulks under trees. Ponderous cricket lumbered half-alive. Flabby fun knocked-up a yell. And it was rather vexatious to see girls dancing in good time to the band-music. One had a male-partner, who hopped his loutish burlesque of the thing he could not do.
Apparently, too certainly, none but the girls had a notion of orderly muscular exercise. Of what use are girls! Girls have their one mission on earth; and let them be healthy by all means, for the sake of it; only, they should not seem to prove that old England is better represented on the female side. Skepsey heard, with a nip of spite at his bosom, a small body of them singing in chorus as they walked in step, arm in arm, actually marched: and to the rearward, none of these girls heeding; there were the louts at their burlesque of jigs and fisticuffs! ‘Cherry Ripe,’ was the song.
‘It’s delightful to hear them!’ said Dartrey.
Skepsey muttered jealously of their having been trained.
The song, which drew Dartrey Fenellan to the quick of an English home, planted him at the same time in Africa to hear it. Dewy on a parched forehead it fell, England the shedding heaven.
He fetched a deep breath, as of gratitude for vital refreshment. He had his thoughts upon the training of our English to be something besides the machinery of capitalists, and upon the country as a blessed mother instead of the most capricious of maudlin step-dames.
He flicked his leg with the stick he carried, said: ‘Your master’s the man to make a change among them, old friend!’ and strolled along to a group surrounding two fellows who shammed a bout at single-stick. Vacuity in the attack on either side, contributed to the joint success of the defense. They paused under inspection; and Dartrey said: ‘You’re burning to give them a lesson, Skepsey.’
Skepsey had no objection to his hero’s doing so, though at his personal cost.
The sticks were handed to them; the crowd increased; their rounders boys had spied them, and came trooping to the scene. Skepsey was directed to hit in earnest. His defensive attitude flashed, and he was at head and right and left leg, and giving point, recovering, thrusting madly, and again at shoulder and thigh, with bravos for reward of a man meaning business; until a topper on his hat, a cut over the right thigh, and the stick in his middlerib, told the spectators of a scientific adversary; and loudly now the gentleman was cheered. An undercurrent of warm feeling ran for the plucky little one at it hot again in spite of the strokes, and when he fetched his master a handsome thud across the shoulder, and the gentleman gave up and complimented him, Skepsey had applause.
He then begged his hero to put the previous couple in position, through a few of the opening movements. They were horribly sheepish at first. Meantime two boys had got hold of sticks, and both had gone to work in Skepsey’s gallant style; and soon one was howling. He excused himself, because of the funny-bone, situated, in his case, higher than usual up the arm. And now the pair of men were giving and taking cuts to make a rhinoceros caper.
‘Very well; begin that way; try what you can bear,’ said Dartrey.
Skepsey watched them, in felicity for love of the fray, pained by the disregard of science.
Comments on the pretty play, indicating a reminiscent acquaintance with it, and the capacity for critical observations, were started. Assaults, wonderful tricks of a slashing Life-Guardsman, one spectator had witnessed at an exhibition in a London hall. Boxing too. You may see displays of boxing still in places. How about a prizefight?—With money on it?—Eh, but you don’t expect men to stand up to be knocked into rumpsteaks for nothing?—No, but it’s they there bets!—Right, and that’s a game gone to ruin along of outsiders.—But it always was and it always will be popular with Englishmen!
Great English names of young days, before the wintry shadow of the Law had blighted them, received their withered laurels. Emulous boys were in the heroic posture. Good! sparring does no hurt: Skepsey seized a likely lad, Dartrey another. Nature created the Ring for them. Now then, arms and head well up, chest hearty, shoulders down, out with the right fist, just below the level of the chin; out with the left fist farther, right out, except for that bit of curve; so, and draw it slightly back for wary-pussy at the spring. Firm you stand, feeling the muscles of both legs, left half a pace ahead, right planted, both stringy. None of your milk-pail looks; show us jaw, you bulldogs. Now then, left from the shoulder, straight at right of head.—Good, and alacrity called on vigour in Skepsey’s pupil; Dartrey’s had the fist on his mouth before he could parry right arm up. ‘Foul blow!’ Dartrey cried. Skepsey vowed to the contrary. Dartrey reiterated his charge. Skepsey was a figure of negation, gesticulating and protesting. Dartrey appealed tempestuously to the Ring; Skepsey likewise, in a tone of injury. He addressed a remonstrance to Captain Dartrey.
‘Hang your captain, sir! I call you a coward; come on,’ said the resolute gentleman, already in ripe form for the attack. His blue eyes were like the springing sunrise over ridges of the seas; and Skepsey jumped to his meaning.
Boys and men were spectators of a real scientific set-to, a lovely show. They were half puzzled, it seemed so deadly. And the little one got in his blows at the gentleman, who had to be hopping. Only, the worse the gentleman caught it, the friendlier his countenance became. That was the wonder, and that gave them the key. But it was deliciously near to the real thing.
Dartrey and Skepsey shook hands.
‘And now, you fellows, you’re to know, that this is one of the champions; and you take your lesson from him and thank him,’ Dartrey said, as he turned on his heel to strike and greet the flow from the house.
‘Dartrey come!’ Victor, Fenellan, Colney, had him by the hand in turn. Pure sweetness of suddenly awakened joy sat in Nataly’s eyes as she swam to welcome him, Nesta moved a step, seemed hesitating, and she tripped forward. ‘Dear Captain Dartrey!’
He did not say: ‘But what a change in you!’
‘It is blue-butterfly, all the same,’ Nataly spoke to his look.
Victor hurriedly pronounced the formal introduction between the Hon. Dudley Sowerby and Captain Dartrey Fenellan. The bronze face and the milky bowed to one another ceremoniously; the latter faintly flushing.
‘So here you are at last,’ Victor said. ‘You stay with us.’
‘To-morrow or later, if you’ll have me. I go down to my people to-night.’
‘But you stay in England now?’ Nataly’s voice wavered on the question.
‘There’s a chance of my being off to Upper Burmah before the week’s ended.’
‘Ah, dear, dear!’ sighed Fenellan; ‘and out of good comes evil!—as grandfather Deucalion exclaimed, when he gallantly handed up his dripping wife from the mud of the Deluge waters. Do you mean to be running and Dewing it on for ever, with only a nod for friends, Dart?’
‘Lord, Simmy, what a sound of home there is in your old nonsense!’ Dartrey said.
His eyes of strong dark blue colour and the foreign swarthiness of his brows and cheeks and neck mixed the familiar and the strange, in the sight of the women who knew him.
The bill-broker’s fair-tressed young wife whispered of curiosity concerning him to Nataly. He dressed like a sailor, he stood like a soldier: and was he married? Yes, he was married.
Mrs. Blathenoy imagined a something in Mrs. Radnor’s tone. She could account for it; not by the ordinary reading of the feminine in the feminine, but through a husband who professed to know secrets. She was young in years and experience, ten months wedded, disappointedly awakened, enlivened by the hour, kindled by a novel figure of man, fretful for a dash of imprudence. This Mrs. Radnor should be the one to second her very innocent turn for a galopade; her own position allowed of any little diverting jig or reel, or plunge in a bath—she required it, for the domestic Jacob Blathenoy was a dry chip: proved such, without a day’s variation during the whole of the ten wedded months. Nataly gratified her spoken wish. Dartrey Fenellan bowed to the lady, and she withdrew him, seeing composedly that other and greater ladies had the wish ungratified. Their husbands were not so rich as hers, and their complexions would hardly have pleased the handsome brown-faced officer so well.
Banquet, equal to a blast of trumpet, was the detaining word for the multitude. It circulated, one knows not how. Eloquent as the whiffs to the sniffs (and nowhere is eloquence to match it, when the latter are sharpened from within to without), the word was very soon over the field. Mr. Carling may have helped; he had it from Fenellan; and he was among the principal groups, claiming or making acquaintances, as a lawyer should do. The Concert was complimentarily a topic: Durandarte divine!—did not everybody think so? Everybody did, in default of a term for overtopping it. Our language is poor at hyperbole; our voices are stronger. Gestures and heaven-sent eyeballs invoke to display the ineffable. Where was Durandarte now? Gone; already gone; off with the Luciani for evening engagements; he came simply to oblige his dear friend Mr. Radnor. Cheque fifty guineas: hardly more on both sides than an exchange of smiles. Ah, these merchant-princes! What of Mr. Radnor’s amateur instrumentalists? Amateurs, they are not to be named: perfect musicians. Mr. Radnor is the perfection of a host. Yes, yes; Mrs. Radnor; Miss Radnor too: delicious voices; but what is it about Mr. Radnor so captivating! He is not quite English, yet he is not at all foreign. Is he very adventurous in business, as they say?
‘Soundest head in the City of London,’ Mr. Blathenoy remarked.
Sir Rodwell Blachington gave his nod.
The crowd interjected, half-sighing. We ought to be proud of such a man! Perhaps we are a trifle exaggerating, says its heart. But that we are wholly grateful to him, is a distinct conclusion. And he may be one of the great men of his time: he has a quite individual style of dress.
Lady Rodwell Blachington observed to Colney Durance:
‘Mr. Radnor bids fair to become the idol of the English people.’
‘If he can prove himself to be sufficiently the dupe of the English people,’ said Colney.
‘Idol—dupe?’ interjected Sir Rodwell, and his eyebrows fixed at the perch of Colney’s famous ‘national interrogation’ over vacancy of understanding, as if from the pull of a string. He had his audience with him; and the satirist had nothing but his inner gush of acids at sight of a planted barb.
Colney was asked to explain. He never explained. He performed a series of astonishing leaps, like the branchy baboon above the traveller’s head in the tropical forest, and led them into the trap they assisted him to prepare for them. ‘No humour, do you say? The English have no humour?’ a nephew of Lady Blachington’s inquired of him, with polite pugnacity, and was cordially assured, that ‘he vindicated them.’
‘And Altruistic! another specimen of the modern coinage,’ a classical Church dignitary, in grammarian disgust, remarked to a lady, as they passed.
Colney pricked-up his ears. It struck him that he might fish for suggestions in aid of the Grand Argument before the Elders of the Court of Japan. Dr. Wardan, whose recognition he could claim, stated to him, that the lady and he were enumerating words of a doubtfully legitimate quality now being inflicted upon the language.
‘The slang from below is perhaps preferable?’ said Colney.
‘As little-less.’
‘But a pirate-tongue, cut-off from its roots, must continue to practise piracy, surely, or else take reinforcements in slang, otherwise it is inexpressive of new ideas.’
‘Possibly the new ideas are best expressed in slang.’
‘If insular. They will consequently be incommunicable to foreigners. You would, then, have us be trading with tokens instead of a precious currency? Yet I cannot perceive the advantage of letting our ideas be clothed so racy of the obscener soil; considering the pretensions of the English language to become the universal. If we refuse additions from above, they force themselves on us from below.’
Dr. Wardan liked the frame of the observations, disliked the substance.
‘One is to understand that the English language has these pretensions?’ he said:—he minced in his manner, after the well-known mortar-board and tassel type; the mouthing of a petrifaction: clearly useless to the pleadings of the patriotic Dr. Bouthoin and his curate.
He gave no grip to Colney, who groaned at cheap Donnish sarcasm, and let him go, after dealing him a hard pellet or two in a cracker-covering.
There was Victor all over the field netting his ephemerae! And he who feeds on them, to pay a price for their congratulations and flatteries, he is one of them himself!
Nesta came tripping from the Rev. Septimus Barmby. ‘Dear Mr. Durance, where is Captain Dartrey?’
Mrs. Blathenoy had just conducted her husband through a crowd, for an introduction of him to Captain Dartrey. That was perceptible.
Dudley Sowerby followed Nesta closely: he struck across the path of the Rev. Septimus: again he had the hollow of her ear at his disposal.
‘Mr. Radnor was excellent. He does everything consummately: really, we are all sensible of it. I am. He must lead us in a symphony. These light “champagne overtures” of French composers, as Mr. Fenellan calls them, do not bring out his whole ability:—Zampa, Le Pre aux clercs, Masaniello, and the like.’
‘Your duet together went well.’
‘Thanks to you—to you. You kept us together.’
‘Papa was the runaway or strain-the-leash, if there was one.’
‘He is impetuous, he is so fervent. But, Miss Radnor, I could not be the runaway-with you... with you at the piano. Indeed, I... shall we stroll down? I love the lake.’
‘You will hear the bell for your cold dinner very soon.’
‘I am not hungry. I would so much rather talk—hear you. But you are hungry? You have been singing twice: three times! Opera singers, they say, eat hot suppers; they drink stout. And I never heard your voice more effective. Yours is a voice that... something of the feeling one has in hearing cathedral voices: carry one up. I remember, in Dresden, once, a Fraulein Kuhnstreich, a prodigy, very young, considering her accomplishments. But it was not the same.’
Nesta wondered at Dartrey Fenellan for staying so long with Mr. and Mrs. Blathenoy.
‘Ah, Mr. Sowerby, if I am to have flattery, I cannot take it as a milliner’s dumb figure wears the beautiful dress; I must point out my view of some of my merits.’
‘Oh! do, I beg, Miss... You have a Christian name and I too: and once ... not Mr. Sowerby: yes, it was Dudley!
‘Quite accidentally, and a world of pardons entreated.’
‘And Dudley begged Dudley might be Dudley always!’
He was deepening to the Barmby intonation—apparently Cupid’s; but a shade more airily Pagan, not so fearfully clerical.
Her father had withdrawn Dartrey Fenellan from Mr. and Mrs. Blathenoy. Dr. Schlesien was bowing with Dartrey.
‘And if Durandarte would only—but you are one with Miss Graves to depreciate my Durandarte, in favour of the more classical Jachimo; whom we all admire; but you shall be just,’ said she, and she pouted. She had seen her father plant Dartrey Fenellan in the midst of a group of City gentlemen.
Simeon touched among them to pluck at his brother. He had not a chance; he retired, and swam into the salmon-net of seductive Mrs. Blathenoy’s broad bright smile.
‘It’s a matter of mines, and they’re hovering in the attitude of the query, like corkscrews over a bottle, profoundly indifferent to blood-relationships,’ he said to her.
‘Pray, stay and be consoled by me,’ said the fair young woman. ‘You are to point me out all the distinguished people. Is it true, that your brother has left the army?’
‘Dartrey no longer wears the red. Here comes Colonel Corfe, who does. England has her army still!’
‘His wife persuaded him?’
‘You see he is wearing the black.’
‘For her? How very very sad! Tell me—what a funnily dressed woman meeting that gentleman!’
‘Hush—a friend of the warrior. Splendid weather, Colonel Corfe.’
‘Superb toilettes!’ The colonel eyed Mrs. Blathenoy dilatingly, advanced, bowed, and opened the siege.
She decided a calculation upon his age, made a wall of it, smilingly agreed with his encomium of the Concert, and toned her voice to Fenellan’s comprehension: ‘Did it occur recently?’
‘Months; in Africa; I haven’t the date.’
‘Such numbers of people one would wish to know! Who are those ladies holding a Court, where Mr. Radnor is?’
‘Lady Carmine, Lady Swanage—if it is your wish?’ interposed the colonel.
She dealt him a forgiving smile. ‘And that pleasant-looking old gentleman?’
Colonel Corfe drew-up. Fenellan said: ‘Are we veterans at forty or so?’
‘Well, it ‘s the romance, perhaps!’ She raised her shoulders.
The colonel’s intelligence ran a dog’s nose for a lady’s interjections. ‘The romance?... at forty, fifty? gone? Miss Julinks, the great heiress and a beauty; has chosen him over the heads of all the young men of his time. Cranmer Lotsdale. Most romantic history!’
‘She’s in love with that, I suppose.’
‘Now you direct my attention to him,’ said Fenellan, ‘the writing of the romantic history has made the texture look a trifle thready. You have a terrible eye.’
It was thrown to where the person stood who had first within a few minutes helped her to form critical estimates of men, more consciously to read them.
‘Your brother stays in England?’
‘The fear is, that he’s off again.’
‘Annoying for you. If I had a brother, I would not let him go.’
‘How would you detain him?’
‘Locks and bolts, clock wrong, hands and arms, kneeling—the fourth act of the Huguenots!’
‘He went by way of the window, I think. But that was a lover.’
‘Oh! well!’ she flushed. She did not hear the ‘neglected and astonished colonel speak, and she sought diversion in saying to Fenellan: ‘So many people of distinction are assembled here to-day! Tell me, who is that pompous gentleman, who holds his arms up doubled, as he walks?’
‘Like flappers of a penguin: and advances in jerks: he is head of the great Firm of Quatley Brothers: Sir Abraham: finances or farms one of the South American Republics: we call him, Pride of Port. He consumes it and he presents it.’
‘And who is that little man, who stops everybody?’
‘People of distinction indeed! That little man—is your upper lip underrateing him?... When a lady’s lip is erratically disdainful, it suggests a misuse of a copious treasury, deserving to be mulcted, punished—how?—who can say?—that little man, now that little man, with a lift of his little finger, could convulse the Bacon Market!’
Mrs. Blathenoy shook. Hearing Colonel Corfe exclaim:
‘Bacon Market!’ she let fly a peal. Then she turned to a fresh satellite, a round and a ruddy, ‘at her service ever,’ Mr. Beaves Urmsing, and repeated Fenellan’s words. He, in unfeigned wonderment at such unsuspected powers, cried: ‘Dear me!’ and stared at the little man, making the pretty lady’s face a twinkling dew.
He had missed the Concert. Was it first-rate? Ecstasy answered in the female voice.
‘Hem’d fool I am to keep appointments!’ he muttered.
She reproved him: ‘Fie, Mr. Urmsing; it’s the making of them, not the keeping!’
‘Ah, my dear ma’am, if I’d had Blathenoy’s luck when he made a certain appointment. And he was not so much older than me? The old ones get the prizes!’
Mr. Beaves Urmsing prompted Colonel Corfe to laugh in triumph. The colonel’s eyebrows were up in fixity over sleepy lids. He brightened to propose the conducting of the pretty woman to the banquet.
‘We shall see them going in,’ said she. ‘Mr. Radnor has a French cook, who does wonders. But I heard him asking for Mr. Beaves Urmsing. I’m sure he expected The Marigolds at his Concert.’
‘Anything to oblige the company,’ said the rustic ready chorister, clearing his throat.
The lady’s feet were bent in the direction of a grassy knoll, where sunflowers, tulips, dahlias, peonies, of the sex eclipsed at a distance its roses and lilies. Fenellan saw Dartrey, still a centre of the merchantmen, strolling thither.
‘And do you know, your brother is good enough to dine with us next week, Thursday, down here,’ she murmured. ‘I could venture to command?—if you are not induced.’
‘Whichever word applies to a faithful subject.’
‘I do so wish your brother had not left the army!’
‘You have one son of Mars.’
Her eyes took the colonel up to cast him down: he was not the antidote. She said to him: ‘Luciani’s voice wears better than her figure.’
The colonel replied: ‘I remember,’ and corrected himself, ‘at Eton, in jackets: she was not so particularly slim; never knew how to dress. You beat Italians there! She moved one as a youngster.’
‘Eton boys are so susceptible!’
‘Why, hulloa, don’t I remember her coming out!—and do you mean to tell me,’ Mr. Beaves Urmsing brutally addressed the colonel, ‘that you were at Eton when... why, what age do you give the poor woman, then!’ He bellowed, ‘Eh?’ as it were a bull crowing.
The colonel retreated to one of his defensive corners. ‘I am not aware that I meant to tell you anything.’
Mr. Beaves Urmsing turned square-breasted on Fenellan: ‘Fellow’s a born donkey!’
‘And the mother lived?’ said Fenellan.
Mr. Beaves Urmsing puffed with wrath at the fellow.
Five minutes later, in the midst of the group surrounding and felicitating Victor, he had sight of Fenellan conversing with fair ones, and it struck a light in him; he went three steps backward, with shouts. ‘Dam funny fellow! eh? who is he? I must have that man at my table. Worth fifty Colonel Jackasses! And I ‘ve got a son in the Guards: and as much laugh in him, he ‘s got, as a bladder. But we’ll make a party, eh, Radnor? with that friend o’ yours. Dam funny fellow! and precious little of it going on now among the young lot. They’re for seeing ghosts and gaping their jaws; all for the quavers instead of the capers.’
He sounded and thrummed his roguish fling-off for the capers. A second glimpse of Fenellan agitated the anecdote, as he called it, seizing Victor’s arm, to have him out of earshot of the ladies. Delivery, not without its throes, was accomplished, but imperfectly, owing to sympathetic convulsions, under which Mr. Beaves Urmsing’s countenance was crinkled of many colours, as we see the Spring rhubarb-leaf. Unable to repeat the brevity of Fenellan’s rejoinder, he expatiated on it to convey it, swearing that it was the kind of thing done in the old days, when men were witty dogs:—‘pat! and pat back! as in the pantomime.’
‘Repartee!’ said Victor. ‘He has it. You shall know him. You’re the man for him.’
‘He for me, that he is!—“Hope the mother’s doing well? My card”:—eh? Grave as an owl! Look, there goes the donkey, lady to right and left, all ears for him—ha! ha! I must have another turn with your friend. “Mother lived, did she?” Dam funny fellow, all of the olden time! And a dinner, bachelor dinner, six of us, at my place, next week, say Wednesday, half-past six, for a long evening—flowing bowl—eh, shall it be?’
Nesta came looking to find her Captain Dartrey.
Mr. Beaves Urmsing grew courtly of the olden time. He spied Colonel Corfe anew, and ‘Donkey!’ rose to split the roar at his mouth, and full of his anecdote, he pursued some congenial acquaintances, crying to his host: ‘Wednesday, mind! eh? by George, your friend’s gizzarded me for the day!’
Plumped with the rich red stream of life, this last of the squires of old England thumped along among the guests, a very tuning-fork to keep them at their pitch of enthusiasm. He encountered Mr. Caddis, and it was an encounter. Mr. Caddis represented his political opinions; but here was this cur of a Caddis whineing his niminy note from his piminy nob, when he was asked for his hearty echo of the praises of this jolly good fellow come to waken the neighbourhood, to be a blessing, a blazing hearth, a fall of manna:—and thank the Lord for him, you desertdog! ‘He ‘s a merchant prince, and he’s a prince of a man, if you’re for titles. Eh? you “assent to my encomiums.” You’ll be calling me Mr. Speaker next. Hang me, Caddis, if those Parliamentary benches of yours aren’t freezing you from your seat up, and have got to your jaw—my belief!’
Mr. Caddis was left reflecting, that we have, in the dispensations of Providence, when we have a seat, to submit to castigations from butcherly men unaccountably commissioned to solidify the seat. He could have preached a discourse upon Success, to quiet the discontentment of the unseated. And our world of seats oddly gained, quaintly occupied, maliciously beset, insensately envied, needs the discourse. But it was not delivered, else would it have been here written down without mercy, as a medical prescript, one of the grand specifics. He met Victor, and, between his dread of him and the counsels of a position subject to stripes, he was a genial thaw. Victor beamed; for Mr. Caddis had previously stood eminent as an iceberg of the Lakelands’ party. Mr. Inchling and Mr. Caddis were introduced. The former in Commerce, the latter in Politics, their sustaining boast was, the being our stable Englishmen; and at once, with cousinly minds, they fell to chatting upon the nothings agreeably and seriously. Colney Durance forsook a set of ladies for fatter prey, and listened to them. What he said, Victor did not hear. The effect was always to be seen, with Inchling under Colney. Fenellan did better service, really good service.
Nataly played the heroine she was at heart. Why think of her as having to act a character! Twice had Carling that afternoon, indirectly and directly, stated Mrs. Burman to be near the end we crape a natural, a defensible, satisfaction to hear of:—not wishing it—poor woman!—but pardonably, before man and all the angels, wishing, praying for the beloved one to enter into her earthly peace by the agency of the other’s exit into her heavenly.
Fenellan and Colney came together, and said a word apiece of their friend.
‘In his element! The dear old boy has the look of a goldfish, king of his globe.’
‘The dear old boy has to me the look of a pot on the fire, with a loose lid.’
I may have the summons from Themison to-morrow, Victor thought. The success of the day, was a wine that rocked the soberest of thoughts. For, strange to confess, ever since the fall on London Bridge, his heart, influenced in some degree by Nataly’s depression perhaps, had been shadowed by doubts of his infallible instinct for success. Here, at a stroke, and before entering the house, he had the whole neighbourhood about him: he could feel that he and Nataly stood in the minds of the worthy people variously with the brightness if not with the warmth distinguishable in the bosom of Beaves Urmsing—the idea of whom gave Lakelands an immediate hearth-glow.
Armandine was thirteen minutes, by his watch, behind the time she had named. Small blame to her. He excused her to Lady Carmine, Lady Swanage, Lady Blachington, Mrs. Fanning, Sir Abraham Quatley, Mr. Danny (of Bacon fame) and the rest of the group surrounding Nataly on the mound leftward of the white terraces descending to the lake; where she stood beating her foot fretfully at the word brought by Nesta, that Dartrey Fenellan had departed. It was her sunshine departed. But she went through her task of conversing amiably. Colney, for a wonder, consented to be useful in assisting Fenellan to relate stories of French Cooks; which were, like the Royal Hanoverian oyster, of an age for offering acceptable flavour to English hearers. Nesta drew her mother’s attention to Priscilla Graves and Skepsey; the latter bending head and assenting. Nataly spoke of the charm of Priscilla’s voice that day, in her duet with the Rev. Septimus. Mr. Pempton looked; he saw that Priscilla was proselytizing. She was perfection to him but for one blotting thing. With grief on his eyelids, he said to Nataly or to himself: ‘Meat!’
‘Dear friend, don’t ride your hobby over us,’ she replied.
‘But it’s with that object they mount it,’ said Victor.
The greater ladies of the assembly were quite ready to accuse the sections, down to the individuals, of the social English (reserving our elect) of an itch to be tyrants.
Colney was apologizing for them, with his lash: ‘It’s merely the sensible effect of a want of polish of the surface when they rub together.’
And he heard Carling exclaim to Victor: ‘How comes the fellow here!’
Skepsey had rushed across an open space to intercept a leisurely progressive man, whose hat was of the shape Victor knew; and the man wore the known black gaiters. In appearance, he had the likeness of a fallen parson.
Carling and Victor crossed looks that were questions carrying their answers.
Nataly’s eyes followed Victor’s. ‘Who is the man?’ she said; and she got no reply beyond a perky sparkle in his gaze.
Others were noticing the man, who was trying to pass by Skepsey, now on his right side, now on his left.
‘There’ll be no stopping him,’ Carling said, and he slipped to the rear.’
At this juncture, Armandine’s mellow bell proclaimed her readiness.
Victor rubbed the back of his head. Nataly asked him: ‘Dear, is it that man?’
He nodded scantly: ‘Expected, expected. I think we have our summons from Armandine. One moment—poor soul! poor soul! Lady Carmine—Sir Abraham Quatley. Will you lead? Lady Blachington, I secure you. One moment.’
He directed Nataly to pair a few of the guests; he hurried down the slope of sward.
Nataly applied to Colney Durance. ‘Do you know the man?—is it that man?’
Colney rejoined: ‘The man’s name is Jarniman.’
Armandine’s bell swung melodiously. The guests had grouped, thickening for the stream to procession. Mrs. Blathenoy claimed Fenellan; she requested him to tell her whether he had known Mrs. Victor Radnor many years. She mused. ‘You like her?’
‘One likes one’s dearest of friends among women, does one not?’
The lady nodded to his response. ‘And your brother?’
‘Dartrey is devoted to her.’
‘I am sure,’ said she, ‘your brother is a chivalrous gentleman. I like her too.’ She came to her sentiment through the sentiment of the chivalrous gentleman. Sinking from it, she remarked that Mr. Radnor was handsome still. Fenellan commended the subject to her, as one to discourse of when she met Dartrey. A smell of a trap-hatch, half-open, afflicted and sharpened him. It was Blathenoy’s breath: husbands of young wives do these villanies, for the sake of showing their knowledge. Fenellan forbore to praise Mrs. Victor: he laid his colours on Dartrey. The lady gave ear till she reddened. He meant no harm, meant nothing but good; and he was lighting the most destructive of our lower fires.
Visibly, that man Jarniman was disposed of with ease. As in the street-theatres of crowing Punch, distance enlisted pantomime to do the effective part of the speeches. Jarniman’s hat was off, he stood bent, he delivered his message. He was handed over to Skepsey’s care for the receiving of meat and drink. Victor returned; he had Lady Blachington’s hand on his arm; he was all hers, and in the heart of his company of guests at the same time. Eyes that had read him closely for years, were unable to spell a definite signification on his face, below the overflowing happiness of the hospitable man among contented guests. He had in fact something within to enliven him; and that was the more than suspicion, amounting to an odour of certainty, that Armandine intended one of her grand surprises for her master, and for the hundred and fifty or so to be seated at her tables in the unwarmed house of Lakelands.
Armandine did her wonders. There is not in the wide range of the Muses a more responsive instrument than man to his marvellous cook; and if his notes were but as flowing as his pedals are zealous, we should be carried on the tale of the enthusiasm she awakened, away from the rutted highroad, where History now thinks of tightening her girdle for an accelerated pace.
The wonders were done: one hundred and seventy guests plenteously fed at tables across the great Concert Hall, down a length of the conservatory-glass, on soups, fish, meats, and the kitchen-garden, under play of creative sauces, all in the persuasive steam of savouriness; every dish, one may say, advancing, curtseying, swimming to be your partner, instead of passively submitting to the eye of appetite, consenting to the teeth, as that rather melancholy procession of the cold, resembling established spinsters thrice-corseted in decorum, will appear to do. Whether Armandine had the thought or that she simply acted in conformity with a Frenchwoman’s direct good sense, we do require to smell a sort of animation in the meats we consume. We are still perhaps traceably related to the Adamite old-youngster just on his legs, who betrayed at every turn his Darwinian beginnings, and relished a palpitating unwillingness in the thing refreshing him; only we young-oldsters cherish the milder taste for willingness, with a throb of the vanquished in it. And a seeming of that we get from the warm roast. The banquet to be fervently remembered, should smoke, should send out a breath to meet us. Victor’s crowded saloon-carriage was one voice of eulogy, to raise Armandine high as the finale rockets bursting over Wrensham Station at the start Londonward. How had she managed? We foolishly question the arts of magicians.
Mr. Pempton was an apparent dissentient, as the man must be who is half a century ahead of his fellows in humaneness, and saddened by the display of slaughtered herds and their devourers. He had picked out his vegetable and farinaceous morsels, wherever he could get them uncontaminated; enough for sustenance; and the utmost he could show was, that he did not complain. When mounted and ridden by the satirist, in wrath at him for systematically feasting the pride of the martyr on the maceration of his animal part, he put on his martyr’s pride, which assumed a perfect contentment in the critical depreciation of opposing systems: he was drawn to state, as he had often done, that he considered our animal part shamefully and dangerously over nourished, and that much of the immorality of the world was due to the present excessive indulgence in meats. ‘Not in drink?’ Miss Graves inquired. ‘No,’ he said boldly; ‘not equally; meats are more insidious. I say nothing of taking life—of fattening for that express purpose: diseases of animals: bad blood made: cruelty superinduced: it will be seen to be, it will be looked back on, as a form of, a second stage of, cannibalism. Let that pass. I say, that for excess in drinking, the penalty is paid instantly, or at least on the morrow.’
‘Paid by the drunkard’s wife, you should say.’
‘Whereas intemperance in eating, corrupts constitutionally, more spiritually vitiates, we think: on the whole, gluttony is the least-generous of the vices.’
Colney lured Mr. Pempton through a quagmire of the vices to declare, that it brutalized; and stammeringly to adopt the suggestion, that our breeding of English ladies—those lights of the civilized world—can hardly go with a feeding upon flesh of beasts. Priscilla regretted that champagne should have to be pleaded in excuse of impertinences to her sex. They were both combative, nibbed for epigram, edged to inflict wounds; and they were set to shudder openly at one another’s practises; they might have exposed to Colney which of the two maniacal sections of his English had the vaster conceit of superiority in purity; they were baring themselves, as it were with a garment flung-off at each retort. He reproached them for undermineing their countrymen; whose Falstaff panics demanded blood of animals to restore them; and their periods of bragging, that they should brandify their wits to imagine themselves Vikings.
Nataly interposed. She was vexed with him. He let his eyelids drop: but the occasion for showing the prickliness of the bristly social English, could not be resisted. Dr. Peter Yatt was tricked to confess, that small annoyances were, in his experience, powerful on the human frame; and Dr. John Cormyn was very neatly brought round to assure him he was mistaken if he supposed the homoeopathic doctor who smoked was exercising a destructive influence on the efficacy of the infinitesimal doses he prescribed; Dr. Yatt chuckled a laugh at globules; Dr. Cormyn at patients treated as horses; while Mr. Catkin was brought to praise the smoke of tobacco as our sanctuary from the sex; and Mr. Peridon quietly denied, that the taking of it into his nostrils from the puffs of his friend caused him sad silences: Nesta flew to protect the admirer of her beloved Louise. Her subsiding young excitement of the day set her Boating on that moony melancholy in Mr. Peridon.
No one could understand the grounds for Colney’s more than usual waspishness. He trotted out the fulgent and tonal Church of the Rev. Septimus; the skeleton of worship, so truly showing the spirit, in that of Dudley Sowerby’s family; maliciously admiring both; and he had a spar with Fenellan, ending in a snarl and a shout. Victor said to him: ‘Yes, here, as much as you like, old Colney, but I tell you, you’ve staggered that poor woman Lady Blachington to-day, and her husband too; and I don’t know how many besides. What the pleasure of it can be, I can’t guess.’
‘Nor I,’ said Fenellan, ‘but I’ll own I feel envious; like the girl among a family of boys I knew, who were all of them starved in their infancy by a miserly father, that gave them barely a bit of Graves to eat and not a drop of Pempton to drink; and on the afternoon of his funeral, I found them in the drawing-room, four lank fellows, heels up, walking on their hands, from long practice; and the girl informed me, that her brothers were able so to send the little blood they had in their bodies to their brains, and always felt quite cheerful for it, happy, and empowered to deal with the problems of the universe; as they couldn’t on their legs; but she, poor thing, was forbidden to do the same! And I’m like her. I care for decorum too much to get the brain to act on Colney’s behaviour; but I see it enraptures him and may be comprehensible to the topsy-turvy.’
Victor rubbed hands. It was he who filled Colney’s bag of satiric spite. In addition to the downright lunacy of the courting of country society, by means of the cajolements witnessed this day, a suspicion that Victor was wearing a false face over the signification—of Jarniman’s visit and meant to deceive the trustful and too-devoted loving woman he seemed bound to wreck, irritated the best of his nature. He had a resolve to pass an hour with the couple, and speak and insist on hearing plain words before the night had ended. But Fenellan took it out of him. Victor’s show of a perfect contentment emulating Pempton’s, incited Colney to some of his cunning rapier-thrusts with his dancing adversary; and the heat which is planted in us for the composition: of those cool epigrams, will not allow plain words to follow. Or, handing him over to the police of the Philistines, you may put it, that a habit of assorting spices will render an earnest simplicity distasteful. He was invited by Nataly to come home with them; her wish for his presence, besides personal, was moved by an intuition, that his counsel might specially benefit them. He shrugged; he said he had work at his chambers.
‘Work!’ Victor ejaculated: he never could reach to a right comprehension of labour, in regard to the very unremunerative occupation of literature. Colney he did not want, and he let him go, as Nataly noticed, without a sign of the reluctance he showed when the others, including Fenellan, excused themselves.
‘So! we’re alone?’ he said, when the door of the hall had closed on them. He kept Nesta talking of the success of the day until she, observing her mother’s look, simulated the setting-in of a frenzied yawn. She was kissed, and she tripped to her bed.
‘Now we are alone,’ Nataly said.
‘Well, dear, and the day was, you must own... ‘ he sought to trifle with her heavy voice; but she recalled him: ‘Victor!’ and the naked anguish in her cry of his name was like a foreign world threatening the one he filled.
‘Ah, yes; that man, that Jarniman. You saw him, I remember. You recollected him?—stouter than he was. In her service ever since. Well, a little drop of bitter, perhaps: no harm, tonic.’
‘Victor, is she very ill?’
‘My love, don’t feel at your side: she is ill, ill, not the extreme case: not yet: old and ill. I told Skepsey to give the man refreshment: he had to do his errand.’
‘What? why did he come?’
‘Curious; he made acquaintance with Skepsey, and appears to have outwitted poor Skepsey, as far as I see it. But if that woman thinks of intimidating me now—!’ His eyes brightened; he had sprung from evasions. ‘Living in flagrant sin, she says: you and I! She will not have it; warns me. Heard this day at noon of company at Lakelands. Jarniman off at once. Are to live in obscurity;—you and I! if together! Dictates from her death-bed-I suppose her death-bed.’
‘Dearest,’ Nataly pressed hand on her left breast, ‘may we not think that she may be right?’
‘An outrageous tyranny of a decrepit woman naming herself wife when she is only a limpet of vitality, with drugs for blood, hanging-on to blast the healthy and vigorous! I remember old Colney’s once, in old days, calling that kind of marriage a sarcophagus. It was to me. There I lay—see myself lying! wasting! Think what you can good of her, by all means! From her bed! despatches that Jarniman to me from her bedside, with the word, that she cannot in her conscience allow—what imposition was it I practised?... flagrant sin?—it would have been an infinitely viler.... She is the cause of suffering enough: I bear no more from her; I’ve come to the limit. She has heard of Lakelands: she has taken one of her hatreds to the place. She might have written, might have sent me a gentleman, privately. No: it must be done in dramatic style-for effect: her confidential—lawyer?—doctor?—butler! Perhaps to frighten me:—the boy she knew, and—poor soul! I don’t mean to abuse her: but such conduct as this is downright brutal. I laugh at it, I snap my fingers. I can afford to despise it. Only I do say it deserves to be called abominable.’
‘Victor, has she used a threat?’
‘Am I brought to listen to any of her threats!—Funny thing, I ‘m certain that woman never can think of me except as the boy she knew. I saw her first when she was first a widow. She would keep talking to me of the seductions of the metropolis—kept informing me I was a young man... shaking her head. I ‘ve told you. She—well, I know we are mixtures, women as well as men. I can, I hope, grant the same—I believe I can—allowances to women as to men; we are poor creatures, all of using one sense: though I won’t give Colney his footing; there’s a better way of reading us. I hold fast to Nature. No violation of Nature, my good Colney! We can live the lives of noble creatures; and I say that happiness was meant for us:—just as, when you sit down to your dinner, you must do it cheerfully, and you make good blood: otherwise all’s wrong. There’s the right answer to Colney! But when a woman like that .... and marries a boy: well, twenty-one—not quite that: and an innocent, a positive innocent—it may seem incredible, after a term of school-life: it was a fact: I can hardly understand it myself when I look back. Marries him! And then sets to work to persecute him, because he has blood in his veins, because he worships beauty; because he seeks a real marriage, a real mate. And, I say it! let the world take its own view, the world is wrong! because he preferred a virtuous life to the kind of life she would, she must—why, necessarily!—have driven him to, with a mummy’s grain of nature in his body. And I am made of flesh, I admit it.’
‘Victor, dearest, her threat concerns only your living at Lakelands.’
‘Pray, don’t speak excitedly, my love,’ he replied to the woman whose tones had been subdued to scarce more than waver. ‘You see how I meet it: water off a duck’s back, or Indian solar beams on the skin of a Hindoo! I despise it hardly worth contempt;—But, come: our day was a good one. Fenellan worked well. Old Colney was Colney Durance, of course. He did no real mischief.’
‘And you will not determine to enter Lakelands—not yet, dear?’ said Nataly.
‘My own girl, leave it all to me.’
‘But, Victor, I must, must know.’
‘See the case. You have lots of courage. We can’t withdraw. Her intention is mischief. I believe the woman keeps herself alive for it: we’ve given her another lease!—though it can only be for a very short time; Themison is precise; Carling too. If we hold back—I have great faith in Themison—the woman’s breath on us is confirmed. We go down, then; complete the furnishing, quite leisurely; accept—listen—accept one or two invitations: impossible to refuse!—but they are accepted!—and we defy her: a crazy old creature: imagines herself the wife of the ex-Premier, widow of Prince Le Boo, engaged to the Chinese Ambassador, et caetera. Leave the tussle with that woman to me. No, we don’t repeat the error of Crayc Farm and Creckholt. And here we have stout friends. Not to speak of Beaver Urmsing: a picture of Old Christmas England! You took to him?—must have taken to Beaver Urmsing! The Marigolds! And Sir Rodwell and Lady Blachington are altogether above the mark of Sir Humphrey and Lady Pottil, and those half and half Mountneys. There’s a warm centre of home in Lakelands. But I know my Nataly: she is thinking of our girl. Here is the plan: we stand our ground: my dear soul won’t forsake me only there’s the thought of Fredi, in the event... improbable enough. I lift Fredi out of the atmosphere awhile; she goes to my cousins the Duvidney ladies.’
Nataly was hit by a shot. ‘Can you imagine it, Victor?’
‘Regard it as done.’
‘They will surely decline!’
‘Their feeling for General Radnor is a worship.’
‘All the more...?’
‘The son inherits it. He goes to them personally. Have you ever known me personally fail? Fredi stays at Moorsedge for a month or two. Dorothea and Virginia Duvidney will give her a taste of a new society; good for the girl. All these little shiftings can be turned to good. Meantime, I say, we stand our ground: but you are not to be worried; for though we have gone too far to recede, we need not and we will not make the entry into Lakelands until—you know: that is, auspiciously, to suit you in every way. Thus I provide to meet contingencies. What one may really fancy is, that the woman did but threaten. There’s her point of view to be considered: silly, crazy; but one sees it. We are not sure that she struck a blow at Craye or Creckholt. I wonder she never wrote. She was frightened, when she came to manage her property, of signing her name to anything. Absurd, that sending of Jarniman! However, it’s her move; we make a corresponding disposition of our chessmen.’
‘And I am to lose my Nesta for a month?’ Nataly said, after catching here and there at the fitful gleams of truce or comfort dropped from his words. And simultaneously, the reproach of her mind to her nature for again and so constantly yielding to the domination of his initiative: unable to find the words, even the ideas, to withstand him,—brought big tears. Angry at herself both for the internal feebleness and the exhibition of it, she blinked and begged excuse. There might be nothing that should call her to resist him. She could not do much worse than she had done to-day. The reflection, that to-day she had been actually sustained by the expectation of a death to come, diminished her estimate of to-morrow’s burden on her endurance, in making her seem a less criminal woman, who would have no such expectation: which was virtually a stab at a fellow creature’s future. Her head was acute to work in the direction of the casuistries and the sensational webs and films. Facing Victor, it was a block.
But the thought came: how could she meet those people about Lakelands, without support of the recent guilty whispers! She said coldly, her heart shaking her: ‘You think there has been a recovery?’
‘Invalids are up and down. They are—well, no; I should think she dreads the...’ he kept ‘surgeon’ out of hearing. ‘Or else she means this for the final stroke: “though I’m lying here, I can still make him feel.” That, or—poor woman—she has her notions of right and wrong.’
‘Could we not now travel for a few weeks, Victor?’
‘Certainly, dear; we will, after we have kept our engagements to dine—I accepted—with the Blathenoys, the Blachingtons, Beaver Urmsing.’
Nataly’s vision of the peaceful lost little dairy cottage swelled to brilliance, like the large tear at the fall; darkening under her present effort to comprehend the necessity it was for him to mix and be foremost with the world. Unable to grasp it perfectly in mind, her compassionate love embraced it: she blamed herself, for being the obstruction to him.
‘Very well,’ she said on a sigh. ‘Then we shall not have to let our girl go from us?’
‘Just a few weeks. In the middle of dinner, I scribbled a telegram to the Duvidneys, for Skepsey to take.’
‘Speaking of Nesta?’
‘Of my coming to-morrow. They won’t stop me. I dine with them, sleep at the Wells; hotel for a night. We are to be separated for a night.’
She laid her hand in his and gave him a passing view of her face: ‘For two, dear. I am... that man’s visit—rather shaken: I shall have a better chance of sleeping if I know I am not disturbing you.’
She was firm; and they kissed and parted. Each had an unphrased speculation upon the power of Mrs. Burman to put division between them.