‘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!’