One of Our Conquerors - World eBook Library

George Meredith
niscence of pipes. He was near; and quietly the eyelids of
mademoiselle lifted on him. Her look was grave, straight,
uninquiring, soon accurately perusing; an arrow of Artemis
for penetration. He went by, with the sound in the throat of
a startled bush-bird taking to wing; he limped off some nail
of the deck, as if that young Frenchwoman had turned the
foot to a hoof. Man could not be more guiltless, yet her look
had perturbed him; nails conspired; in his vexation, he execrated
tobacco. And ask not why, where reason never was.
Nesta woke babbling on the subject she had relinquished
for sleep. Mademoiselle touched a feathery finger at her hair
and hood during their silvery French chimes.
Mr. Sowerby presented the risen morning to them, with
encomiums, after they had been observing every variation in
it. He spoke happily of the pleasant passage, and of the agreeable
night; particularly of the excellent idea of the expedition
by this long route at night; the prospect of which had
disfigured him with his grimace of speculation—apparently
a sourness that did not exist. Nesta had a singular notion,
coming of a girl’s mingled observation and intuition, that
the impressions upon this gentleman were in arrear, did not
strike him till late. Mademoiselle confirmed it when it was
mentioned; she remembered to have noticed the same in
many small things. And it was a pointed perception.
Victor sent his girl down to Nataly, with a summons to hurry
up and see sunlight over the waters. Nataly came; she looked,
and the outer wakened the inner, she let the light look in on
her, her old feelings danced to her eyes like a, string of bubbles
in ascent. ‘Victor, Victor, it seems only yesterday that we
crossed, twelve years back—was it?—and in May, and saw the
shoal of porpoises, and five minutes after, Dieppe in view. Dear
French people! I share your love for France.’
‘Home of our holidays!—the “drives”; and they may be
the happiest. And fifty minutes later we were off the harbour;
and Natata landed, a stranger; and at night she was the heroine
of the town.’
Victor turned to a stately gentleman and passed his name
to Nataly: ‘Sir Rodwell Balchington, a neighbour of
Lakelands! She understood that Lady Grace Halley was acquainted
with Sir Rodwell:—hence this dash of brine to her
lips while she was drinking of happy memories, and Victor
evidently was pluming himself upon his usual luck in the
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