One of Our Conquerors - World eBook Library

George Meredith
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.
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