One of Our Conquerors - World eBook Library

George Meredith
contentedly worked below the surface while men unremittingly
attended to their interests above.
Skepsey drew forth a paper-covered shilling-book: a translation
from the French, under a yelling title of savage hate of
Old England and cannibal glee at her doom. Mr. Barmby
dropped his eyelashes on it, without comment; nor did he
reply to Skepsey’s forlorn remark: ‘We let them think they
could do it!’
Behold the downs. Breakfast is behind them. Miss Radnor
likewise: if the poor child has a name. We propose to supply
the deficiency. She does not declare war upon tobacco. She
has a cultured and a beautiful voice. We abstain from
enlargeing on the charms of her person. She has resources,
which representatives of a rival creed would plot to secure.
‘Skepsey, you have your quarters at the house of Miss
Radnor’s relatives?’ said Mr. Barmby, as they emerged from
tunnelled chalk.
‘Mention, that I think of calling in the course of the day.’
A biscuit had been their breakfast without a name.
They parted at the station, roused by the smell of salt to
bestow a more legitimate title on the day’s restorative beginning.
Down the hill, along by the shops, and Skepsey, in
sight of Miss Nesta’s terrace, considered it still an early hour
for a visitor; so, to have the sea about him, he paid piermoney,
and hurried against the briny wings of a South-wester;
green waves, curls of foam, flecks of silver, under low-flying
grey-dark cloud-curtains shaken to a rift, where at one shot
the sun had a line of Nereids nodding, laughing, sparkling
to him. Skepsey enjoyed it, at the back of thoughts military
and naval. Visible sea, this girdle of Britain, inspired him to
exultations in reverence. He wished Mr. Durance could behold
it now and have such a breastful. He was wishing he
knew a song of Britain and sea, rather fancying Mr. Durance
to be in some way a bar to patriotic poetical recollection,
when he saw his Captain Dartrey mounting steps out of an
iron anatomy of the pier, and looking like a razor off a strap.
‘Why, sir!’ cried Skepsey.
‘Just a plunge and a dozen strokes,’ Dartrey said; ‘and you’ll
come to my hotel and give me ten minutes of the “recreation”;
and if you don’t come willingly, I shall insult your
country.’
‘Ah! I wish Mr. Durance were here,’ Skepsey rejoined.
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