One of Our Conquerors - World eBook Library

George Meredith
an anguish: A notion came into the poor man, that he was
the dead one of the two, and he cried out: ‘Cremation? No,
Colney’s right, it robs us of our last laugh. I lie as I fall.’ He
‘had a confession for his Nataly, for her only, for no one
else.’ He had ‘an Idea.’ His begging of Dudley to listen without
any punctilio (putting a vulgar oath before it), was the
sole piece of unreasonableness in the explanation of the idea:
and that was not much wilder than the stuff Dudley had
read from reports of Radical speeches. He told Dudley he
thought him too young to be ‘best man to a widower about
to be married,’ and that Barmby was ‘coming all haste to do
the business, because of no time to spare.’
Dudley knew but the half, and he did not envy Dartrey
Fenellan his task of watching over the wreck of a splendid
intelligence, humouring and restraining. According to the
rumours, Mr. Radnor had not shown the symptoms before
the appearance of his daughter. For awhile he hung, and then
fell, like an icicle. Nesta came with a cry for her father. He
rose: Dartrey was by. Hugged fast in iron muscles, the unhappy
creature raved of his being a caged lion. These things
Dudley had heard in the house.
There are scenes of life proper to the grave-cloth.
Nataly’s dead body was her advocate with her family, with
friends, with the world. Victor had more need of a covering
shroud to keep calamity respected. Earth makes all sweet:
and we, when the privilege is granted us, do well to treat the
terribly stricken as if they had entered to the bosom of earth.
That night’s infinite sadness was concentrated upon Nesta.
She had need of her strength of mind and body.
The night went past as a year. The year followed it as a
refreshing night. Slowly lifting her from our abysses, it was a
good angel to the girl. Permission could not be given for her
to see her father. She had a home in the modest home of
Louise de Seilles on the borders of Dauphins; and with French
hearts at their best in winningness around her, she learned
again, as an art, the natural act of breathing calmly; she had
by degrees a longing for the snow-heights. When her imagination
could perch on them with love and pride, she began
to recover the throb for a part in human action. It set her
nature flowing to the mate she had chosen, who was her
counsellor, her supporter, and her sword. She had awakened
to new life, not to sink back upon a breast of love, though
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