Diana of the Crossways. Complete. George Meredith

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СКАЧАТЬ Ireland gives England her soldiers, her generals too. Farther away, over field and bogland, the whiskies did their excellent ancient service of watering the dry and drying the damp, to the toast of ‘Lord Larrian, God bless him! he’s an honour to the old country!’ and a bit of a sigh to follow, hints of a story, and loud laughter, a drink, a deeper sigh, settling into conversation upon the brave Lord Larrian’s deeds, and an Irish regiment he favoured—had no taste for the enemy without the backing of his ‘boys.’ Not he. Why, he’d never march to battle and they not handy; because when he struck he struck hard, he said. And he has a wound on the right hip and two fingers off his left hand; has bled for England, to show her what Irishmen are when they’re well treated.

      The fine old warrior standing at the upper end of the long saloon, tall, straight, grey-haired, martial in his aspect and decorations, was worthy to be the flag-pole for enthusiasm. His large grey eyes lightened from time to time as he ranged them over the floating couples, and dropped a word of inquiry to his aide, Captain Sir Lukin Dunstane, a good model of a cavalry officer, though somewhat a giant, equally happy with his chief in passing the troops of animated ladies under review. He named as many as were known to him. Reviewing women exquisitely attired for inspection, all variously and charmingly smiling, is a relief after the monotonous regiments of men. Ireland had done her best to present the hero of her blood an agreeable change; and he too expressed a patriotic satisfaction on hearing that the faces most admired by him were of the native isle. He looked upon one that came whirling up to him on a young officer’s arm and swept off into the crowd of tops, for a considerable while before he put his customary question. She was returning on the spin when he said,

      ‘Who is she?’

      Sir Lukin did not know. ‘She ‘s a new bird; she nodded to my wife; I’ll ask.’

      He manoeuvred a few steps cleverly to where his wife reposed. The information he gathered for the behoof of his chief was, that the handsome creature answered to the name of Miss Merion; Irish; aged somewhere between eighteen and nineteen; a dear friend of his wife’s, and he ought to have remembered her; but she was a child when he saw her last.

      ‘Dan Merion died, I remember, about the day of my sailing for India,’ said the General. ‘She may be his daughter.’

      The bright cynosure rounded up to him in the web of the waltz, with her dark eyes for Lady Dunstane, and vanished again among the twisting columns.

      He made his way, handsomely bumped by an apologetic pair, to Lady Dunstane, beside whom a seat was vacated for him; and he trusted she had not over-fatigued herself.

      ‘Confess,’ she replied, ‘you are perishing to know more than Lukin has been able to tell you. Let me hear that you admire her: it pleases me; and you shall hear what will please you as much, I promise you, General.’

      ‘I do. Who wouldn’t?’ said he frankly.

      ‘She crossed the Channel expressly to dance here tonight at the public Ball in honour of you.’

      ‘Where she appears, the first person falls to second rank, and accepts it humbly.’

      ‘That is grandly spoken.’

      ‘She makes everything in the room dust round a blazing jewel.’

      ‘She makes a poet of a soldier. Well, that you may understand how pleased I am, she is my dearest friend, though she is younger than I, as may be seen; she is the only friend I have. I nursed her when she was an infant; my father and Mr. Dan Merion were chums. We were parted by my marriage and the voyage to India. We have not yet exchanged a syllable: she was snapped up, of course, the moment she entered the room. I knew she would be a taking girl: how lovely, I did not guess. You are right, she extinguishes the others. She used to be the sprightliest of living creatures, and to judge by her letters, that has not faded. She ‘s in the market, General.’

      Lord Larrian nodded to everything he heard, concluding with a mock doleful shake of the head. ‘My poorest subaltern!’ he sighed, in the theatrical but cordially melancholy style of green age viewing Cytherea’s market.

      His poorest subaltern was richer than he in the wherewithal to bid for such prizes.

      ‘What is her name in addition to Merion?’

      ‘Diana Antonia Merion. Tony to me, Diana to the world.’

      ‘She lives over there?’

      ‘In England, or anywhere; wherever she is taken in. She will live, I hope, chiefly with me.’

      ‘And honest Irish?’

      ‘Oh, she’s Irish.’

      ‘Ah!’ the General was Irish to the heels that night.

      Before further could be said the fair object of the dialogue came darting on a trip of little runs, both hands out, all her face one tender sparkle of a smile; and her cry proved the quality of her blood: ‘Emmy! Emmy! my heart!’

      ‘My dear Tony!

      I should not have come but for the hope of seeing you here.’

      Lord Larrian rose and received a hurried acknowledgement of his courtesy from the usurper of his place.

      ‘Emmy! we might kiss and hug; we’re in Ireland. I burn to! But you’re not still ill, dear? Say no! That Indian fever must have gone. You do look a dash pale, my own; you’re tired.’

      ‘One dance has tired me. Why were you so late?’

      ‘To give the others a chance? To produce a greater impression by suspense? No and no. I wrote you I was with the Pettigrews. We caught the coach, we caught the boat, we were only two hours late for the Ball; so we did wonders. And good Mrs. Pettigrew is, pining somewhere to complete her adornment. I was in the crush, spying for Emmy, when Mr. Mayor informed me it was the duty of every Irishwoman to dance her toes off, if she ‘d be known for what she is. And twirl! a man had me by the waist, and I dying to find you.’

      ‘Who was the man?’

      ‘Not to save these limbs from the lighted stake could I tell you!’

      ‘You are to perform a ceremonious bow to Lord Larrian.’

      ‘Chatter first! a little!’

      The plea for chatter was disregarded. It was visible that the hero of the night hung listening and in expectation. He and the Beauty were named to one another, and they chatted through a quadrille. Sir Lukin introduced a fellow-Harrovian of old days, Mr. Thomas Redworth, to his wife.

      ‘Our weather-prophet, meteorologist,’ he remarked, to set them going; ‘you remember, in India, my pointing to you his name in a newspaper—letter on the subject. He was generally safe for the cricketing days.’

      Lady Dunstane kindly appeared to call it to mind, and she led upon the them-queried at times by an abrupt ‘Eh?’ and ‘I beg pardon,’ for manifestly his gaze and one of his ears, if not the pair, were given to the young lady discoursing with Lord Larrian. Beauty is rare; luckily is it rare, or, judging from its effect on men, and the very stoutest of them, our world would be internally more distracted planet than we see, to the perversion of business, courtesy, rights of property, and the rest. She perceived an incipient victim, of the hundreds she anticipated, and she very tolerantly talked on: ‘The weather and women have some resemblance they say. Is it true that he who reads the one can read the other?’

      Lord Larrian here burst into a brave СКАЧАТЬ