Beauchamp's Career. Complete. George Meredith
pointed insolence disposed Rosamund to an irritable antagonism, without reminding her that she had given some cause for it.
Renee said to her presently: ‘He saved my brother’s life’; the apropos being as little perceptible as before.
Her voice dropped to her sweetest deep tones, and there was a supplicating beam in her eyes, unintelligible to the direct Englishwoman, except under the heading of a power of witchery fearful to think of in one so young, and loved by Nevil.
The look was turned upon her, not upon her hero, and Rosamund thought, ‘Does she want to entangle me as well?’
It was, in truth, a look of entreaty from woman to woman, signifying need of womanly help. Renee would have made a confidante of her, if she had not known her to be Nevil’s, and devoted to him. ‘I would speak to you, but that I feel you would betray me,’ her eyes had said. The strong sincerity dwelling amid multiform complexities might have made itself comprehensible to the English lady for a moment or so, had Renee spoken words to her ears; but belief in it would hardly have survived the girl’s next convolutions. ‘She is intensely French,’ Rosamund said to Nevil—a volume of insular criticism in a sentence.
‘You do not know her, ma’am,’ said Nevil. ‘You think her older than she is, and that is the error I fell into. She is a child.’
‘A serpent in the egg is none the less a serpent, Nevil. Forgive me; but when she tells you the case is hopeless!’
‘No case is hopeless till a man consents to think it is; and I shall stay.’
‘But then again, Nevil, you have not consulted your uncle.’
‘Let him see her! let him only see her!’
Rosamund Culling reserved her opinion compassionately. His uncle would soon be calling to have him home: society panted for him to make much of him and here he was, cursed by one of his notions of duty, in attendance on a captious ‘young French beauty, who was the less to be excused for not dismissing him peremptorily, if she cared for him at all. His career, which promised to be so brilliant, was spoiling at the outset. Rosamund thought of Renee almost with detestation, as a species of sorceress that had dug a trench in her hero’s road, and unhorsed and fast fettered him.
The marquis was expected immediately. Renee sent up a little note to Mrs. Calling’s chamber early in the morning, and it was with an air of one-day-more-to-ourselves, that, meeting her, she entreated the English lady to join the expedition mentioned in her note. Roland had hired a big Chioggian fishing-boat to sail into the gulf at night, and return at dawn, and have sight of Venice rising from the sea. Her father had declined; but M. Nevil wished to be one of the party, and in that case.... Renee threw herself beseechingly into the mute interrogation, keeping both of Rosamund’s hands. They could slip away only by deciding to, and this rare Englishwoman had no taste for the petty overt hostilities. ‘If I can be of use to you,’ she said.
‘If you can bear sea-pitching and tossing for the sake of the loveliest sight in the whole world,’ said Renee.
‘I know it well,’ Rosamund replied.
Renee rippled her eyebrows. She divined a something behind that remark, and as she was aware of the grief of Rosamund’s life, her quick intuition whispered that it might be connected with the gallant officer dead on the battle-field.
‘Madame, if you know it too well…’ she said.
‘No; it is always worth seeing,’ said Rosamund, ‘and I think, mademoiselle, with your permission, I should accompany you.’
‘It is only a whim of mine, madame. I can stay on shore.’
‘Not when it is unnecessary to forego a pleasure.’
‘Say, my last day of freedom.’
Renee kissed her hand.
She is terribly winning, Rosamund avowed. Renee was in debate whether the woman devoted to Nevil would hear her and help.
Just then Roland and Nevil returned from their boat, where they had left carpenters and upholsterers at work, and the delicate chance for an understanding between the ladies passed by.
The young men were like waves of ocean overwhelming it, they were so full of their boat, and the scouring and cleaning out of it, and provisioning, and making it worthy of its freight. Nevil was surprised that Mrs. Culling should have consented to come, and asked her if she really wished it—really; and ‘Really,’ said Rosamund; ‘certainly.’
‘Without dubitation,’ cried Roland. ‘And now my little Renee has no more shore-qualms; she is smoothly chaperoned, and madame will present us tea on board. All the etcaeteras of life are there, and a mariner’s eye in me spies a breeze at sunset to waft us out of Malamocco.’
The count listened to the recital of their preparations with his usual absent interest in everything not turning upon Art, politics, or social intrigue. He said, ‘Yes, good, good,’ at the proper intervals, and walked down the riva to look at the busy boat, said to Nevil, ‘You are a sailor; I confide my family to you,’ and prudently counselled Renee to put on the dresses she could toss to the deep without regrets. Mrs. Culling he thanked fervently for a wonderful stretch of generosity in lending her presence to the madcaps.
Altogether the day was a reanimation of external Venice. But there was a thunderbolt in it; for about an hour before sunset, when the ladies were superintending and trying not to criticize the ingenious efforts to produce a make-believe of comfort on board for them, word was brought down to the boat by the count’s valet that the Marquis de Rouaillout had arrived. Renee turned her face to her brother superciliously. Roland shrugged. ‘Note this, my sister,’ he said; ‘an anticipation of dates in paying visits precludes the ripeness of the sentiment of welcome. It is, however, true that the marquis has less time to spare than others.’
‘We have started; we are on the open sea. How can we put back?’ said Renee.
‘You hear, Francois; we are on the open sea,’ Roland addressed the valet.
‘Monsieur has cut loose his communications with land,’ Francois responded, and bowed from the landing.
Nevil hastened to make this a true report; but they had to wait for tide as well as breeze, and pilot through intricate mud-channels before they could see the outside of the Lido, and meanwhile the sun lay like a golden altarplatter on mud-banks made bare by the ebb, and curled in drowsy yellow links along the currents. All they could do was to push off and hang loose, bumping to right and left in the midst of volleys and countervolleys of fishy Venetian, Chioggian, and Dalmatian, quite as strong as anything ever heard down the Canalaggio. The representatives of these dialects trotted the decks and hung their bodies half over the sides of the vessels to deliver fire, flashed eyes and snapped fingers, not a whit less fierce than hostile crews in the old wars hurling an interchange of stink-pots, and then resumed the trot, apparently in search of fresh ammunition. An Austrian sentinel looked on passively, and a police inspector peeringly. They were used to it. Happily, the combustible import of the language was unknown to the ladies, and Nevil’s attempts to keep his crew quiet, contrasting with Roland’s phlegm, which a Frenchman can assume so philosophically when his tongue is tied, amused them. During the clamour, Renee saw her father beckoning from the riva. She signified that she was no longer in command of circumstances; the vessel was off. But the count stamped his foot, and nodded imperatively. Thereupon Roland repeated the eloquent demonstrations of Renee, and the count lost patience, and Roland shouted, ‘For the love of heaven, don’t join this babel; we’re nearly bursting.’ The rage of the babel was allayed by degrees, though not appeased, for the boat was behaving wantonly, as the police officer pointed out to the count.
Renee stood up to bend her head. It was in reply to a salute from the Marquis de Rouaillout, and Nevil beheld his rival.
‘M. le Marquis, seeing it is out of the question that we can come to you, will you come to us?’ cried Roland.
The marquis gesticulated ‘With alacrity’ in every limb.
‘We will bring you back on to-morrow midnight’s tide, safe, we promise you.’
The marquis