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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 EDWIN CORLE 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 JEAN CORLE
 
 ) 6-o 
 
 **
 
 THE MODERN STUDENT'S LIBRARY 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 WILL D. HOWE 
 
 FBOFESSOB OF ENGLISH AT INDIANA. UNIVEBSITT 
 
 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL
 
 THE MODERN 
 STUDENT'S LIBRARY 
 
 EACH VOLUME EDITED BY A LEADING 
 AMERICAN AUTHORITY 
 
 This series is composed of such works as 
 are conspicuous in the province of literature 
 for their enduring influence. Every volume 
 is recognized as essential to a liberal edu- 
 cation' and will tend to infuse a love for true 
 literature and an appreciation of the quali- 
 ties which cause it to endure. 
 
 A descriptive list of the volumes published in 
 
 this series appears in the last pages 
 
 of this volume 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
 
 THE MODERN STUDENT'S LIBRARY 
 
 THE ORDEAL 
 
 OF 
 
 RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 A HISTORY OF A FATHER AND SON 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK W. CHANDLER 
 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AND COMPARATIVE LITERATURE AND DEAN OF THE 
 COLLEGE OF LIBERAL ARTS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CINCINNATI 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON
 
 Copyright, 1896, 1917, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE INMATES OF RAYNHAM ABBEY .... 1 
 
 II. SHOWING HOW THE FATES SELECTED THE FOUR- 
 TEENTH BIRTHDAY TO TRY THE STRENGTH OF 
 
 THE SYSTEM 9 
 
 III. THE MAGIAN CONFLICT 16 
 
 IV. ARSON 21 
 
 V. ADRIAN PLIES HIS HOOK 30 
 
 VI. JUVENILE STRATAGEMS 35 
 
 vii. daphne's bower 42 
 
 Till. THE BITTER CUP 47 
 
 IX. A FINE DISTINCTION 55 
 
 X. RICHARD PASSES THROUGH HIS PRELIMINARY OR- 
 DEAL, AND IS THE OCCASION OF AN APHORISM . 60 
 
 XI. IN WHICH THE LAST ACT OF THE BAKEWELL COM- 
 EDY IS CLOSED IN A LETTER 67 
 
 XII. THE BLOSSOMING SEASON 72 
 
 XIII. THE MAGNETIC AGE 83 
 
 XIV. AN ATTRACTION 92 
 
 XV. FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 97 
 
 XVI. UNMASKING OF MASTER RIPTON THOMPSON . . 106 
 
 XVII. GOOD WINE AND GOOD BLOOD 115 

 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PiflS 
 
 XVIII. THE SYSTEM ENCOUNTERS THE WILD OATS 
 
 SPECIAL PLEA 120 
 
 XIX. A DIVERSION PLAYED ON A PENNY WHISTLE . 124 
 
 XX. CELEBRATES THE TIME-HONOURED TREATMENT 
 
 OF A DRAGON BY THE HERO . . . . 127 
 
 XXI. RICHARD IS SUMMONED TO TOWN TO HEAR A 
 
 SERMON 145 
 
 XXII. INDICATES THE APPROACHES OF FEVER . . 153 
 
 XXIII. CRISIS IN THE APPLE-DISEASE .... 163 
 
 XXIV. OF THE SPRING PRIMROSE AND THE AUTUMNAL 175 
 
 XXV. IN WHICH THE HERO TAKES A STEP . . . 180 
 
 XXVI. RECORDS THE RAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE 
 
 HERO 199 
 
 XXVII. CONTAINS AN INTERCESSION FOR THE HEROINE 213 
 
 XXVIII. RELATES HOW PREPARATIONS FOR ACTION 
 WERE CONDUCTED UNDER THE APRIL OF 
 
 LOVERS 216 
 
 WIX. IN WHICH THE LAST ACT OF THE COMEDY 
 
 TAKES THE PLACE OF THE FIRST . . . 233 
 
 XXX. CELEBRATES THE BREAKFAST 246 
 
 XXXI. THE PHILOSOPHER APPEARS IN PERSON . . 255 
 
 XXXn. PROCESSION OF THE CAKE 262 
 
 XXXIII. NURSING THE DEVIL 279 
 
 XXXIV. CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE 290 
 
 xxxv. clare's marriage 310 
 
 XXXVI. A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND .... 325 
 
 XXXVII. MRS. BERRY ON MATRIMONY 341
 
 CONTENTS vii 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 xxxviii. an enchantress 352 
 
 xxxix. the little bird and the falcon: a berry 
 
 to the rescue ! 376 
 
 xl. clare's diary 392 
 
 xli. austin returns 409 
 
 xlii. nature speaks 420 
 
 xliii. again the magian conflict .... 429 
 
 xliv. the last scene 437 
 
 xlv. lady blandish to austin wentworth . 454
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Among the Victorian novelists, George Meredith occupies 
 a place apart. Unlike Dickens, Thackeray, and Eliot, he 
 appeals to a select few. Those who appreciate him are folk 
 of his own temper — cultivated, intellectual, urbane. They 
 are persons of taste and discernment. They are generally 
 the middle-aged rather than the young. They are those 
 who, aloof and contemplative, relish the comedy of life, 
 rather than those who throw themselves whole-heartedly into 
 the game. It is not to be marvelled at, therefore, that Mere- 
 dith should have won his way slowly, or that recognition, 
 when it came, should have rendered his position unique and 
 secure. 
 
 Meredith's career as a writer of prose was opened, in 1856, 
 with The Shaving of Shagpat, an experiment in fantastic Ori- 
 ental romance. In the following year, he exploited German 
 romance less successfully in Farina, a Legend of Cologne. 
 Having thus trained his 'prentice hand, he passed to mastery 
 of his craft in The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, published in 
 1859. This was his first modern novel, and probably his 
 best. It showed him, not only expert in the use of language 
 and original in literary technic, but distinguished, also, as an 
 observer of the world and an analyst of character. The 
 psychological novel of George Eliot, just emerging, found 
 here a rival even more subtle. Adam Bede, a twin-birth 
 with Feverel, although detailed in its exploration of motive 
 and feeling, demanded less mental effort on the part of its 
 
 ix
 
 x INTRODUCTION 
 
 readers; it accordingly attracted much greater attention. 
 Whereas it was often reprinted, no second edition of Feverel 
 came from the press for nearly two decades. 
 
 In the meantime, Meredith had continued his course un- 
 deterred by lack of popular approval, writing six other 
 novels before the appearance, in 1879, of The Egoist — most 
 characteristic of all. Two novels in particular reflected his 
 experience of Italy, gained while acting there as war cor- 
 respondent in 1866. The first was Emilia in England (1864), 
 later rechristened Sandra Belloni. The second was its se- 
 quel Vittoria (1867). The other works of the period com- 
 prise the semi-farcical Evan Harrington (1861); the serious 
 Rhoda Fleming (1865) ; the clever Harry Richmond (1870-71) ; 
 and Meredith's favorite — Beauchamp's Career (1874-75). 
 It is The Egoist, however, that most completely illustrates 
 its author's conception of the novel of types. In this work, 
 with rare skill and comic elan, if with a persistency a little 
 wearisome, he lays bare the secrets of a heart and intellect 
 thoroughly self-centered, proceeding so obviously from the 
 desire to make out a case that he is likely to displease those 
 who value story, yet satisfying those who enjoy brilliant 
 comment on character and a study of its intricacies. 
 
 In his later novels, Meredith never forgot the typical in 
 attending to the particular, even though The Tragic Come- 
 dians (1880) reflected incidents in the life of the socialist 
 leader Lassalle, and Diana of the Crossways (1885) certain 
 traits of Sheridan's granddaughter, Mrs. Norton. One of 
 Our Conquerors (1891), Lord Ormont and his Aminta (1894), 
 and The Amazing Marriage (1895) bring to a close the cata- 
 logue of Meredith's fiction, except for the unfinished Celt and 
 Saxon published after his death. 
 
 Of Meredith as a poet this is not the place to speak. Suf- 
 fice it to say that he did his first writing in verse, issuing a 
 volume when twenty-three, and several others later in life, 
 the best known being his sequence of irregular sonnets en-
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 XI 
 
 titled Modern Love (1867). His poetry, like his prose, is 
 rich in content but difficult at times by reason of its crabbed 
 and meticulous expression — a trait due to no obscurity of 
 thought or lack of feeling, but rather to the desire to com- 
 press much meaning within a cryptic phrase. As a play- 
 wright, Meredith attempted comedy in The Sentimentalists, 
 which was acted posthumously. As an essayist, he fathered 
 a memorable discussion of the comic spirit and its uses, made 
 concrete in his novels. 
 
 Meredith's life was comparatively uneventful. He was 
 born in 1828 at Portsmouth, the son of a naval outfitter. 
 Early left an orphan, he was educated in Germany, and, re- 
 turning to England, studied law, experimented in journalism, 
 and fell in with a group of intellectuals led by Frederic Har- 
 rison and John Morley. He became literary adviser to the 
 publishers Chapman and Hall; he edited for a short period 
 The Fortnightly Review, and served abroad as correspondent 
 for The Morning Post. But most of his maturity was passed 
 in rural retirement in Surrey. He was twice married, at 
 first unhappily to a daughter of the novelist, Thomas Love 
 Peacock, and then more fortunately to a Miss Vulliamy, who 
 bore him two children. His fame grew very slowly. Not 
 until the age of sixty was he recognized as among the chief 
 English novelists. But at the time of his death, in 1909, he 
 was admittedly the foremost man of letters in Great Britain. 
 
 II 
 
 Meredith is first and last an intellectualist. Hence his 
 preference for the psychological novel, for the novel of types, 
 for the novel that is half essay, for the novel of distinctive 
 style. Hence, also, his conception of the importance for 
 the novelist of comedy and the comic spirit. Comedy, ac- 
 cording to Meredith, is embodied mind, and its function is 
 to expose violations of rational law. It is common sense
 
 xii [NTRODUCTION 
 
 chastising with the laughter of reason aberrations from the 
 sensible. Comedy measures individual shortcomings by the 
 social norm. It results from "the broad Alpine survey of 
 the spirit born of our united social intelligence." It is "a 
 nunc played to throw reflections upon social life, and it deals 
 with human nature in the drawing-room of civilized men and 
 women, where we have no dust of the struggling outer world, 
 no mire, no violent crashes, to make the correctness of the 
 representation convincing." Comedy is thus refined rather 
 than Rabelaisian; it is impartial rather than sentimental. 
 It relies upon creating ideal figures that epitomize mankind 
 in certain follies. It is typical and general in character, 
 whereas tragedy is concerned primarily with the individual. 
 
 "The comic spirit conceives a definite situation for a num- 
 ber of characters, and rejects all accessories in the exclusive 
 pursuit of them and their speech." On the stage, the great 
 master of such comedy is Moliere, and in the novel, we might 
 add, Meredith. Meredith's confession of faith in the efficacy 
 of the comic spirit is given in the prelude to The Egoist, and 
 in these words of his famous Essay: " If you believe that our 
 civilization is founded in common-sense, you will, when con- 
 templating men, discern a Spirit overhead. ... It has the 
 sage's brows, and the sunny malice of a faun lurks at the 
 corners of the half-closed lips. ... Its common aspect is 
 one of unsolicitous observation. . . . Men's future upon 
 earth does not attract it; their honesty and shapeliness in 
 the present does; and whenever they wax out of proportion, 
 overblown . . . ; whenever they offend sound reason, fair 
 justice; are false in humility or mined with conceit, . . . the 
 Spirit overhead will look humanly malign and cast an oblique 
 light on them, followed by volleys of silvery laughter. That 
 is the Comic Spirit." 
 
 Unquestionably it is by the aid of this spirit that Mere- 
 dith writes his novels, even including such a tragedy from 
 the victim's point of view as Richard Fevercl. For Mere-
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 dith is theoretic or nothing. Conceiving of a folly to be dis- 
 played and made ridiculous, he invents persons and situa- 
 tions best to accomplish his purpose. He is, therefore, no 
 mere realist examining the confused detail of actual life "by 
 the watchmaker's eye in luminous rings eruptive of the in- 
 finitesimal." He is rather an idealist, who holds it to be 
 the business of art to render life in quintessence. The artist 
 must both simplify and elaborate. First, he must simplify 
 experience into typical deeds and persons, eliminating from 
 his scheme the merely accidental and particular. Second, 
 he must elaborate his simplification, presenting it through 
 representative concrete instances that it may lose the aspect 
 of an abstract formula and acquire emotional significance. 
 Meredith is thus an intellectualist engaged in playing ... game 
 of literary chess. He has made the pattern on his board 
 and designed the pieces, and he moves them according to 
 a pre-arranged plan. Just as his Sir Austin seeks to enact 
 the role of Providence in determining the career of Richard 
 Feverel, so Meredith plays Providence to his personages, 
 and, more than most novelists, he visibly controls their fate. 
 
 Since Meredith's folk are etherealized specimens of hu- 
 manity set and kept in motion by their creator, it is his atti- 
 tude toward them that interests us quite as much as their 
 actions. Meredith's attitude is determined by his comic 
 outlook upon life. Unswayed by the petty prejudices of 
 his people, he surveys them with Olympian serenity, aware 
 of a hundred impulses and errors in their conduct that will 
 lead to conclusions undreamt of by themselves but clearly 
 foreseen by the novelist and his readers. From a rarer at- 
 mosphere than that in which his people move, Meredith 
 looks down upon their whimsies and their deeds with a 
 smile of calm omniscience. 
 
 Moreover, he separates himself from them by a wall of 
 clever comment, sometimes sparkling and ironical, some- 
 times soberly extended to the proportions of an essay. In-
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 deed, his novels are sometimes one-third narrative and two- 
 thirds essay, with the dissertational manner infecting the 
 narrative parts incurably. No one, I suppose, would con- 
 tinue reading The Egoist merely from interest in its plot. 
 To enjoy it one must relish inspecting at leisure the artificial 
 attitudes of artificial people and listening, not merely to their 
 smart chatter, but to the smarter discourse of the master of 
 the puppets, who, while making them dance, lectures for the 
 edification of the elect. Thus Meredith, having shown his 
 hero touched by jealousy, lapses into a little essay on the 
 theme. "Remember the poets upon Jealousy," he writes. 
 "It is to be haunted in the heaven of two by a Third; pre- 
 ceded or succeeded, therefore surrounded, embraced, hugged 
 by this infernal Third; it is love's bed of burning marl; to 
 see and taste the withering Third in the bosom of sweetness; 
 to be dragged through the past and find the fair Eden of it 
 sulphurous; to be dragged to the gates of the future and 
 glory to behold them blood; to adore the bitter creature 
 trebly and with treble power to clutch her by the windpipe; 
 it is to be cheated, derided, shamed, and abject and suppli- 
 cating, and consciously demoniacal in treacherousness, and 
 victoriously self-justified in revenge." Needless to say, gen- 
 eralizations of this sort, intruding upon the narrative at 
 every turn, choke its progress and prove distracting. 
 
 Almost equally distracting is Meredith's predilection for 
 resorting to the methods of comedy while writing fiction. 
 As W. C. Brownell has put it: "The necessities of comedy, 
 the irruption of new characters, their disappearance after 
 they have done their turn, expectation balked by shifting 
 situations, the frequent postponement of the denouement 
 when it particularly impends, and the alleviation of impa- 
 tience by a succession of subordinate climaxes — all the ma- 
 chinery of the stage, in fact — impair the narrative."
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 III 
 
 xv 
 
 But if the tricks of the essayist and the playwright are 
 freely borrowed by Meredith, sometimes to his disadvan- 
 tage and to ours, they are nevertheless in a measure appro- 
 priate to the kind of fiction he affects. For Meredith is a 
 psychological novelist. He is bent upon displaying the in- 
 ward process of the mind. As Richard Le Galliene has said 
 of him: "The passion of his genius is . . . the tracing of the 
 elemental in the complex; the registration of the infinitesi- 
 mal vibrations of first causes, the tracking in human life 
 of the shadowiest trail of primal instinct, the hairbreadth 
 measurement of subtle psychological tangents: and the em- 
 bodiment of these results in artistic form." Meredith, in 
 Richard Feverel, declares that for the novel "An audience 
 will come to whom it will be given to see the elementary 
 machinery at work. . . . To them nothing will be trivial. 
 . . . They will see the links of things as they pass, and 
 wonder not, as foolish people now do, that this great matter 
 came out of that small one." Certainly Meredith's efforts 
 have tended to realize that time. But the psychology of 
 his characters is general rather than individual. You are 
 conscious that these minds are typical, or even symbolic. 
 They belong to an imaginary and rational world treated 
 as though it were real. 
 
 An incidental passage in Beauchamp's Career shows that 
 Meredith has understood both his limitations and his pecu- 
 liar ability. "My way," he writes, "is like a Rhone island 
 in the summer drought, stony, unattractive, and difficult 
 between the two forceful streams of the unreal and the over- 
 real which delight mankind — honour to the conjurors! My 
 people conquer nothing, win none ! they are actual yet un- 
 common. It is the clockwork of the brain that they are di- 
 rected to set in motion, and — poor troop of actors to vacant
 
 xvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 benches ! — the conscience residing in thoughtfulness which 
 they would appeal to; and if you are there impervious to 
 them we are lost." 
 
 In Meredith's novels, which indeed reveal in operation 
 "the clockwork of the brain," the author has taken care still 
 further to intellectualize his appeal by means of his style. 
 His technic holds attention; he is an artificer of style, and, 
 as such, he writes a style of artifice. He seeks to express 
 himself with novelty and distinction. If a boy runs, Mere- 
 dith speaks of him as being seen to bound "and taking a 
 lift of arms, fly aloft, clapping heels." If a woman runs, 
 Meredith writes: "She was fleet; she ran as though a hun- 
 dred little feet were bearing her onward smooth as water 
 over the lawn and the sweeps of grass of the park, so swiftly 
 did the hidden pair multiply one another to speed her. . . . 
 Suddenly her flight wound to an end in a dozen twittering 
 steps, and she sank." If a heroine of eighteen would take 
 leave of her admirer, she says: "We have met. It is more 
 than I have merited. We part. In mercy let it be forever. 
 Oh, terrible word ! Coined by the passions of our youth, 
 it comes to us for our sole riches when we are bankrupt of 
 earthly treasures, and is the passport given by Abnegation 
 unto Woe that prays to quit this probationary sphere." 
 
 Fancy any human being — least of all a girl — discoursing 
 thus ! But, no matter how simple a thought or action, Mere- 
 dith sends it forth arrayed in finer gear than Solomon in all 
 his glory. It is beribboned with metaphor and personifica- 
 tion; it is beflounced with epigram and allegory. It is truth 
 rendered more precious, as the medieval critics advised, 
 by being wrapped in sayings not to be lightly understood 
 by the vulgar. So, when a lover admires the chasteness of 
 his lady, Meredith remarks: "He saw the Goddess Modesty 
 guarding Purity ; and one would be bold to say that he did not 
 hear the precepts, Purity's aged grannams maternal and pa- 
 ternal, cawing approval of her over their munching gums."
 
 INTRODUCTION xiri 
 
 But Meredith's gift of phrase and his knack of knocking 
 out epigrams, and his mastery over metaphor and lyrical 
 description cannot be too highly commended. Diana is 
 "wind-blown but ascending." When Redworth sees her 
 kindhng a fire, "a little mouse of a thought scampered out 
 of one of the chambers of his head and darted along the pas- 
 sages, fetching a sweat to his brows." After Sandra's sing- 
 ing, the stillness settled back again "like one folding up a 
 precious jewel." A dull professor "pores over a little in- 
 exactitude in phrases and pecks at it like a domestic fowl." 
 Of one who has ceased to love we hear that "the passion in 
 her was like a place of waves evaporated to a crust of salt." 
 Of a lady's letter we learn that it "flourished with light 
 strokes all over, like a field of the bearded barley." Of a 
 heroine we are told that: "She was not of the creatures who 
 are excited by an atmosphere of excitement; she took it 
 as the nymph of the stream her native wave, and swam on 
 the flood with expansive languor, happy to have the master 
 passions about her; one or two of which her dainty hand 
 caressed fearless of a sting; the lady patted them as her 
 swans." There is brilliant illumination in such compari- 
 sons, a fight shed instantaneously upon traits and mental 
 experiences otherwise not to be revealed. When the Egoist 
 would affectionately approach his shrinking Clara, nothing 
 could better deliver the situation than Meredith's simile: 
 "The gulf of a caress hove in view like an enormous billow 
 hollowing under the curled ridge. She stooped to a butter- 
 cup; the monster swept by." 
 
 It is felicity in the use of rhetorical figure that enables 
 Meredith to characterize the style of a Carlyle as, "resem- 
 bling either early architecture or utter dilapidation, so loose 
 and rough it seemed; a wind-in-the-orchard style, that tum- 
 bled down here and there an appreciable fruit with un- 
 couth bluster; sentences without commencement running 
 to abrupt endings and smoke, like waves against a sea wall,
 
 win INTRODUCTION 
 
 learned dictionary words giving a hand to street slang, and 
 accents falling on them haphazard, like slant rays from driv- 
 ing clouds; all the pages in a breeze, the whole book pro- 
 ducing a kind of electrical agitation in the mind and the 
 joints." It is Meredith's gift for phrase that enables him 
 to paint those wonderful backgrounds for action which are 
 the despair of common writers. Sometimes the scenes are 
 sketched in with but a touch or two of suggestion. So, 
 when Richard Feverel and Lucy spend an evening afloat, 
 Meredith writes: "Hanging between two heavens on the 
 lake: floating to her voice: the moon stepping over and 
 through white shoals of soft high clouds above and below: 
 floating to her voice — no other breath abroad! His soul 
 went out of his bodjr as he listened." Or, when Richard, in 
 gay company, passes a night at Richmond, Meredith says 
 simply: "Silver was seen far out on Thames. The wine 
 ebbed, and the laughter. Sentiment and cigars took up the 
 wondrous tale." 
 
 Sometimes the description is long and minute, but always 
 it is beautifully fresh. Thus the coming of dawn is pic- 
 tured in The Amazing Marriage: "The smell of rock-waters 
 and roots of herb and moss grew keen; air became a wine 
 that raised the breast high to drink it; an uplifting coolness 
 pervaded the heights. . . . The plumes of cloud now slowly 
 entered into the lofty arch of dawn and melted from brown 
 to purple black. . . . The armies of the young sunrise in 
 mountain-lands neighbouring the plains, vast shadows, were 
 marching over woods and meads, black against the edge of 
 golden; and great heights were cut with them, and bound- 
 ing waters took the leap in a silvery radiance to gloom ; the 
 bright and dark-banded valleys were like night and morn- 
 ing taking hands down the sweep of their rivers."
 
 INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 IV 
 
 Meredith's style receives its final and distinctive flavor, 
 however, from the liberal dash of aphorism with which his 
 books are sprinkled. Often an epigram will turn upon some 
 metaphor. Such is the statement that: "A bone in a boy's 
 mind for him to gnaw and worry corrects the vagrancies and 
 promotes the healthy activities, whether there be marrow 
 in it or not," or the exclamation: "Who are not fools to be 
 set spinning, if we choose to whip them with their vanity ! 
 It is the consolation of the great to watch them spin." Such, 
 too, is the reflection that: "Most of the people one has at 
 table are drums. A rub-a-dub-dub on them is the only way 
 to get a sound. When they can be persuaded to do it upon 
 one another, they call it conversation." More frequently, 
 the epigram is a neat generalization left abstract, as for ex- 
 ample: "Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is 
 answered"; "Cynics are only happy in making the world 
 as barren to others as they have made it for themselves"; 
 "Fools run jabbering of the irony of fate to escape the an- 
 noyance of tracing the causes"; "Expediency is man's wis- 
 dom; doing right is God's"; "Women cannot repose on a 
 man who is not positive; nor have they much gratification 
 in confounding him"; "Convictions are generally first im- 
 pressions sealed with later prejudices"; "The hero of two 
 women must die and be wept over in common before they 
 can appreciate one another." 
 
 A thousand such jewels glitter in the richly wrought tap- 
 estry of Meredith's style. That he painstakingly inserted 
 them and wove this fabric to attract attention by its sin- 
 gularity and beauty, he cheerfully admits in a passage of 
 Emilia in England. "The point to be considered," he there 
 remarks, "is whether fiction demands a perfectly smooth 
 surface. Undoubtedly a scientific work does, and a philo-
 
 xx INTRODUCTION 
 
 sophical work should. When we ask for facts simply we 
 feel the intrusion of style. Of fiction it is a part. In the 
 one case the classical robe, in the other any medieval phan- 
 tasy of clothing." 
 
 The difficulty with a style so artificial and ihtellectualized 
 is obvious. Meredith, according to Brownell, "flatters one's 
 cleverness at first, but in the end he fatigues it." The per- 
 petual crackle of aphorism and metaphor surprises, grati- 
 fies, and then wearies; for a writer who will never Bay a 
 plain thing plainly, not only keeps his readers under strain, 
 but soon seems himself to be straining. Nowhere is this 
 more evident than in Meredith's predilection for repeating 
 a single happy phrase such as the epithet "rogue in porce- 
 lain" applied to a heroine. Since the phrase tickles his 
 fancy, he plays with it, drops it, picks it up, mumbles it over 
 and over as a dog might a bone, and through chapter after 
 chapter is ready at any pretext to run round and round 
 with it barking. Despite his assiduous striving for novelty, 
 therefore, Meredith is often tedious, an effect induced, not 
 merely by his style (whether repetitious or gasping after 
 eccentricity), but also by his method. He is so intent upon 
 weaving his commentary upon every speech and action 
 that the occasion of the commentary is smothered. A 
 phrase becomes the text of a sermon, a gesture the excuse 
 for paragraphs of oblique reflection. Thus he forfeits the 
 advantage of downright sincerity and of forthright progress, 
 and teases interest out of all patience. 
 
 Since Meredith is an intellectualist, we naturally ask 
 what may be his philosophy. Unlike Ibsen or Browning, 
 he preaches no doctrine. He offers no explicit theory of 
 life. Nor does he, like Dickens or Reade or Brieux, advo- 
 cate any special reform. He is never a propagandist. Some
 
 INTRODUCTION xxi 
 
 have lamented this fact; more have seen in it an argument 
 for his universality and permanence. Though he fight no 
 battles for specific causes, his influence is arrayed in general 
 against certain tendencies that he disapproves and would 
 laugh to defeat. Egoism, sentimentalism, hypocrisy, are 
 fair game for his comedy. As an intellectualist he dislikes 
 and distrusts excess of emotion — feeling indulged for its own 
 sake. "Sentimentalists," he declares, "are they who seek 
 to enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a 
 thing done." 
 
 Well might Mrs. Carlyle complain that Meredith's work 
 lacked tears. That it does so he would be the first to admit, 
 for he questions the worth of pathos for any true captain 
 of his soul. "Pathos is a tide; often it carries the awakener 
 of it off his feet," Meredith writes. "We cannot quite pre- 
 serve our dignity when we stoop to the work of calling forth 
 tears. Moses had probably to take a nimble jump away 
 from the rock after that venerable lawgiver had knocked 
 the water out of it." So Meredith sacrifices passion to 
 analysis. His heroes and heroines rarely love so simply 
 and so ardently as do Richard and Lucy; but the affection 
 of even this delectable pair is modified in presentation by 
 the playful cynicism of the narrator of their story. On the 
 other hand, it is futile to cavil at Meredith or any other 
 artist for lacking such qualities as are incompatible with 
 those he most notably possesses. You cannot expect aban- 
 don of passion in the characters of a novelist whose forte is 
 detachment and sublimated common sense. Your intel- 
 lectualist is not to be blamed if he fails to write as a sentimen- 
 talist. 
 
 Meredith's positive philosophy has been formulated by 
 Elmer J. Bailey in terms that may be briefly paraphrased: 
 Meredith thinks of man as torn between Nature and Cir- 
 cumstance. By Nature is meant the world of instinct, of 
 healthy normal impulse. By Circumstance is meant the
 
 xxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 world of artificial laws erected by society as the machinery 
 for its conduct and control. Nature is spontaneous; Cir- 
 cumstance is traditional. Man may err by allowing to 
 either undue dominance. His only safety lies in the use of 
 his reason which will enable him to keep both Nature and 
 Circumstance in proper equipoise. And the most service- 
 able instrument of reason for detecting the follies of con- 
 vention or of feeling is the comic spirit. Without this spirit 
 we are not truly intellectual, for, as Meredith has said: 
 "Not to have a sympathy with the playful mind is not to 
 have a mind." Let us possess mind, he seems to urge, and 
 through mind cultivate the soul. In The Tragic Comedians 
 he remarks: "It is tne soul which does things in life — the 
 rest is vapor. . . . Action means life to the soul as to the 
 body. . . . Compromise is virtual death; it is the pact be- 
 tween cowardice and comfort, under the title of expediency. 
 So do we gather dead matter about us. So are we gradu- 
 ally self-stifled, corrupt. The war with evil in every form 
 must be incessant; we cannot have peace." The serious 
 note here sounded may be heard again in his letter to a friend, 
 Mrs. Gilman. There Meredith says: "I have written al- 
 ways with the perception that there is no life but of the 
 spirit; that the concrete is the shadowy; yet that the way 
 to spiritual life lies in the complete unfolding of the crea- 
 ture, not in the nipping of his passions. An outrage to 
 nature helps to extinguish his light." 
 
 VI 
 
 Just such an outrage to nature perpetrated with the best 
 intentions, but in blind folly, is the subject of Meredith's 
 novel, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel. A dogmatic and con- 
 ventional father endeavors to determine his son's life ac- 
 cording to an infallible system of parental dictation. In- 
 stead of allowing the boy to develop naturally from within, 
 Sir Austin seeks to mould him absolutely from without.
 
 INTRODUCTION xxiii 
 
 The failure of this experiment makes the story. The first 
 eleven chapters are in a sense introductory. They present 
 to the reader the members of the Feverel family and de- 
 scribe with gusto a poaching escapade of Richard's youth. 
 From this first ordeal he emerges triumphant by obeying 
 the impulse of his heart to make frank confession, despite 
 his father's endeavor to patch up the matter by plotting. 
 Then, in the next twenty chapters, follows the account of 
 Richard's passion for the lovely Lucy and of the machina- 
 tions of those who would nip it in the bud. All these checks 
 are for the moment overcome when Richard, after having 
 suffered separation from Lucy, is again thrown with her by 
 chance and impulsively marries her. 
 
 In the chapters next ensuing Sir Austin, instead of grace- 
 fully accepting defeat, masks and crushes his emotions and 
 permits his Mephistophelian nephew, the cynical Adrian, 
 to scheme for Richard's alienation from his bride. Richard 
 is lured away and succumbs to the spell of a wicked enchant- 
 ress whom at first he has thought to reform; and then, 
 shamed and distraught, he wanders abroad, seeking a purge 
 for his sin. Meanwhile, the deserted wife, at Adrian's in- 
 stigation, has been assailed by a villain, the husband of 
 Richard's enchantress. Issuing unscathed from her ordeal, 
 Lucy is tardily accepted by the complacent Sir Austin and 
 received, with her child, at his house. Since Richard has 
 at length achieved self-mastery and has resolved to return 
 and confess to his wife, and plead for her grace, a general 
 reconciliation seems imminent. But the novelist will not 
 allow his tale to end happily lest its moral be frustrate. Ac- 
 cordingly, although Richard returns for an hour to be freely 
 forgiven by Lucy, he dashes away forthwith, despite her en- 
 treaties, to duel with her persecutor. Joy, even yet, might 
 emerge from disaster, since Richard escapes from the duel 
 with only a wound, but the author continues implacable. 
 His heroine, in nursing her husband, succumbs to a strain
 
 xxiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 long protracted, and Richard, though recovered in body, is 
 left but a wreck of his former self. Such is the desolating 
 outcome of attempting to regulate healthy human loves by 
 a worldly system. 
 
 What is tragic for hero and heroine is gravely comic to 
 the eye of the intellectualist surveying the folly of men from 
 a height far above the troubled waves of their passion. For 
 Meredith, Sir Austin incarnates a comic error. His story 
 is the comedy of one who theorizes at length upon life, but 
 utterly fails to deal with it practically. Of course Sir Aus- 
 tin takes no blame to himself. It is useless, he reflects, "to 
 base any system on a human being," even though this is 
 precisely what he has done. And when Richard is to return 
 to his wife, and Sir Austin has at last grown kind to her, we 
 hear that: "He could now admit that instinct had so far 
 beaten science; for, as Richard was coming, as all were to 
 be happy, his wisdom embraced them all paternally as the 
 author of their happiness." Of Sir Austin, Meredith re- 
 marks: "He had experimented on humanity in the person 
 of the son he loved as his life, and at once, when the experi- 
 ment appeared to have failed, all humanity's failings fell on 
 the shoulders of his son." The reader's inevitable reaction 
 to the novel is expressed by Lady Blandish: "Oh! how sick 
 I am of theories and systems and the pretensions of men ! 
 ... I shall hate the name of science till the day I die. 
 Give me nothing but commonplace, unpretending people!" 
 
 That the plot of Richard Feverel unduly tantalizes goes 
 without saying. The author keeps his hero and heroine 
 apart by main force. Granting that Richard is the victim 
 of rascals, as well as of a ridiculous system, his easy deser- 
 tion of the wife whom he loves and his continued separation 
 from her seem to lie in Meredith's will rather than in that 
 of his hero. Richard's yielding to Mrs. Mount, described 
 with remarkable power, is more natural, but his mooning 
 about Germany while Lucy is left to struggle alone is as
 
 INTRODUCTION xxv 
 
 exasperating as her failure to apprise him of the fact that 
 she is to bear him a child. Splendid as is the last meeting 
 of Eichard and Lucy, declared by Stevenson to be "the 
 strongest scene since Shakespeare in the English tongue," 
 it forfeits something of greatness because of perversity. 
 More natural is the faint sub-plot intended to echo the cen- 
 tral theme of the book in its story of Clare's hopeless love 
 for Richard, at first reciprocated, and then blocked by Sir 
 Austin and the girl's mother. 
 
 VII 
 
 In characterization, this novel excels. Its folk are per- 
 sons and not alone types. Chief of the Feverel clan is Rich- 
 ard's • father, Sir Austin, wounded by the infidelity of his 
 wife and his friend, yet an intellectual egoist, proud of his 
 plans for ruling the family and equally proud of his epigrams. 
 Given less fully are Richard's aunt, the worldly mother of 
 Clare, and his uncles — the guardsman Algernon, who has 
 lost a leg at cricket, and crochety Hippias, "the dyspepsy." 
 Of Richard's cousins one is sympathetic, and the other is 
 Satanic. The first, Austin Wentworth, lives in disgrace for 
 having repaired a youthful indiscretion by marrying a house- 
 maid. As for the second, Adrian Harley, "the Wise Youth," 
 he is Richard's tutor, whose heart has dropped to his stomach, 
 a clever worldling and the contemner of honest passion, one 
 of the most accomplished cynics of all literature. There 
 are minor characters, too, but equally vital, from blunt 
 Farmer Blaize and his son, and the disgruntled farm-hand 
 Tom Bakewell, to Sir Austin's sentimental companion Lady 
 Blandish, and Ripton, the faithful old dog. 
 
 Of the women three stand to the fore— Lucy, Mrs. Mount, 
 and Mrs. Berry. The adorable Lucy is a northern Juliet 
 brought to sudden maturity by her passion for Richard. 
 Beneath him in birth, she is more than his equal in manner 
 and mind and spirit, Though shown only in glimpses, she
 
 xx vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 is never less than entrancing. Mrs. Mount is the dashing 
 temptress, a little worn and half-hearted until piqued by 
 Richard's indifference into playing her game more earnestly, 
 and then exerting all the fascinations of the wicked. Most 
 original of the three is Lucy's vulgar befriender, Mrs. Berry, 
 a lovable "old-black-satin bunch," as Meredith tags her, 
 wise but irrelevant, aware of the sensual springs beneath our 
 polite pretenses, a Juliet's nurse grown mellow. It is to be 
 noted, however, that none of these characters is really dy- 
 namic, unless it be Mrs. Doria Forey, who suffers a change of 
 heart after sacrificing that of her daughter, and Richard 
 who somewhat alters under the stress of his ordeal. 
 
 Subordinate to character, plot, and central idea, yet 
 scarcely less effective in producing the total effect of the 
 novel, are its setting, its style, and its author's point of 
 view. Already Meredith's point of view has been defined 
 as that of the writer of comedy. In the dinner scene at 
 Richmond, for example, you are conscious of the author 
 smiling apart upon callow Richard and Ripton caught in the 
 snares of the demi-monde. It is Thackeray over again, let- 
 ting us see the self-deception of Pendennis in his admiration 
 of the Fotheringay. Sometimes, in this novel, Meredith 
 apostrophizes his people, emitting lyrical exclamations of 
 admiration or disgust at their conduct. More often, he re- 
 mains aloof, though none the less present in spirit. Rarely 
 does he here conform to Brownell's statement, more applica- 
 ble to his later fictions, that: ''He is not merely detached, 
 he is obliterated. All he shows us of himself is his talent; 
 his standpoint is to be divined." 
 
 That which especially reveals the author's standpoint is 
 what Professor Saintsbury, in referring to this novel, has 
 termed its "style saturated with epigrammatic quality; and 
 of strange ironic persiflage permeating thought, picture, 
 and expression." The persiflage appears, above all, in the 
 speeches of the saturnine Adrian. As for the epigrams,
 
 INTRODUCTION xxvii 
 
 their number is justified in part by supposing them to come 
 from Sir Austin's collection entitled "The Pilgrim's Scrip." 
 They abound, however, in the speech of others and in the 
 narrative proper. Typical spicings of style are the follow- 
 ing: "To anchor the heart by any object ere we have half 
 traversed the world is youth's foolishness"; "It is difficult 
 for those who think very earnestly for their children to know 
 when their children are thinking on their own account"; 
 "If immeasurable love were perfect wisdom, one human 
 being might almost impersonate Providence to another"; 
 "The ways of women, which are involution, and their prac- 
 tices, which are opposition, are generally best hit upon by 
 guesswork and a bold word"; "The God of this world is in 
 the machine, not out of it"; " Sentimentalism is a happy 
 pastime and an important science to the timid, the idle, and 
 the heartless; but a damning one to them who have any- 
 thing to forfeit"; "The task of reclaiming a bad man is ex- 
 tremely seductive to good women. Dear to their tender 
 hearts as old china is a bad man they are mending." Even 
 illiterate Mrs. Berry talks in epigram, now en checked matri- 
 mony, which she holds to be as injurious as checked per- 
 spiration, and now on the wickedness of old people, which, 
 she affirms, is the excuse for the wildness of young ones. "I 
 think it's always the plan in a 'dielemmer,'" she says, "to 
 pray God and walk forward." To Lucy, the bride, she 
 gives this advice: "When the parlour fire gets low, put coals 
 on the kitchen fire. . . . Don't neglect your cookery. Kiss- 
 ing don't last; cookery do." 
 
 Aside from its aphorisms, the style of Feverel is essentially 
 clever, but by no means so artificial as that of Meredith's 
 later novels. If a stage direction seem occasionally over- 
 elaborate, as: "Adrian gesticulated an acquiesced with- 
 drawal," others are felicitous, as: "At last Hippias perspired 
 in conviction," or: "He set his sight hard at the blue ridges 
 of the hills," or, of Ripton draining a bumper at a gulp: "The
 
 xxv'm INTRODUCTION 
 
 farthing rushlight of his reason leapt and expired. He tum- 
 bled to the sofa and there stretched." There are fine pas- 
 sages, too, of description, like those concerned with the boy- 
 ish adventures of Richard and Ripton, the Ferdinand and 
 Miranda meeting of hero and heroine, the temptation epi- 
 sode, and the storm in the German forest by night. "Up 
 started the whole forest in violet fire. He saw the country 
 at the foot of the hills to the bounding Rhine gleam, quiver, 
 extinguished. . . . Lower down the abysses of air rolled 
 the wrathful crash; then white thrusts of light were darted 
 from the sky, and great curving ferns, seen steadfast in 
 pallor a second, were supernaturally agitated and vanished. 
 Then a shrilling song roused in the leaves and the herbage. 
 Prolonged and louder it sounded, as deeper and heavier the 
 deluge pressed. A mighty force of water satisfied the de- 
 sire of the earth." Admirable, also, are the mere hints of 
 background given in a flashing phrase that conjures up the 
 scene: " Look at those old elm branches ! How they seem to 
 mix among the stars ! — glittering prints of winter." 
 
 Taken all in all, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel may be reck- 
 oned as Meredith's masterpiece. " My old conviction grows 
 stronger," writes Le Galliene, "that it will be Richard Feverel 
 and perhaps no other of his novels . . . that will keep his 
 name alive in English literature." Certainly, Meredith has 
 here allowed to his characters a charm of personality that 
 later he tends to sacrifice in stressing their purely typical 
 traits. He shows here a fire of sincerity rarely afterwards 
 burning so brightly. He is less the mere essayist and more 
 the lyric and dramatic tale-teller. He has set forth with 
 skill the elements of a large problem, confirming the truth 
 of Chesterton's remark that he combines subtlety with 
 primal energy, and criticizes life without losing his appetite 
 
 Frank Wadleigh Chandler. 
 University of Cincinnati.
 
 THE ORDEAL OF 
 RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 THE INMATES OF RAYNHAM ABBEY 
 
 Some years ago a book was published under the title 
 of "The Pilgrim's Scrip." It consisted of a selection of 
 original aphorisms by an anonymous gentleman, who in 
 this bashful manner gave a bruised heart to the world. 
 
 He made no pretension to novelty. "Our new thoughts 
 have thrilled dead bosoms," he wrote; by which avowal 
 it may be seen that youth had manifestly gone from 
 him, since he had ceased to be jealous of the ancients. 
 There was a half-sigh floating through his pages for 
 those days of intellectual coxcombry, when ideas come 
 to us affecting the embraces of virgins, and swear to us 
 they are ours alone, and no one else have they ever 
 visited : and we believe them. 
 
 For an example of his ideas of the sex he said: 
 
 "I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilized 
 by Man." 
 
 Some excitement was produced in the bosoms of ladies 
 by so monstrous a scorn of them. 
 
 One adventurous person betook herself to the Heralds' 
 College, and there ascertained that a Griffin between two 
 Wheatsheaves, which stood on the title-page of the book, 
 formed the crest of Sir Austin Absworthy Bearne Feverel, 
 Baronet, of Raynham Abbey, in a certain Western county 
 folding Thames : a man of wealth and honour, and a some- 
 what lamentable history. 
 
 The outline of the baronet's story was by no means new. 
 He had a wife, and he had a friend. His marriage was for 
 
 1
 
 2 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD EEVEREL 
 
 love; his wife was a beauty; his friend was a sort of poet. 
 His wife had his whole heart, and his friend all his confi- 
 dence. When he selected Denzil Somers from among his 
 college chums, it was not on account of any similarity of 
 disposition between them, but from his intense worship of 
 genius, which made him overlook the absence of principle 
 in his associate for the sake of such brilliant promise. 
 Denzil had a small patrimony to lead off with, and that he 
 dissipated before he left college; henceforth he was de- 
 pendent upon his admirer, with whom he lived, filling a 
 nominal post of bailiff to the estates, and launching forth 
 verse of some satiric and sentimental quality; for being 
 inclined to vice, and occasionally, and in a quiet way, 
 practising it, he was of course a sentimentalist and a 
 satirist, entitled to lash the Age and complain of human 
 nature. His earlier poems, published under the pseu- 
 donym of Diaper Sandoe, were so pure and bloodless in 
 their love passages, and at the same time so biting in 
 their moral tone, that his reputation was great among the 
 virtuous, who form the larger portion of the English book- 
 buying public. Election-seasons called him to ballad- 
 poetry on behalf of the Tory party. Diaper possessed 
 undoubted fluency, but did little, though Sir Austin 
 was ever expecting much of him. 
 
 A languishing, inexperienced woman, whose husband in 
 mental and in moral stature is more than the ordinary 
 height above her, and who, now that her first romantic 
 admiration of his lofty bearing has worn off, and her fret- 
 ful little refinements of taste and sentiment are not in- 
 stinctively responded to, is thrown into no wholesome 
 household collision with a fluent man, fluent in prose and 
 rhyme. Lady Feverel, when she first entered on her 
 duties at Raynham, was jealous of her husband's friend. 
 By degrees she tolerated him. In time he touched his 
 guitar in her chamber, and they played Rizzio and Mary 
 together. 
 
 "For I am not the first who found 
 The name of Mary fatal ! " 
 
 says a subsequent sentimental alliterative love-poem of 
 Diaper's. 
 
 Such was the outline of the story. But the baronet
 
 THE INMATES OF RAYNHAM ABBEY 3 
 
 could fill it up. He bad opened his soul to thpse two. 
 He had been noble Love to tbe one, and to tbe other 
 perfect Friendship. He had bid them be brother and 
 sister whom he loved, and live a Golden Age with him at 
 Raynham. In fact, he had been prodigal of the excel- 
 lences of his nature, which it is not good to be, and, like 
 Timon, he became bankrupt, and fell upon bitterness. 
 
 The faithless lady was of no particular family; an 
 orphan daughter of an admiral who educated her on his 
 half-pay, and her conduct struck but at the man whose 
 name she bore. 
 
 After five years of marriage, and twelve of friendship, 
 Sir Austin was left to his loneliness with nothing to ease 
 his heart of love upon save a little baby boy in a cradle. 
 He forgave the man: he put him aside as poor for his 
 wrath. The woman he could not forgive; she had sinned 
 every way. Simple ingratitude to a benefactor was a 
 pardonable transgression, for he was not one to recount 
 and crush the culprit under the heap of his good deeds. 
 But her he had raised to be his equal, and he judged her 
 as his equal. She had blackened the world's fair aspeot 
 for him. 
 
 In the presence of that world, so different to him now, 
 he preserved his wonted demeanour, and made his features 
 a flexible mask. Mrs. Doria Forey, his widowed sister, 
 said that Austin might have retired from his Parlia- 
 mentary career for a time, and given up gaieties and that 
 kind of thing; her opinion, founded on observation of him 
 in public and private, was, that the light thing who had 
 taken flight was but a feather on her brother's Feverel- 
 heart, and his ordinary course of life would be resumed. 
 There are times when v common men cannot bear the 
 weight of just so much. Hippias Feveral, one of his 
 brothers, thought him immensely improved by his mis- 
 fortune, if the loss of such a person could be so desig- 
 nated; and seeing that Hippias received in consequence 
 free quarters at Raynham, and possession of the wing of 
 the Abbey she had inhabited, it is profitable to know his 
 thoughts. If the baronet had given two or three blazing 
 dinners in the great hall he would have deceived people 
 generally, as he did his relatives and intimates. He was 
 too sick for that: fit only for passive acting.
 
 4 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 The nursemaid waking in the night beheld a solitary 
 figure darkening a lamp above her little sleeping charge, 
 and became so used to the sight as never to wake with a 
 start. One night she was strangely aroused by a sound 
 of sobbing. The baronet stood beside the cot in his long 
 black cloak and travelling cap. His fingers shaded a lamp, 
 and reddened against the fitful darkness that ever and 
 anon went leaping up the wall. She could hardly believe 
 her senses to see the austere gentleman, dead silent, drop- 
 ping tear upon tear before her eyes. She lay stone-still 
 in a trance of terror and mournfulness, mechanically 
 counting the tears as they fell, one by one. The hidden 
 face, the fall and flash of those heavy drops in the light 
 of the lamp he held, the upright, awful figure, agitated at 
 regular intervals like a piece of clockwork by the low 
 murderous catch of his breath: it was so piteous to her 
 poor human nature that her heart began wildly palpitat- 
 ing. Involuntarily the poor girl cried out to him, "Oh, 
 sir!" and fell a-weeping. Sir Austin turned the lamp 
 on her pillow, and harshly bade her go to sleep, striding 
 from the room forthwith. He dismissed her with a purse 
 the next day. 
 
 Once, when he was seven years old, the little fellow 
 woke up at night to see a lady bending over him. He 
 talked of this the next day, but it was treated as a dream ; 
 until in the course of the day his uncle Algernon was 
 driven home from Lobourne cricket-ground with a broken 
 leg. Then it was recollected that there was a family 
 ghost; and, though no member of the family believed in 
 the ghost, none would have given up a circumstance that 
 testified to its existence; for to possess a ghost is a dis- 
 tinction above titles. 
 
 Algernon Feverel lost his leg, and ceased to be a gentle- 
 man in the Guards. Of the other uncles of young Richard, 
 Cuthbert, the sailor, perished in a spirited boat expedition 
 against a slaving negro chief up the Niger. Some of the 
 gallant lieutenant's trophies of war decorated the little 
 boy's play-shed at Raynham, and he bequeathed his sword 
 to Richard, whose hero he was. The diplomatist and beau, 
 Vivian, ended his flutterings from flower to flower by mak- 
 ing an improper marriage, as is the fate of many a beau, 
 and was struck out of the list of visitors. Algernon
 
 THE INMATES OF KAYNHAM ABBEY 5 
 
 generally occupied the baronet's disused town-house, a 
 wretched being, dividing his time between horse and card 
 exercise : possessed, it was said, of the absurd notion that 
 a man who has lost his balance by losing his leg may 
 regain it by sticking to the bottle. At least, whenever 
 he and his brother Hippias got together, they never failed 
 to try whether one leg, or two, stood the bottle best. Much 
 of a puritan as Sir Austin was in his habits, he was too 
 good a host, and too thorough a gentleman, to impose 
 them upon his guests. The brothers, and other relatives, 
 might do as they would while they did not disgrace the 
 name, and then it was final : they must depart to behold 
 his countenance no more. 
 
 Algernon Feverel was a simple man, who felt, sub- 
 sequent to his misfortune, as he had perhaps dimly fancied 
 it before, that his career lay in his legs, and was now 
 irrevocably cut short. He taught the boy boxing, and 
 shooting, and the arts of fence, and superintended the 
 direction of his animal vigour with a melancholy vivacity. 
 The remaining energies of Algernon's mind were devoted 
 to animadversions on swift bowling. He preached it over 
 the county, struggling through laborious literary com- 
 positions, addressed to sporting newspapers, on the De- 
 cline of Cricket. It was Algernon who witnessed and 
 chronicled young Eichard's first fight, which was with 
 young Tom Blaize of Belthorpe Farm, three years the 
 boy's senior. 
 
 Hippias Feverel was once thought to be the genius 
 of the family. It was his ill luck to have strong appe- 
 tites and a weak stomach; and, as one is not altogether 
 fit for the battle of life who is engaged in a perpetual 
 contention with his dinner, Hippias forsook his prospects 
 at the Bar, and, in the embraces of dyspepsia, compiled his 
 ponderous work on the Fairy Mythology of Europe. He 
 had little to do with the Hope of Raynham beyond what 
 he endured from his juvenile tricks. 
 
 A venerable lady, known as Great-Aunt Grantley, who 
 had money to bequeath to the heir, occupied with Hippias 
 the background of the house and shared her caudles with 
 him. These two were seldom seen till the dinner-hour, 
 for which they were all day preparing, and probably all 
 night remembering, for the Eighteenth Century was an
 
 6 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 admirable trencherman, and cast age aside while there 
 was a dish on the table. 
 
 Mrs. Doria Forey was the eldest of the three sisters of 
 the baronet, a florid affable woman, with fine teeth, ex- 
 ceedingly fine light wavy hair, a Norman nose, and a rep- 
 utation for understanding men; and that, with these 
 practical creatures, always means the art of managing 
 them. She had married an expectant younger son of a good 
 family, who deceased before the fulfilment of his pros- 
 pects; and, casting about in her mind the future chances 
 of her little daughter and sole child, Clare, she marked 
 down a probability. The far sight, the deep determination, 
 the resolute perseverance of her sex, where a daughter is 
 to be provided for and a man to be overthrown, instigated 
 her to invite herself to Raynham, where, with that daugh- 
 ter, she fixed herself. 
 
 The other two Feverel ladies were the wife of Colonel 
 Wentworth and the widow of Mr. Justice Harley: and 
 the only thing remarkable about them was that they were 
 mothers of sons of some distinction. 
 
 Austin Wentworth's story was of that wretched char- 
 acter which to be comprehended, that justice should be 
 dealt him, must be told out and openly; which no one 
 dares now do. 
 
 For a fault in early youth, redeemed by him nobly, 
 according to his light, he was condemned to undergo the 
 world's harsh judgment: not for the fault — for its atone- 
 ment. 
 
 « — Married his mother's housemaid," whispered Mrs. 
 Doria, with a ghastly look, and a shudder at young men 
 of republican sentiments, which he was reputed to enter- 
 tain. . 
 
 "The compensation for Injustice," says the Pilgrims 
 Scrip," "is, that in that dark Ordeal we gather the 
 worthiest around us." 
 
 And the baronet's fair friend, Lady Blandish, and some 
 few true men and women, held Austin Wentworth high. 
 
 He did not live with his wife; and Sir Austin, whose 
 mind was bent on the future of our species, reproached 
 him with being barren to posterity, while knaves were 
 propagating. 
 
 The principal characteristic of the second nephew,
 
 THE INMATES OE KAYNHAM ABBEY 7 
 
 Adrian Harley, was his sagacity. He was essentially the 
 wise youth, both in counsel and in action. 
 
 "In action," the "Pilgrim's Scrip" observes, "Wisdom 
 goes by majorities." 
 
 Adrian had an instinct for the majority, and, as the 
 world invariably found him enlisted in its ranks, hia 
 appellation of wise youth was acquiesced in without 
 irony. 
 
 The wise youth, then, had the world with him, but no 
 friends. Nor did he wish for those troublesome append- 
 ages of success. He caused himself to be required by 
 people who could serve him; feared by such as could 
 injure. Not that he went out of the way to secure his 
 end, or risked the expense of a plot. He did the work 
 as easily as he ate his daily bread. Adrian was an epi- 
 curean; one whom Epicurus would have scourged out of 
 his garden, certainly: an epicurean of our modern no- 
 tions. To satisfy his appetites without rashly staking his 
 character, was the wise youth's problem for life. He had 
 no intimates except Gibbon and Horace, and the society 
 of these fine aristocrats of literature helped him to ac- 
 cept humanity as it had been, and was; a supreme ironic 
 procession, with laughter of Gods in the background. 
 Why not laughter of mortals also? Adrian had his laugh 
 in his comfortable corner. He possessed peculiar at- 
 tributes of a heathen God. He was a disposer of men: 
 he was polished, luxurious, and happy — at their cost. He 
 lived in eminent self-content, as one lying on soft cloud, 
 lapt in sunshine. Nor Jove, nor Apollo, cast eye upon 
 the maids of earth with cooler fire of selection, or pur- 
 sued them in the covert with more sacred impunity. 
 And he enjoyed his reputation for virtue as something 
 additional. Stolen fruits are said to be sweet; undeserved 
 rewards are exquisite. 
 
 The best of it was, that Adrian made no pretences. He 
 did not solicit the favourable judgment of the world. 
 Nature and he attempted no other concealment than the 
 ordinary mask men wear. And yet the world would 
 proclaim him moral, as well as wise, and the pleasing 
 converse every way of his disgraced cousin Austin. 
 
 In a word, Adrian Harley had mastered his philosophy 
 at the early age of one-and-twenty. Many would be glad
 
 8 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 to say the same at that age twice-told : they carry in 
 their breasts a burden with which Adrian's was not 
 loaded. Mrs. Doria was nearly right about his heart. A 
 singular mishap (at his birth, possibly, or before it) had 
 unseated that organ, and shaken it down to his stomach, 
 where it was a much lighter, nay, an inspiring weight, and 
 encouraged him merrily onward. Throned there it looked 
 on little that did not arrive to gratify it. Already that 
 region was a trifle prominent in the person of the wise 
 youth, and carried, as it were, the flag of his philosophi- 
 cal tenets in front of him. He was charming after dinner, 
 with men or with women: delightfully sarcastic: perhaps 
 a little too unscrupulous in his moral tone, but that his 
 moral reputation belied him, and it must be set down to 
 generosity of disposition. 
 
 Such was Adrian Harley, another of Sir Austin's in- 
 tellectual favourites, chosen from mankind to superintend 
 the education of his son at Raynham. Adrian had been 
 destined for the Church. He did not enter into Orders. 
 He and the baronet had a conference together one day, 
 and from that time Adrian became a fixture in the Abbey. 
 His father died in his promising son's college term, be- 
 queathing him nothing but his legal complexion, and 
 Adrian became stipendiary officer in his uncle's house- 
 hold. 
 
 A playfellow of Richard's occasionally, and the only 
 comrade of his age that he ever saw, was Master Ripton 
 Thompson, the son of Sir Austin's solicitor, a boy without 
 a character. 
 
 A comrade of some description was necessary, for 
 Richard was neither to go to school nor to college. Sir 
 Austin considered that the schools were corrupt, and 
 maintained that young lads might by parental vigilance 
 be kept pretty secure from the Serpent until Eve sided 
 with him: a period that might be deferred, he said. He 
 had a system of education for his son. How it worked we 
 shall see.
 
 THE FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY 9 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE FATES SELECTED THE FOUR- 
 TEENTH BIRTHDAY TO TRY THE STRENGTH OF 
 THE SYSTEM 
 
 October shone royally on Richard's fourteenth birthday. 
 The brown beechwoods and golden birches glowed to a 
 brilliant sun. Banks of moveless cloud hung about the 
 horizon, mounded to the west, where slept the wind. 
 Promise of a great day for Raynham, as it proved to be, 
 though not in the manner marked out. 
 
 Already archery-booths and cricketing-tents were rising 
 on the lower grounds towards the river, whither the lads 
 of Bursley and Lobourne, in boats and in carts, shouting 
 for a day of ale and honour, jogged merrily to match 
 themselves anew, and pluck at the living laurel from each 
 other's brows, like manly Britons. The whole park was 
 beginning to be astir and resound with holiday cries. 
 Sir Austin Feverel, a thorough good Tory, was no game- 
 preserver, and could be popular whenever he chose, which 
 Sir Miles Papworth, on the other side of the river, a 
 fast-handed Whig and terror to poachers, never could be. 
 Half the village of Lobourne was seen trooping through 
 the avenues of the park. Fiddlers and gipsies clamoured 
 at the gates for admission; white smocks, and slate, sur- 
 mounted by hats of serious brim, and now and then a 
 scarlet cloak, smacking of the old country, dotted the 
 grassy sweeps to the levels. 
 
 And all the time the star of these festivities was re- 
 ceding further and further, and eclipsing himself with 
 his reluctant serf Ripton, who kept asking what they were 
 to do and where they were going, and how late it was in 
 the day, and suggesting that the lads of Lobourne would 
 be calling out for them, and Sir Austin requiring their 
 presence, without getting any attention paid to his misery 
 or remonstrances. For Richard had been requested by 
 his father to submit to medical examination like a boor 
 enlisting for a soldier, and he was in great wrath. 
 
 He was flying as though he would have flown from the
 
 10 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 shameful thought of what had been asked of him. By- 
 and-by he communicated his sentiments to Ripton, who 
 said they were those of a girl : an offensive remark, re- 
 membering which, Richard, after they had borrowed a 
 couple of guns at the bail ill's farm, and Ripton had fired 
 badly, called his friend a fool. 
 
 Feeling that circumstances were making him look won- 
 derfully like one, Ripton lifted his head and retorted 
 defiantly, "I'm not!" 
 
 This angry contradiction, so very uncalled for, an- 
 noyed Richard, who was still smarting at the loss of the 
 birds, owing to Ripton's bad shot, and was really the in- 
 jured party. He therefore bestowed the abusive epithet 
 on Ripton anew, and with increase of emphasis. 
 
 "You shan't call me so, then, whether I am or not," 
 says Ripton, and sucks his lips. 
 
 This was becoming personal. Richard sent up his 
 brows, and stared at his defier an instant. He then in- 
 formed him that he certainly should call him so, and 
 would not object to call him so twenty times. 
 
 "Do it, and see!" returns Ripton, rocking on his feet, 
 and breathing quick. 
 
 With a gravity of which only boys and other barbarians 
 are capable, Richard went through the entire number, 
 stressing the epithet to increase the defiance and avoid 
 monotony, as he progressed, while Ripton bobbed his head 
 every time in assent, as it were, to his comrade's accuracy, 
 and as a record for his profound humiliation. The dog 
 they had with them gazed at the extraordinary perform- 
 ance with interrogating wags of the tail. 
 
 Twenty times, duly and deliberately, Richard repeated 
 the obnoxious word. 
 
 At the twentieth solemn iteration of Ripton's capital 
 shortcoming, Ripton delivered a smart back-hander on 
 Richard's mouth, and squared precipitately ; perhaps sorry 
 when the deed was done, for he was a kind-hearted lad, 
 and as Richard simply bowed in acknowledgment of the 
 blow he thought he had gone too far. He did not know 
 the young gentleman he was dealing with. Richard was 
 extremely cool. 
 
 "Shall we fight here?" he said. 
 
 "Anywhere you like," replied Ripton.
 
 THE FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY 11 
 
 "A little more into the wood, I think. We may be in- 
 terrupted." And Richard led the way with a courteous 
 reserve that somewhat chilled Ripton's ardour for the 
 contest. On the skirts of the wood, Richard threw off his 
 jacket and waistcoat, and, quite collected, waited for 
 Ripton to do the same. The latter boy was flushed and 
 restless; older and broader, but not so tight-limbed and 
 well-set. The Gods, sole witnesses of their battle, betted 
 dead against him. Richard had mounted the white cock- 
 ade of the Feverels, and there was a look in him that 
 asked for tough work to extinguish. His brows, slightly 
 lined upward at the temples, converging to a knot about 
 the well-set straight nose; his full grey eyes, open nostrils, 
 and planted feet, and a gentlemanly air of calm and alert- 
 ness, formed a spirited picture of a young combatant. 
 As for Ripton, he was all abroad, and fought in school- 
 boy style — that is, he rushed at the foe head foremost, 
 and struck like a windmill. He was a lumpy boy. When 
 he did hit, he made himself felt ; but he was at the mercy 
 of science. To see him come dashing in, blinking and 
 puffing and whirling his arms abroad while the felling 
 blow went straight between them, you perceived that he 
 was fighting a fight of desperation, and knew it. For the 
 dreaded alternative glared him in the "face that, if he 
 yielded, he must look like what he had been twenty times 
 calumniously called; and he would die rather than yield, 
 and swing his windmill till he dropped. Poor boy! he 
 dropped frequently. The gallant fellow fought for ap- 
 pearances, and down he went. The Gods favour one of 
 two parties. Prince Turnus was a noble youth ; but he had 
 not Pallas at his elbow. Ripton was a capital boy; he 
 had no science. He could not prove he was not a fool! 
 When one comes to think of it, Ripton did choose the only 
 possible way, and we should all of us have considerable 
 difficulty in proving the negative by any other. _ Ripton 
 came on the unerring fist again and again ; and if it was 
 true, as he said in short colloquial gasps, that he required 
 as much beating as an egg to be beaten thoroughly, a 
 fortunate interruption alone saved our friend from re- 
 sembling that substance. The boys heard summoning 
 voices, and beheld Mr. Morton of Poer Hall and Austin 
 Wentworth stepping towards them.
 
 12 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 A truce was sounded, jackets were caught up, guns 
 shouldered, and off they trotted in concert through the 
 depths of the wood, not stopping till that and half-a-dozen 
 fields and a larch plantation were well behind them. 
 
 When they halted to take breath, there was a mutual 
 study of faces. Ripton's was much discoloured, and 
 looked fiercer with its natural war-paint than the boy 
 felt. Nevertheless, he squared up dauntlessly on the new 
 ground, and Richard, whose wrath was appeased, could 
 not refrain from asking him whether he had not really 
 had enough. 
 
 "Never!" shouts the noble enemy. 
 
 "Well, look here," said Richard, appealing to common 
 sense, "I'm tired of knocking you down. I'll say you're 
 not a fool, if you'll give me your hand." 
 
 Ripton demurred an instant to consult with honour, 
 who bade him catch at his chance. 
 
 He held out his hand. "There!" and the boys grasped 
 hands and were fast friends. Ripton had gained his 
 point, and Richard decidedly had the best of it. So they 
 were on equal ground. Both could claim a victory, which 
 was all the better for their friendship. 
 
 Ripton washeoj his face and comforted his nose at a 
 brook, and was now ready to follow his friend wherever 
 he chose to lead. They continued to beat about for birds. 
 The birds on the Raynham estates were found singularly 
 cunning, and repeatedly eluded the aim of these prime 
 shots, so they pushed their expedition into the lands of 
 their neighbours, in search of a stupider race, happily 
 oblivious of the laws and conditions of trespass; uncon- 
 scious, too, that they were poaching on the demesne of 
 the notorious Farmer Blaize, the free-trade farmer under 
 the shield of the Papworths, no worshipper of the Griffin 
 between two Wheatsheaves ; destined to be much allied 
 with Richard's fortunes from beginning to end. Farmer 
 Blaize hated poachers, and especially young chaps poach- 
 ing, who did it mostly from impudence. He heard the 
 audacious shots popping right and left, and going forth 
 to have a glimpse at the intruders, and observing their 
 size, swore he would teach my gentlemen a thing, lords 
 or no lords. 
 
 Richard had brought down a beautiful cock-pheasant,
 
 THE FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY 13 
 
 and was exulting over it, when the farmer's portentous 
 figure burst upon them, cracking an avenging horsewhip. 
 His salute was ironical. 
 
 "Havin' good sport, gentlemen, are ye?" 
 
 "Just bagged a splendid bird!" radiant Richard in- 
 formed him. 
 
 "Oh!" Farmer Blaize gave an admonitory flick of the 
 whip. 
 
 "Just let me clap eye on't, then." 
 
 "Say, please," interposed Ripton, who was not blind to 
 doubtful aspects. 
 
 Farmer Blaize threw up his chin, and grinned grimly. 
 
 "Please to you, sir? Why, my chap, you looks as if ye 
 didn't much mind what come t'yer nose, I reckon. You 
 looks an old poacher, you do. Tall ye what 'tis!" He 
 changed bis banter to business, "That bird's mine! Now 
 you jest hand him over, and sheer off, you dam young 
 scoundrels! I know ye!" And he became exceedingly 
 opprobrious, and uttered contempt of the name of Feverel. 
 
 Richard opened his eyes. 
 
 "If you wants to be horsewhipped, you'll stay where 
 y'are!" continued the farmer. "Giles Blaize never stands 
 nonsense !" 
 
 "Then we'll stay," quoth Richard. 
 
 "Good! so be't! If you will have't, have't, my men!" 
 
 As a preparatory measure, Farmer Blaize seized a wing 
 of the bird, on which both boys flung themselves desper- 
 ately, and secured it minus the pinion. 
 
 "That's your game," cried the farmer. "Here's a taste 
 of horsewhip for ye. I never stands nonsense!" and 
 sweetch went the mighty whip, well swayed. The boys 
 tried to close with him. He kept his distance and lashed 
 without mercy. Black blood was made by Farmer Blaize 
 that day! The boys wriggled, in spite of themselves. _ It 
 was like a relentless serpent coiling, and biting, and sting- 
 ing their young veins to madness. Probably they felt the 
 disgrace of the contortions they were made to go through 
 more than the pain, but the pain was fierce, for the farmer 
 laid about from a practised arm, and did not consider 
 that he had done enough till he was well breathed and his 
 ruddy jowl inflamed. He paused, to receive the remainder 
 of the cock-pheasant in his face.
 
 14 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Take your beastly bird," cried Richard. 
 
 "Money, my lads, and interest," roared the farmer, 
 lashing out again. 
 
 Shameful as it was to retreat, there was but that 
 course open to them. They decided to surrender the 
 field. 
 
 "Look! you big brute," Richard shook his gun, hoarse 
 with passion, "I'd have shot you, if I'd been loaded. 
 Mind ! if I come across you when I'm loaded, you coward, 
 I'll fire!" 
 
 The un-English nature of this threat exasperated 
 Farmer Blaize, and he pressed the pursuit in time to be- 
 stow a few farewell stripes as they were escaping tight- 
 breeched into neutral territory. At the hedge they par- 
 leyed a minute, the farmer to inquire if they had had a 
 mortal good tanning and were satisfied, for when they 
 wanted a further instalment of the same they were to 
 come for it to Belthorpe Farm, and there it was in pickle: 
 The boys meantime exploding in menaces and threats of 
 vengeance, on which the farmer contemptuously turned 
 his back. Ripton had already stocked an armful of flints 
 for the enjoyment of a little skirmishing. Richard, how- 
 ever, knocked them all out, saying, "No ! Gentlemen don't 
 fling stones; leave that to the blackguards." 
 
 "Just one shy at him!" pleaded Ripton, with his eye 
 on Farmer Blaize's broad mark, and his whole mind 
 drunken with a sudden revelation of the advantages of 
 light troops in opposition to heavies. 
 
 "No," said Richard, imperatively, "no stones," and 
 marched briskly away. Ripton followed with a sigh. His 
 leader's magnanimity was wholly beyond him. A good 
 spanking mark at the farmer would have relieved Master 
 Ripton; it would have done nothing to console Richard 
 Feverel for the ignominy he had been compelled to submit 
 to. Ripton was familiar with the rod, a monster much 
 despoiled of his terrors by intimacy. Birch-fever was 
 past with this boy. The horrible sense of shame, self- 
 loathing, universal hatred, impotent vengeance, as if the 
 spirit were steeped in abysmal blackness, which comes 
 upon a courageous and sensitive youth condemned for the 
 first time to taste this piece of fleshly bitterness, and 
 suffer what he feels is a defilement, Ripton had weathered
 
 THE FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY 15 
 
 and forgotten. He was seasoned wood, and took the world 
 pretty wisely; not reckless of castigation, as some boys 
 become, nor oversensitive as to dishonour, as his friend 
 and comrade beside him was. 
 
 Richard's blood was poisoned. He had the fever on 
 him severely. He would not allow stone-flinging, because 
 it was a habit of his to discountenance it. Mere gentle- 
 manly considerations had scarce shielded Farmer Blaize, 
 and certain very ungentlemanly schemes were coming to 
 ghastly heads in the tumult of his brain; rejected solely 
 from their glaring impracticability even to his young 
 intelligence. A sweeping and consummate vengeance for 
 the indignity alone should satisfy him. Something tre- 
 mendous must be done, and done without delay. At one 
 moment he thought of killing all the farmer's cattle ; next 
 of killing him ; challenging him to single combat with the 
 arms, and according to the fashion of gentlemen. But 
 the farmer was a coward; he would refuse. Then he, 
 Richard Feverel, would stand by the farmer's bedside, and 
 rouse him ; rouse him to fight with powder and ball in his 
 own chamber, in the cowardly midnight, where he might 
 tremble, but dare not refuse. 
 
 "Lord!" cried simple Ripton, while these hopeful plots 
 were raging in his comrade's brain, now sparkling for im- 
 mediate execution, and anon lapsing disdainfully dark in 
 their chances of fulfilment, "how I wish you'd have let 
 me notch him, Ricky ! I'm a safe shot. I never miss. I 
 should feel quite jolly if I'd spanked him once. We should 
 have had the best of him at that game. I say!" and a 
 sharp thought drew Ripton's ideas nearer home, "I wonder 
 whether my nose is as bad as he says! Where can I see 
 myself?" 
 
 To these exclamations Richard was deaf, and he trudged 
 steadily forward, facing but one object. 
 
 After tearing through innumerable hedges, leaping 
 fences, jumping dykes, penetrating brambly copses, and 
 getting dirty, ragged, and tired, Ripton awoke from his 
 dream of Farmer Blaize and a blue nose to the vivid 
 consciousness of hunger; and this grew with the rapidity 
 of light upon him, till in the course of another minute he 
 was enduring the extremes of famine, and ventured to 
 question his leader whither he was being conducted.
 
 16 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Raynham was out of sight. They were a long way down 
 the valley, miles from Lobourne, in a country of sour 
 pools, yellow brooks, rank pasturage, desolate heath. Soli- 
 tary cows were seen ; the smoke of a mud cottage ; a cart 
 piled with peat; a donkey grazing at leisure, oblivious of 
 an unkind world ; geese by a horse-pond, gabbling as in 
 the first loneliness of creation ; uncooked things that a 
 famishing boy cannot possibly care for, and must despise. 
 Ripton was in despair. 
 
 "Where are you going to?" he inquired with a voice of 
 the last time of asking, and halted resolutely. 
 
 Richard now broke his silence to reply, "Anywhere." 
 
 "Anywhere!" Ripton took up the moody word. "But 
 ain't you awfully hungry?" he gasped vehemently, in a 
 way that showed the total emptiness of his stomach, 
 
 "No," was Richard's brief response. 
 
 "Not hungry!" Ripton's amazement lent him increased 
 vehemence. "Why, you haven't had anything to eat since 
 breakfast! Not hungry? I declare I'm starving. I feel 
 such a gnawing I could eat dry bread and cheese!" 
 
 Richard sneered : not for reasons that would have 
 actuated a similar demonstration of the philosopher. 
 
 "Come," cried Ripton, "at all events, tell us where 
 you're going to stop." 
 
 Richard faced about to make a querulous retort. The 
 injured and hapless visage that met his eye disarmed him. 
 The lad's nose, though not exactly of the dreaded hue, 
 was really becoming discoloured. To upbraid him would 
 be cruel. Richard lifted his head, surveyed the position, 
 and exclaiming "Here!" dropped down on a withered bank, 
 leaving Ripton to contemplate him as a puzzle whose every 
 new move was a worse perplexity. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE MAGI AN CONFLICT 
 
 Among boys there are laws of honour and chivalrous 
 codes, not written or formally taught, but intuitively 
 understood by all, and invariably acted upon by the loyal
 
 THE MAGIAN CONFLICT 17 
 
 and the true. The race is not nearly civilized, we must 
 remember. Thus, not to follow your leader whithersoever 
 he may think proper to lead; to back out of an expedition 
 because the end of it frowns dubious, and the present 
 fruit of it is discomfort; to quit a comrade on the road, 
 and return home without him : these are tricks which no 
 boy of spirit would be guilty of, let him come to any de- 
 scription of mortal grief in consequence. Better so than 
 have his own conscience denouncing him sneak. Some 
 boys who behave boldly enough are not troubled by this 
 conscience, and the eyes and the lips of their fellows 
 have to supply the deficiency. They do it with just as 
 haunting, and even more horrible pertinacity, than the 
 inner voice, and the result, if the probation be not very 
 severe and searching, is the same. The leader can rely on 
 the faithfulness of his host : the comrade is sworn to serve. 
 Master Ripton Thompson was naturally loyal. The idea 
 of turning off and forsaking his friend never once crossed 
 his mind, though his condition was desperate, and his 
 friend's behaviour that of a Bedlamite. He announced 
 several times impatiently that they would be too late for 
 dinner. His friend did not budge. Dinner seemed noth- 
 ing to him. There he lay plucking grass, and patting the 
 old dog's nose, as if incapable of conceiving what a thing 
 hunger was. Ripton took half-a-dozen turns up and down, 
 and at last flung himself down beside the taciturn boy, 
 accepting his fate. 
 
 Now, the chance that works for certain purposes sent a 
 smart shower from the sinking sun, and the wet sent two 
 strangers for shelter in the lane behind the hedge where 
 the boys reclined. One was a travelling tinker, who lit a 
 pipe and spread a tawny umbrella. The other was a burly 
 young countryman, pipeless and tentless. They saluted 
 with a nod, and began recounting for each other's benefit 
 the day-long doings of the weather, as it had affected their 
 individual experience and followed their prophecies. Both 
 had anticipated and foretold a bit of rain before night, 
 and therefore both welcomed the wet with satisfaction. 
 A monotonous betweenwhiles kind of talk they kept dron- 
 ing, in harmony with the still hum of the air. From the 
 weather theme they fell upon the blessings of tobacco; 
 how it was the poor man's friend, his company, his con-
 
 18 THE OKDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 solation, his comfort, his refuge at night, his first thought 
 in the morning. 
 
 "Better than a wife!" chuckled the tinker. "No cur- 
 tain-lecturin' with a pipe. Your pipe an't a shrew." 
 
 "That be it!" the other chimed in. "Your pipe doan't 
 mak' ye out wi' all the cash Saturday evenin'." 
 
 "Take one," said the tinker, in the enthusiasm of the 
 moment, handing a grimy short clay. Speed-the-Plough 
 tilled from the tinker's pouch, and continued his praises. 
 
 "Penny a day, and there y'are, primed! Better than a 
 wife? Ha, ha!" 
 
 "And you can get rid of it, if ye wants for to, and when 
 ye wants," added tinker. 
 
 "So ye can!" Speed-the-Plough took him up. "And ye 
 doan't want for to. Leastways, t'other case. I means pipe." 
 
 "And," continued tinker, comprehending him perfectly, 
 "it don't bring repentance after it." 
 
 "Not nohow, master, it doan't! And" — Speed-the- 
 Plough cocked his eye — "it doan't eat up half the victuals, 
 your pipe doan't." 
 
 Here the honest yeoman gesticulated his keen sense of 
 a clincher, which the tinker acknowledged; and having, 
 so to speak, sealed up the subject by saying the best thing 
 that could be said, the two smoked for some time in silence 
 to the drip and patter of the shower. 
 
 Ripton solaced his wretchedness by watching them 
 through the briar hedge. He saw the tinker stroking a 
 white cat, and appealing to her, every now and then, as 
 his missus, for an opinion or a confirmation; and he 
 thought that a curious sight. Speed-the-Plough was 
 stretched at full length, with his boots in the rain, and his 
 head amidst the tinker's pots, smoking, profoundly con- 
 templative. The minutes seemed to be taken up alter- 
 nately by the grey puffs from their mouths. 
 
 It was the tinker who renewed the colloquy. Said he, 
 "Times is bad!" 
 
 His companion assented, "Sure-ly!" 
 
 "But it somehow comes round right," resumed the 
 tinker. "Why, look here. Where's the good o' moping? 
 I sees it all come round right and tight. Now I travels 
 about. I've got my beat. 'Casion calls me t'other day 
 to Newcastle !— Eh ?"
 
 THE MAGIAN CONFLICT 19 
 
 "Coals!" ejaculated Speed-the-Plough sonorously. 
 
 "Coals !" echoed the tinker. "You ask what I goes there 
 for, mayhap ? Never you mind. One sees a mort o' life 
 in my trade. Not for coals it isn't. And I don't carry 
 'em there, neither. Anyhow, I comes back. London's my 
 mark. Says I, I'll see a bit o' the sea, and steps aboard 
 a collier. We were as nigh wrecked as the prophet Paul." 
 
 " — A — who's him?" the other wished to know. 
 
 "Read your Bible," said the tinker. "We pitched and 
 tossed — 'tain't that game at sea 'tis on land, I can tell 
 ye ! I thinks, down we're a-going — say your prayers, Bob 
 Tiles! That was a night, to be sure! But God's above 
 the devil, and here I am, ye see." 
 
 Speed-the-Plough lurched round on his elbow and re- 
 garded him indifferently. "D'ye call that doctrin' ? He 
 bean't al'ays, or I shoo'n't be scrapin' my heels wi' nothia' 
 to do, and, what's warse, nothin' to eat. Why, look hce*. 
 Luck's luck, and bad luck's the contrary. Varmer Bol- 
 lop, t'other day, has's rick burnt down. Next night his 
 gran'ry's burnt. What do he tak' and go and do? He 
 takes and goes and hangs unsel', and turns, us out of his 
 employ. God warn't above the devil then, I thinks, or 
 I can't make out the reckonin'." 
 
 The tinker cleared his throat, and said it was a bad 
 case. 
 
 "And a darn'd bad case. I'll tak' my oath on't !" cried 
 Speed-the-Plough. "Well, look heer! Heers another 
 darn'd bad case. I threshed for Varmer Blaize — Blaize 
 o' Beltharpe — afore I goes to Varmer Bollop. Varmer 
 Blaize misses pilkins. He swears our chaps steals pilkins. 
 'Twarn't me steals 'em. What do he tak' and go and do? 
 He takes and tarns us off, me and another, neck and crop, 
 to scuffle about and starve, for all he keers. God warn't 
 above the devil then, I thinks. Not nohow, as I can see !" 
 
 The tinker shook his head, and said that was a bad case 
 also. 
 
 "And you can't mend it," added Speed-the-Plough. 
 "It's bad, and there it be. But I'll tell ye what, master. 
 Bad wants payin' for." He nodded and winked myste- 
 riously. "Bad has its wages as well's honest work, I'm 
 thinkin'. Varmer Bollop I don't owe no grudge to: 
 Varmer Blaize I do. And I shud like to stick a Lucifer
 
 20 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 in his rick some dry windy night." Speed-the-Plough 
 screwed up an eye villainously. "He wants hittin' in the 
 wind, — jest where the pocket is, master, do Varmer Blaize, 
 and he'll cry out 'O Lor'!' Varmer Blaize will. You won't 
 get the better o' Varmer Blaize by no means, as I makes 
 out, if ye doan't hit into him jest there." 
 
 The tinker sent a rapid succession of white clouds from 
 his mouth, and said that would be taking the devil's side 
 of a bad case. Speed-the-Plough observed energetically 
 that, if Farmer Blaize was on the other, he should be on 
 that side. 
 
 There was a young gentleman close by, who thought 
 with him. The hope of Raynham had lent a careless half- 
 compelled attention to the foregoing dialogue, wherein a 
 common labourer and a travelling tinker had propounded 
 and discussed one of the most ancient theories of trans- 
 mundane dominion and influence on mundane affairs. He 
 now started to his feet, and came tearing through the 
 briar hedge, calling out for one of them to direct them 
 the nearest road to Bursley. The tinker was kindling prep- 
 arations for his tea, under the tawny umbrella. A loaf 
 was set forth, on which Ripton's eyes, stuck in the hedge, 
 fastened ravenously. Speed-the-Plough volunteered in- 
 formation that Bursley was a good three mile from 
 where they stood, and a good eight mile from Lobourne. 
 
 'TTi give you half-a-crown for that loaf, my good fel- 
 low," said Richard to the tinker. 
 
 "It's a bargain," quoth the tinker, "eh, missus?" 
 
 His cat replied by humping her back at the dog. 
 
 The half-crown was tossed down, and Ripton, who had 
 just succeeded in freeing his limbs from the briar, prickly 
 as a hedgehog, collared the loaf. 
 
 "Those young squires be sharp-set, and no mistake," 
 said the tinker to his companion. "Come! we'll to Burs- 
 ley after 'em, and talk it out over a pot o' beer." Speed- 
 the-Plough was nothing loath, and in a short time they 
 were following the two lads on the road to Bursley, while 
 a horizontal blaze shot across the autumn land from the 
 Western edge of the rain-cloud.
 
 ARSON 21 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ARSON 
 
 Search for the missing hoys had been, made everywhere 
 over Raynham, and Sir Austin was in grievous discon- 
 tent. None had seen them save Austin Wentworth and 
 Mr. Morton. The baronet sat construing their account of 
 the flight of the lads when they were hailed, and resolved 
 it into an act of rebellion on the part of his son. At 
 dinner he drank the young heir's health in ominous 
 silence. Adrian Harley stood up in his place to propose 
 the health. His speech was a fine piece of rhetoric. He 
 warmed in it till, after the Ciceronie model, inanimate 
 objects were personified, and Richard's table-napkin and 
 vacant chair were invoked to follow the steps of a peerless 
 father, and uphold with his dignity the honour of the 
 Feverels. Austin Wentworth, whom a soldier's death com- 
 pelled to take his father's place in support of the toast, 
 was tame after such magniloquence. But the reply, the 
 thanks which young Richard should have delivered in per- 
 son were not forthcoming. Adrian's oratory had given but 
 a momentary life to napkin and chair. The company of 
 honoured friends, and aunts, and uncles, and remotest 
 cousins, were glad to disperse and seek amusement in 
 music and tea. Sir Austin did his utmost to be hospita- 
 bly cheerful, and requested them to dance. If he had de- 
 sired them to laugh he would have been obeyed, and in 
 as hearty a manner. 
 
 "How triste!" said Mrs. Doria Forey to Lobourne's 
 curate, as that most enamoured automaton went through 
 his paces beside her with professional stiffness. 
 
 "One who does not suffer can hardly assent," the curate 
 answered, basking in her beams. 
 
 "Ah, you are good !" exclaimed the lady. "Look at my 
 Clare. She will not dance on her cousin's birthday with 
 any one but him. What are we to do to enliven these 
 people ?" 
 
 "Alas, madam! you cannot do for all what you do for
 
 22 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 one," the curate sighed, and wherever she wandered in 
 discourse, drew her back with silken strings to gaze on 
 his enamoured soul. 
 
 He was the only gratified stranger present. The others 
 had designs on the young heir. Lady Attenbury of Long- 
 ford House had brought her highly-polished specimen of 
 marketware, the Lady Juliana J aye, for a first introduc- 
 tion to him, thinking he had arrived at an age to estimate 
 and pine for her black eyes and pretty pert mouth. The 
 Lady Juliana had to pair off with a dapper Papworth, 
 and her mama was subjected to the gallantries of Sir 
 Miles, who talked land and steam-engines to her till she 
 was sick, and had to be impertinent in self-defence. Lady 
 Blandish, the delightful widow, sat apart with Adrian, 
 and enjoyed his sarcasms on the company. By ten at 
 night the poor show ended, and the rooms were dark, 
 dark as the prognostics multitudinously hinted by the dis- 
 appointed and chilled gudsts concerning the probable 
 future of the hope of Rayfiam. Little Ulare kissed her 
 mama, curtsied to the lingering curate, and went to bed 
 like a very good girl. Immediately the maid had departed, 
 little Clare deliberately exchanged night attire for that of 
 day. She was noted as an obedient child. Her light was 
 always allowed to burn in her room for half-an-hour, to 
 counteract her fears of the dark. She took the light, and 
 stole on tiptoe to Richard's room. No Richard was there. 
 She peeped in further and further. A trifling agitation 
 of the curtains shot her back through the door and along 
 the passage to her own bedchamber with extreme expe- 
 dition. She was not much alarmed, but feeling guilty she 
 was on her guard. In a short time she was prowling about 
 the passages again. Richard had slighted and offended 
 the little lady, and was to be asked whether he did not 
 repent such conduct toward his cousin; not to be asked 
 whether he had forgotten to receive his birthday kiss from 
 her; for, if he did not choose to remember that, Miss 
 Clare would never remind him of it, and to-night should 
 be his last chance of a reconciliation. Thus she militated, 
 sitting on a stair, and presently heard Richard's voice 
 below in the hall, shouting for supper. 
 
 "Master Richard has returned," old Benson the butler 
 tolled out intelligence to Sir Austin.
 
 ARSON 23 
 
 "Well?" said the baronet. 
 
 "He complains of being hungry," the butler hesitated, 
 with a look of solemn disgust. 
 
 "Let him eat." 
 
 Heavy Benson hesitated still more as he announced 
 that the boy had called for wine. It was an unprecedented 
 thing. Sir Austin's brows were portending an arch, but 
 Adrian suggested that he wanted possibly to drink his 
 birthday, and claret was conceded. 
 
 The boys were in the vortex of a partridge-pie when 
 Adrian strolled in to them. They had now changed char- 
 acters. Richard was uproarious. He drank a health with 
 every glass; his cheeks were flushed and his eyes brilliant. 
 Ripton looked very much like a rogue on the tremble of 
 detection, but his honest hunger and the partridge-pie 
 shielded him awhile from Adrian's scrutinizing glance. 
 Adrian saw there was matter for study, if it were only 
 on Master Ripton's betraying nose, and sat down to hear 
 and mark. 
 
 "Good sport, gentlemen, I trust to hear?" he began his 
 quiet banter, and provoked a loud peal of laughter from 
 Richard. 
 
 "Ha, ha! I say, Rip: 'Havin' good sport, gentlemen, 
 are ye?' You remember the farmer! Your health, 
 parson! We haven't had our sport yet. We're going to 
 have some first-rate sport. Oh, well! we haven't much 
 show of birds. We shot for pleasure, and returned them 
 to the proprietors. You're fond of game, parson ! ^Ripton 
 is a dead shot in what Cousin Austin calls the Kingdom 
 of 'would-have-done' and 'might-have-been.' Up went the 
 birds, and cries Rip, 'I've forgotten to load!' Oh. ho!— 
 Rip ! some more claret — Do just leave that nose of yours 
 alone.— Your health, Ripton Thompson ! The birds hadn't 
 the decency to wait for him, and so, parson, it's their 
 fault, and not Rip's, you haven't a dozen brace at your 
 feet. What have you been doing at home, Cousin Rady V 
 
 "Playing Hamlet, in the absence of the Prince of Den- 
 mark. The day without you, my dear boy, must be dull, 
 you know." 
 
 " 'He speaks: can I trust what he says is sincere? 
 
 There's an edge to his smile that cuts much like a sneer.'
 
 24 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Sandoe's poems ! You know the couplet, Mr. Rady. Why 
 shouldn't I quote Sandoe? You know you like him, Rady. 
 But, if you've missed me, I'm sorry. Rip and I have had 
 a beautiful day. We've made new acquaintances. We've 
 seen the world. I'm the monkey that has seen the world, 
 and I'm going to tell you all about it. First, there's a 
 gentleman who takes a rifle for a fowling-piece. Next, 
 there's a farmer who warns everybody, gentleman and 
 beggar, off his premises. Next, there's a tinker and a 
 ploughman, who think that God is always fighting with 
 the devil which shall command the kingdoms of the earth. 
 The tinker's for God, and the ploughman" 
 
 "I'll drink your health, Ricky," said Adrian, interrupting. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot, parson ; — I mean no harm, Adrian. I'm 
 only telling what I've heard." 
 
 "No harm, my dear boy," returned Adrian. "I'm per- 
 fectly aware that Zoroaster is not dead. You have been 
 listening to a common creed. Drink the Fire-worshippers, 
 if you will." 
 
 "Here's to Zoroaster, then!" cried Richard. "I say, 
 Rippy! we'll drink the Fire-worshippers to-night, won't 
 we?" 
 
 A fearful conspiratorial frown, that would not have dis- 
 graced Guido Fawkes, was darted back from the plastic 
 features of Master Ripton. 
 
 Richard gave his lungs loud play. 
 
 "Why, what did you say about Blaizes, Rippy? Didn't 
 you say it was fun?" 
 
 Another hideous and silencing frown was Ripton's 
 answer. Adrian watched the innocent youths, and knew 
 that there was talking under the table. "See," thought 
 he, "this boy has tasted his first scraggy morsel of life 
 to-day, and already he talks like an old stager, and has, 
 if I mistake not, been acting too. My respected chief," 
 he apostrophized Sir Austin, "combustibles are only the 
 more dangerous for compression. This boy will be rav- 
 enous for Earth when he is let loose, and very soon make 
 his share of it look as foolish as yonder game-pie!" — a 
 prophecy Adrian kept to himself. 
 
 Uncle Algernon shambled in to see his nephew before 
 the supper was finished, and his more genial presence 
 brought out a little of the plot.
 
 ARSON 25 
 
 "Look here, uncle!" said Richard. "Would you let a 
 churlish old brute of a farmer strike you without making 
 him suffer for it?" 
 
 "I fancy I should return the compliment, my lad," re- 
 plied his uncle. 
 
 "Of course you would! So would I. And he shall 
 suffer for it." The boy looked savage, and his uncle 
 patted him down. 
 
 "I've boxed his son; I'll box him," said Richard, shout- 
 ing for more wine. 
 
 "What, boy ! Is it old Blaize has been putting you up ?" 
 
 "Never mind, uncle !" The boy nodded mysteriously. 
 
 Look there! Adrian read on Ripton's face, he says 
 "never mind," and lets it out! 
 
 "Did we beat to-day, uncle ?" 
 
 "Yes, boy; and we'd beat them any day they bowl fair. 
 I'd beat them on one leg. There's only Natkins and 
 Featherdene among them worth a farthing." 
 
 "We beat !" cries Richard. "Then we'll have some more 
 wine, and drink their healths." 
 
 The bell was run; wine ordered. Presently comes in 
 heavy Benson, to say supplies are cut off. One bottle, 
 and no more. The Captain whistled : Adrian shrugged. 
 
 The bottle, however, was procured by Adrian subse- 
 quently. He liked studying intoxicated urchins. 
 
 One subject was at Richard's heart, about which he 
 was reserved in the midst of his riot. Too proud to in- 
 quire how his father had taken his absence, he burned to 
 hear whether he was in disgrace. He led to it repeatedly, 
 and it was constantly evaded by Algernon and Adrian. 
 At last, when the boy declared a desire to wish his father 
 good-night, Adrian had to tell him that he was to go 
 straight to bed from the supper-table. Young Richard's 
 face fell at that, and his gaiety forsook him. He marched 
 to his room without another word. 
 
 Adrian gave Sir Austin an able version of his son's 
 behaviour and adventures; dwelling upon this sudden 
 taciturnity when he heard of his father's resolution not 
 to see him. The wise youth saw that his chief was molli- 
 fied behind his moveless mask, and went to bed, and 
 Horace, leaving Sir Austin in his study. Long hours the 
 baronet sat alone. The house had not its usual influx
 
 26 THE ORDEAL OF El CHARD EEVEREL 
 
 of Feverels that day. Austin Wentworth was staying at 
 Poer Hall, and had only come over for an hour. At mid- 
 night the house breathed sleep. Sir Austin put on his 
 cloak and cap, and took the lamp to make his rounds. 
 He apprehended nothing special, but with a mind never 
 at rest he constituted himself the sentinel of Raynham. 
 He passed the chamber where the Great-Aunt Grantley 
 lay, who was to swell Richard's fortune, and so perform 
 her chief business on earth. By her door he murmured, 
 "Good creature! you sleep with a sense of duty done," 
 and paced on, reflecting, ''She has not made money a 
 demon of discord," and blessed her. He had his thoughts 
 at Hippias's somnolent door, and to them the world might 
 have subscribed. 
 
 A monomaniac at large, watching over sane people in 
 slumber! thinks Adrian Harley, as he hears Sir Austin's 
 footfall, and truly that was a strange object to see. — 
 Where is the fortress that has not one weak gate? where 
 the man who is sound at each particular angle? Ay, 
 meditates the recumbent cynic, more or less mad is not 
 every mother's son ? Favourable circumstances — good air, 
 good company, two or three good rules rigidly adhered 
 to — keep the world out of Bedlam. But, let the world fly 
 into a passion, and is not Bedlam the safest abode for it ? 
 
 Sir Austin ascended the stairs, and bent his steps lei- 
 surely toward the chamber where his son was lying in the 
 left wing of the Abbey. At the end of the gallery which led 
 to it he discovered a dim light. Doubting it an illusion, 
 Sir Austin accelerated his pace. This wing had aforetime 
 a bad character. Notwithstanding what .years had done to 
 polish it into fair repute, the Raynham kitchen stuck to 
 tradition, and preserved certain stories of ghosts seen 
 there, that effectually blackened it in the susceptible minds 
 of new housemaids and under-cooks, whose fears would 
 not allow the sinner to wash his sins. Sir Austin had 
 heard of the tales circulated by his domestics under- 
 ground. He cherished his own belief, but discouraged 
 theirs, and it was treason at Raynham to be caught 
 traducing the left wing. As the baronet advanced, the 
 fact of a light burning was clear to him. A slight descent 
 brought him into the passage, and he beheld a poor human 
 candle standing outside his son's chamber. At the same
 
 ARSON 27 
 
 moment a door closed hastily. He entered Richard's 
 room. The boy was absent. The bed was unpressed: no 
 clothes about : nothing to show that he had been there that 
 night. Sir Austin felt vaguely apprehensive. Has he 
 gone to my room to await me ? thought the father's heart. 
 Something like a tear quivered in his arid eyes as he 
 meditated and hoped this might be so. His own sleeping- 
 room faced that of his son. He strode to it with a quick 
 heart. It was empty. Alarm dislodged anger from his 
 jealous heart, and dread of evil put a thousand questions 
 to him that were answered in air. After pacing up and 
 down his room he determined to go and ask the boy 
 Thompson, as he called Ripton, what was known to him. 
 
 The chamber assigned to Master Ripton Thompson was 
 at the northern extremity of the passage, and overlooked 
 Lobourne and the valley to the West. The bed stood be- 
 tween the window and the door. Sir Austin found the 
 door ajar, and the interior dark. To his surprise, the 
 boy Thompson's couch, as revealed by the rays of his lamp, 
 was likewise vacant. He was turning back when he 
 fancied he heard the sibilation of a whispering in the 
 room. Sir Austin cloaked the lamp and trod silently to- 
 ward the window. The heads of his son Richard and the 
 boy Thompson were seen crouched against the glass, 
 holding excited converse together. Sir Austin listened, 
 but he listened to a language of which he possessed not 
 the key. Their talk was of fire, and of delay : of expected 
 agrarian astonishment : of a farmer's huge wrath : of vio- 
 lence exercised upon gentlemen, and of vengeance: talk 
 that the boys jerked out by fits, and that came as broken 
 links of a chain impossible to connect. But they awoke 
 curiosity. The baronet condescended to play the spy upon 
 his son. 
 
 Over Lobourne and the valley lay black night and in- 
 numerable stars. 
 
 "How jolly I feel!" exclaimed Ripton, inspired by 
 claret; and then, after a luxurious pause— "I think that 
 fellow has pocketed his guinea, and cut his lucky." 
 
 Richard allowed a long minute to pass, during which 
 the baronet waited anxiously for his voice, hardly rec- 
 ognizing it when he heard its altered tones. 
 
 "If he has, I'll go; and I'll do it myself."
 
 28 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "You would?" returned Master Ripton. "Well, I'm 
 hanged ! — I say, if you went to school, wouldn't you get 
 into rows! Perhaps he hasn't found the place where the 
 box was stuck in. I think he funks it. I almost wish you 
 hadn't done it, upon my honour — eh? Look there! what 
 was that ? That looked like something. — I say! do you 
 think we shall ever be found out?" 
 
 Master Ripton intoned this abrupt interrogation very 
 seriously. 
 
 "I don't think about it," said Richard, all his faculties 
 bent on signs from Lobourne. 
 
 "Well, but," Ripton persisted, "suppose we are found 
 out?" 
 
 "If we are, I must pay for it." 
 
 Sir Austin breathed the better for this reply. He was 
 beginning to gather a clue to the dialogue. His son was 
 engaged in a plot, and was, moreover, the leader of the 
 plot. He listened for further enlightenment. 
 
 "What was the fellow's name?" inquired Ripton. 
 
 His companion answered, "Tom Bakewell." 
 
 "I'll tell you what," continued Ripton. "You let it all 
 clean out to your cousin and uncle at supper. How capital 
 claret is with partridge-pie! What a lot I ate! — Didn't 
 you see me frown ?" 
 
 The young sensualist was in an ecstasy of gratitude to 
 his late refection, and the slightest word recalled him to 
 it. Richard answered him — 
 
 "Yes; and felt your kick. It doesn't matter. Rady's 
 safe, and uncle never blabs." 
 
 "Well, my plan is to keep it close. You're never safe if 
 you don't. — I never drank much claret before," Ripton 
 was off again. "Won't I now, though! claret's my wine. 
 You know, it may come out any day, and then we're done 
 for," he rather incongruously appended. 
 
 Richard only took up the business-thread of his friend's 
 rambling chatter, and answered — 
 
 "You've got nothing to do with it, if we are." 
 
 "Haven't I, though! I didn't stick in the box, but I'm 
 an accomplice, that's clear. Besides," added Ripton, "do 
 you think 1 should leave you to bear it all on your 
 shoulders? I ain't that sort of chap, Ricky, I can tell 
 you."
 
 ARSON 29 
 
 Sir Austin thought more highly of the boy Thompson. 
 Still it looked a detestable conspiracy, and the altered 
 manner of his son impressed him strangely. He was not 
 the boy of yesterday. To Sir Austin it seemed as if a gulf 
 had suddenly opened between them. The boy had em- 
 barked, and was on the waters of life in his own vessel. 
 It was as vain to call him back as to attempt to erase 
 what Time has written with the Judgment Blood! This 
 child, for whom he had prayed nightly in such a fervour 
 and humbleness to God, the dangers were about him, the 
 temptations thick on him, and the devil on board piloting. 
 If a day had done so much, what would years do? Were 
 prayers and all the watchfulness he had expended of no 
 avail ? 
 
 A sensation of infinite melancholy overcame the poor 
 gentleman — a thought that he was fighting with a fate in 
 this beloved boy. 
 
 He was half disposed to arrest the two conspirators on 
 the spot, and make them confess, and absolve themselves; 
 but it seemed to him better to keep an unseen eye over 
 his son: Sir Austin's old system prevailed. 
 
 Adrian characterized this system well, in saying that 
 Sir Austin wished to be Providence to his son. 
 
 If immeasurable love were perfect wisdom, one human 
 being might almost impersonate Providence to another. 
 Alas ! love, divine as it is, can do no more than lighten 
 the house it inhabits — must take its shape, sometimes in- 
 tensify its narrowness — can spiritualize, but not expel, the 
 old life-long lodgers above-stairs and below. 
 
 Sir Austin decided to continue quiescent. 
 
 The valley still lay black beneath the large autumnal 
 stars, and the exclamations of the boys were becoming 
 fevered and impatient. By-and-by one insisted that he 
 had seen a twinkle. The direction he gave was out of 
 their anticipations. Again the twinkle was ^ announced. 
 Both boys started to their feet. It was a twinkle in the 
 right direction now. 
 
 "He's done it!" cried Richard, in great heat. "Now 
 you may say old Blaize'll soon be old Blazes, Rip. I hope 
 he's asleep." 
 
 "I'm sure he's snoring! — Look there! He's alight fast 
 enough. He's dry. He'll burn.— I say," Ripton re-as-
 
 30 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 sumed the serious intonation, "do you think they'll ever 
 suspect us?" 
 
 •What if they do? We must brunt it." 
 
 "Of course we will. But, I say! I wish you hadn't 
 given them the scent, though. I like to look innocent. 
 I can't when 1 know people suspect me. Lord! look there! 
 Isn't it just beginning to flare up!" 
 
 The farmer's grounds were indeed gradually standing 
 out in sombre shadows. 
 
 '•I'll fetch my telescope," said Richard. Ripton, some- 
 how not liking to be left alone, caught hold of him. 
 
 •Xo; don't go and lose the best of it. Here, I'll throw 
 open the window, and we can see." 
 
 The window was flung open, and the boys instantly 
 stretched half their bodies out of it; Ripton appearing to 
 devour the rising flames with his mouth: Richard with 
 his eyes. 
 
 Opaque and statuesque stood the figure of the baronet 
 behind them. The wind was low. Dense masses of smoke 
 hung amid the darting snakes of fire, and a red malign 
 light was on the neighbouring leafage. No figures could 
 be seen. Apparently the flames had nothing to contend 
 against, for they were making terrible strides into the 
 darkness. 
 
 "Oh!" shouted Richard, overcome by excitement, "if I 
 had my telescope! We must have it! Let me go and 
 fetch it! I will!" 
 
 The boys struggled together, and Sir Austin stepped 
 back. As he did so, a cry was heard in the passage. He 
 hurried out, closed the chamber, and came upon little 
 Clare lying senseless along the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 ADRIAN PLIES HIS HOOK 
 
 In the morning that followed this night, great gossip 
 was interchanged between Raynham and Lobourne. The 
 village told how Farmer Blaize, of Belthorpe Farm, had 
 his rick feloniously set fire to; his stables had caught fire,
 
 ADRIAN PLIES HIS HOOK 31 
 
 himself had been all but roasted alive in the attempt to 
 rescue his cattle, of which numbers had perished in the 
 flames. Raynham counterbalanced arson with an authen- 
 tic ghost seen by Miss Clare in the left wing of the 
 Abbey — the ghost of a lady, dressed in deep mourning, 
 a scar on her forehead, and a bloody handkerchief at her 
 breast, frightful to behold! and no wonder the child was 
 frightened out of her wits, and lay in a desperate state 
 awaiting the arrival of the London doctors. It was added 
 that the servants had all threatened to leave in a body, 
 and that Sir Austin to appease them had promised to pull 
 down the entire left wing, like a gentleman ; for no decent 
 creature, said Lobourne, could consent to live in a haunted 
 house. 
 
 Rumour for the nonce had a stronger spice of truth than 
 usual. Poor little Clare lay ill, and the calamity that had 
 befallen Farmer Blaize, as regards his rick, was not much 
 exaggerated. Sir Austin caused an account of it to be 
 given him at breakfast, and appeared so scrupulously 
 anxious to hear the exact extent of injury sustained by 
 the farmer that heavy Benson went down to inspect the 
 scene. Mr. Benson returned, and, acting under Adrian's 
 malicious advice, framed a formal report of the catas- 
 trophe, in which the farmer's breeches figured, and certain 
 cooling applications to a part of the farmer's person. 
 Sir Austin perused it without a smile. He took occasion 
 to have it read out before the two boys, who listened very 
 demurely, as to an ordinary newspaper incident; only 
 when the report particularized the garments damaged, and 
 the unwonted distressing position Farmer Blaize was re- 
 duced to in his bed, an indecorous fit of sneezing laid 
 hold of Master Ripton Thompson, and Richard bit his 
 lip and burst into loud laughter, Ripton joining him, lost 
 to consequences. 
 
 "I trust you feel for this poor man," said Sir Austin 
 to his son, somewhat sternly. He saw no sign of feel- 
 ing. 
 
 It was a difficult task for Sir Austin to keep his old 
 countenance toward the hope of Raynham, knowing him 
 the accomplice-incendiary, and believing the deed to have 
 been unprovoked and wanton. But he must do so, he 
 knew, to let the boy have a fair trial against himself.
 
 32 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Bo it said, moreover, that the baronet's possession of his 
 son's seeret flattered him. It allowed him to act, and in 
 a measure to feel, like Providence; enabled him to observe 
 and provide for the movements of creatures in the dark. 
 He therefore treated the boy as he commonly did, and 
 Richard saw no change in his father to make him think 
 he was suspected. 
 
 The youngster's game was not so easy against Adrian. 
 Adrian did not shoot or Ash. Voluntarily he did nothing 
 to work off the destructive nervous fluid, or whatever it 
 may be, which is in man's nature; so that two culprit 
 boys once in his power were not likely to taste the gentle 
 hand of mercy, and Richard and Ripton paid for many 
 a trout and partridge spared. At every minute of the day 
 Ripton was thrown into sweats of suspicion that discovery 
 was imminent, by some stray remark or message from 
 Adrian. He was as a fish with the hook in his gills, 
 mysteriously caught without having nibbled; and dive 
 into what depths he would he was sensible of a sum- 
 moning force that compelled him perpetually towards the 
 gasping surface, which he seemed inevitably approaching 
 when the dinner-bell sounded. There the talk was all of 
 Farmer Blaize. If it dropped, Adrian revived it, and his 
 caressing way with Ripton was just such as a keen 
 sportsman feels toward the creature that has owned his 
 skill, and is making its appearance for the world to 
 acknowledge the same. Sir Austin saw the manoeuvres, 
 and admired Adrian's shrewdness. But he had to check 
 the young natural lawyer, for the effect of so much masked 
 examination upon Richard was growing baneful. This 
 fish also felt the hook in his gills, but this fish was more 
 of a pike, and lay in different waters, where there were 
 old stumps and black roots to wind about, and defy alike 
 strong pulling and delicate handling. In other words, 
 Richard showed symptoms of a disposition to take refuge 
 in lies. 
 
 ''You know the grounds, my dear boy," Adrian observed 
 to him. "Tell me; do you think it easy to get to the rick 
 unperceived? I hear they suspect one of the farmer's 
 turned-ofl hands." 
 
 "I tell you I don't know the grounds," RicharJ sullenly 
 replied.
 
 ADRIAN PLIES HIS HOOK 33 
 
 "Not ?" Adrian counterfeited courteous astonishment. 
 "I thought Mr. Thompson said you were over there yes- 
 terday?" 
 
 Ripton, glad to speak a truth, hurriedly assured Adrian 
 that it was not he had said so. 
 
 "Not? You had good sport, gentlemen, hadn't you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes !" mumbled the wretched victims, reddening as 
 they remembered, in Adrian's slightly drawled rusticity of 
 tone, Farmer Blaize's first address to them. 
 
 "I suppose you were among the Fire-worshippers last 
 night, too ?" persisted Adrian. "In some countries, I hear, 
 they manage their best sport at night-time, and beat up 
 for game with torches. It must be a fine sight. After 
 all, the country would be dull if we hadn't a rip here 
 and there to treat us to a little conflagration." 
 
 "A rip !" laughed Richard, to his friend's disgust and 
 alarm at his daring. "You don't mean this Rip, do you ?" 
 
 "Mr. Thompson fire a rick? I should as soon suspect 
 you, my dear boy. — You are aware, young gentlemen, that 
 it is rather a serious thing — eh? In this country, you 
 know, the landlord has always been the pet of the Laws. 
 By the way," Adrian continued, as if diverging to another 
 topic, "you met two gentlemen of the road in your ex- 
 plorations yesterday, Magians. Now, if I were a magis- 
 trate of the county, like Sir Miles Papworth, my suspicions 
 would light upon those gentlemen. A tinker and a 
 ploughman, I think you said, Mr. Thompson. Not? 
 Well, say two ploughmen." 
 
 "More likely two tinkers," said Richard. 
 
 "Oh! if you wish to exclude the ploughman — was he 
 out of employ?" 
 
 Ripton, with Adrian's eyes inveterately fixed on him, 
 stammered an affirmative. 
 
 "The tinker, or the ploughman?" 
 
 "The ploughm — " Ingenuous Ripton looking about, as 
 if to aid himself whenever he was able to speak the truth, 
 beheld Richard's face blackening at him, and swallowed 
 back half the word. 
 
 "The ploughman !" Adrian took him up cheerily. "Then 
 we have here a ploughman out of employ. Given a plough- 
 man out of employ, and a rick burnt. The burning of a 
 rick is an act of vengeance, and a ploughman out of em-
 
 34 Till: ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ploy is a vengeful animal. Th<> rick and the ploughman 
 are advancing to a juxtaposition. Motive being estab- 
 lished, we have only to prove their proximity at a certain 
 hour, and our ploughman voyages beyond seas." 
 
 "Is it transportation for rick-burning?" inquired Ripton 
 aghast. 
 
 Adrian spoke solemnly: "They shave your head. You 
 are manacled. Your diet is sour bread and cheese-parings. 
 You work in strings of twenties and thirties. Arson is 
 branded on your backs in an enormous A. Theological 
 works are the sole literary recreation of the well-conducted 
 and deserving. Consider the fate of this poor fellow, and 
 what an act of vengeance brings him to! Do you know 
 his name?" 
 
 "How should I know his name?" said Richard, with an 
 assumption of innocence painful to see. 
 
 Sir Austin remarked that no doubt it would soon be 
 known, and Adrian perceived that he was to quiet his 
 line, marvelling a little at the baronet's blindness to 
 what was so clear. He would not tell, for that would 
 ruin his future influence with Richard; still he wanted 
 some present credit for his discernment and devotion. 
 The boys got away from dinner, and, after deep consulta- 
 tion, agreed upon a course of conduct, which was to com- 
 miserate Farmer Blaize loudly, and make themselves look 
 as much like the public as it was possible for two young 
 malefactors to look, one of whom already felt Adrian's 
 enormous A devouring his back with the fierceness of the 
 Promethean eagle, and isolating him for ever from man- 
 kind. Adrian relished their novel tactics sharply, and 
 led them to lengths of lamentation for Farmer Blaize. 
 Do what they might, the hook was in their gills. The 
 farmer's whip had reduced them to bodily contortions: 
 these were decorous compared with the spiritual writhings 
 they had to perform under Adrian's manipulation. Rip- 
 ton was fast becoming a coward, and Richard a liar, when 
 next morning Austin Wentworth came over from Poer 
 Hall bringing news that one Mr. Thomas Bakewell, yeo- 
 man, had been arrested on suspicion of the crime of 
 Arson and lodged in jail, awaiting the magisterial pleasure 
 of Sir Miles Papworth. Austin's eye rested on Richard 
 as he spoke these terrible tidings. The hope of Raynham
 
 JUVENILE STRATAGEMS 35 
 
 returned his look, perfectly calm, and had, moreover, the 
 presence of mind not to look at Ripton. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 JUVENILE STRATAGEMS 
 
 As soon as they could escape, the hoys got away together 
 into an obscure corner of the park, and there took counsel 
 of their extremity. 
 
 "Whatever shall we do now?" asked Ripton of his 
 leader. 
 
 Scorpion girt with fire was never in a more terrible 
 prison-house than poor Ripton, around whom the raging 
 element he had assisted to create seemed to be drawing 
 momentary narrower circles. 
 
 ''There's only one chance," said Richard, coming to a 
 dead halt, and folding his arms resolutely. 
 
 His comrade inquired with the utmost eagerness what 
 that chance might be. 
 
 Richard fixed his eyes on a flint, and replied : "We must 
 rescue that fellow from jail." 
 
 Ripton gazed at his leader, and fell back with astonish- 
 ment. "My dear Ricky ! but how are we to do it ?" 
 
 Richard, still perusing his flint, replied: 'We must 
 manage to get a file in to him and a rope. It can be 
 done, I tell you. I don't care what I pay, I don't care 
 what I do. He must be got out." 
 
 "Bother that old Blaize!" exclaimed Ripton, taking off 
 his cap to wipe his frenzied forehead, and brought down 
 his friend's reproof. 
 
 "Never mind old Blaize now. Talk about letting it 
 out ! Look at you. I'm ashamed of you. You talk about 
 Robin Hood and King Richard! Why, you haven't an 
 atom of courage. Why, you let it out every second of 
 the day. Whenever Rady begins speaking you start; I 
 can see the perspiration rolling down you. Are you 
 afraid? — And then you contradict yourself. You never 
 keep to one story. Now, follow me. We must risk 
 everything to get him out. Mind that! And keep out
 
 36 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 of Adrian's way as muoh as you can. And keep to 
 one story." 
 
 With these sage directions the young leader marched 
 his companion-culprit down to inspect the jail where Tom 
 Bakewell lay groaning over the results of the super-mun- 
 dane conflict, and the victim of it that he was. 
 
 In Lobourne Austin Went worth had the reputation of 
 the poor man's friend; a title he earned more largely ere 
 he went to the reward God alone can give to that supreme 
 virtue. Dame Bakewell, the mother of Tom, on hearing 
 of her son's arrest, had run to comfort him and render 
 him what help 6he could; hut this was only sighs and 
 tears, and, oh deary me! which only perplexed poor Tom, 
 who bade her leave an unlucky chap to his fate, and not 
 make himsolf a thundering villain. Whereat the dame 
 begged him to take heart, and he should have a true com- 
 forter. "And though, it's a gentleman that's coming to 
 you, Tom — for he never refuses a poor body," said Mrs. 
 Bakewell, "it's a true Christian, Tom! and the Lord knows 
 if the sight of him mayn't be the saving of you, for he's 
 light to look on, and a sermon to listen to, he is!" 
 
 Tom was not prepossessed by the prospect of a sermon, 
 and looked a sullen dog enough when Austin entered his 
 cell. He was surprised at the end of half-an-hour to find 
 himself engaged in 'man-to-man conversation with a gen- 
 tleman and a Christian. When Austin rose to go, Tom 
 begged permission to shake his hand. 
 
 "Take and tell young master up at the Abbey that I 
 an't the chap to peach. He'll know. He's a young gentle- 
 man as '11 make any man do as he wants 'em! He's a 
 mortal wild young gentleman! And I'm a Ass! That's 
 where 'tis. But I an't a blackguard. Tell him that, 
 sir!" 
 
 This was how it came that Austin eyed young Richard 
 seriously while he told the news at Raynham. The boy 
 was shy of Austin more than of Adrian. Why, he did 
 not know ; but he made it a hard task for Austin to catch 
 him alone, and turned sulky that instant. Austin was not 
 clever like Adrian: he seldom divined other people's ideas, 
 and always went the direct road to his object; so instead 
 of beating about and setting the boy on the alert at all 
 points, crammed to the muzzle with lies, he just said,
 
 JUVENILE STRATAGEMS 37 
 
 "Tom Bakewell told me to let you know he does not 
 intend to peach on you," and left him. 
 
 Richard repeated the intelligence to Ripton, who cried 
 aloud that Tom was a brick. 
 
 "He shan't suffer for it," said Richard, and pondered 
 on a thicker rope and sharper file. 
 
 "But will your cousin tell?" was Ripton's reflection. 
 
 "He !" Richard's lip expressed contempt. "A plough- 
 man refuses to peach, and you ask if one of our family 
 will ?" 
 
 Ripton stood for the twentieth time reproved on this 
 point. 
 
 The boys had examined the outer walls of the jail, and 
 arrived at the conclusion that Tom's escape might be man- 
 aged if Tom had spirit, and the rope and file could be 
 anyway reached to him. But to do this, somebody must 
 gain admittance to his cell, and who was to be taken into 
 their confidence? 
 
 "Try your cousin," Ripton suggested, after much de- 
 bate. 
 
 Richard, smiling, wished to know if he meant Adrian. 
 
 "No, no !" Ripton hurriedly reassured him. "Austin." 
 
 The same idea was knocking at Richard's head. 
 
 "Let's get the rope and file first," said he, and to Bursley 
 they went for those implements to defeat the law, Ripton 
 procuring the file at one shop and Richard the rope at 
 another, with such masterly cunning did they lay their 
 measures for the avoidance of every possible chance of de- 
 tection. And better to assure this, in a wood outside 
 Bursley Richard stripped to his shirt and wound the rope 
 round his body, tasting the tortures of anchorites and 
 penitential friars, that nothing should be risked to make 
 Tom's escape a certainty. Sir Austin saw the marks at 
 night as his son lay asleep, through the half-opened folds 
 of his bed-gown. 
 
 It was a severe stroke when, after all their stratagems 
 and trouble, Austin Wentworth refused the office the boys 
 had zealously designed for him. Time pressed. In a few 
 days poor Tom would have to face the redoubtable Sir 
 Miles, and get committed, for rumours of overwhelming 
 evidence to convict him were rife about Lobourne, and 
 Farmer Blaize's wrath was unappeasable. Again and
 
 38 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEEEL 
 
 again young Richard begged his cousin not to sec him 
 disgraced, and to help him in this extremity. Austin 
 smiled on him. 
 
 "My dear Ricky," said he, "there are two ways of get- 
 ting out of a scrape: a long way and a short way. When 
 you've tried the roundabout method, and failed, come to 
 me, and I'll show you the straight route." 
 
 Richard was too entirely bent upon the roundabout 
 method to consider this advice more than empty words, 
 and only ground his teeth at Austin's unkind refusal. 
 
 He imparted to Ripton, at the eleventh hour, that they 
 must do it themselves, to which Ripton heavily assented. 
 
 On the day preceding poor Tom's doomed appearance 
 before the magistrate, Dame Bakewell had an interview 
 with Austin, who went to Raynham immediately, and 
 sought Adrian's counsel upon what was to be done. 
 Homeric laughter and nothing else could be got out of 
 Adrian when he heard of the doings of these desperate 
 boys: how they had entered Dame Bakewell's smallest of 
 retail shops, and purchased tea, sugar, candles, and com- 
 fits of every description, till the shop was clear of cus- 
 tomers: how they had then hurried her into her little 
 back-parlour, where Richard had torn open his shirt and 
 revealed the coils of rope, and Ripton displayed the point 
 of a file from a serpentine recess in his jacket: how they 
 had then told the astonished woman that the rope she saw 
 and the file she saw were instruments for the liberation 
 of her son ; that there existed no other means on earth 
 to save him, they, the boys, having unsuccessfully at- 
 tempted all: how upon that Richard had tried with the 
 utmost earnestness to pursuade her to disrobe and wind 
 the rope round her own person: and Ripton had aired 
 his eloquence to induce her to secrete the file: how, when 
 she resolutely objected to the rope, both boys began back- 
 ing the file, and in an evil hour, she feared, said Dame 
 Bakewell, she had rewarded the gracious permission given 
 her by Sir Miles Papworth to visit her sun, by tempting 
 Tom to file the Law. Though, thanks be to tlie herd! 
 Dame Bakewell added, Tom had turned up his nose at 
 the file, and so she had told young Master Richard, who 
 swore very bad for a young gentleman. 
 
 "Boys are like monkeys," remarked Adrian, at the close
 
 JUVENILE STRATAGEMS 39 
 
 of his explosions, "the gravest actors of farcical nonsense 
 that the world possesses. May I never be where there are 
 no boys ! A couple of boys left to themselves will furnish 
 richer fun than any troop of trained comedians. No: no 
 Art arrives at the artlessness of nature in matters of 
 comedy. You can't simulate the ape. Your antics are 
 dull. They haven't the charming inconsequence of the 
 natural animal. Look at these two! Think of the shifts 
 they are put to all day long! They know I know all 
 about it, and yet their serenity of innocence is all but 
 unruffled in my presence. You're sorry to think about 
 the end of the business, Austin? So am I! I dread the 
 idea of the curtain going down. Besides, it will do Ricky 
 a world of good. A practical lesson is the best lesson." 
 
 "Sinks deepest," said Austin, "but whether he learns 
 good or evil from it is the question at stake." 
 
 Adrian stretched his length at ease. 
 
 "This will be his first nibble at experience, old Time's 
 fruit, hateful to the palate of youth ! for which season only 
 hath it any nourishment! Experience! You know Cole- 
 ridge's capital simile? — Mournful you call it? Well! all 
 wisdom is mournful. 'Tis therefore, coz, that the wise do 
 love the Comic Muse. Their own high food would kill 
 them. You shall find great poets, rare philosophers, night 
 after night on the broad grin before a row of yellow lights 
 and mouthing masks. Why? Because all's dark at home. 
 The stage is the pastime of great minds. That's how it 
 comes that the stage is now down. An age of rampant 
 little minds, my dear Austin! How I hate that cant of 
 yours about an Age of Work — you, and your Mortons, 
 and your parsons Brawnley, rank radicals all of you, base 
 materialists ! What does Diaper Sandoe sing of your Age 
 of Work? Listen! 
 
 'An Age of petty tit for tat, 
 
 An Age of busy gabble: 
 An age that's like a brewer's vat, 
 Fermenting for the rabble! 
 
 'An Age that's chaste in Love, but lax 
 
 To virtuous abuses: 
 Whose gentlemen and ladies wax 
 
 Too dainty for their uses.
 
 40 THE ORDEAL OF UK "HARD FEVEREL 
 
 'An Age that drives an lion Horse, 
 
 Of Time and Space defiant; 
 Exulting in a Giant's Force, 
 And trembling at the Giant. 
 
 'An Ape of Quaker hue and cut, 
 By Mammon misbegotten; 
 
 See the mad Hamlet mouth and strut! 
 And mark the Kings of Cotton ! 
 
 'From this unrest, lo, early wreck'd, 
 
 A Future staggers crazy, 
 Ophelia of the Apes, deck'd 
 
 With woeful weed and daisy!'" 
 
 Murmuring, "Get your parson Brawnley to answer 
 that!" Adrian changed the resting-place of a leg, and 
 smiled. The Age was an old battle-field between him and 
 Austin. 
 
 "My parson Brawnley, as you call him, has answered 
 it," said Austin, "not by hoping his best, which would 
 probably leave the Age to go mad to your satisfaction, 
 but by doing it. And he has and will answer your Diaper 
 Sandoe in better verse, as he confutes him in a better 
 life." 
 
 "You don't see Sandoe's depth," Adrian replied. "Con- 
 sider that phrase, 'Ophelia of the Ages'! Is not Brawn- 
 ley, like a dozen other leading spirits — I think that's your 
 term — just the metaphysical Hamlet to drive her mad ? 
 She, poor maid! asks for marriage and smiling babes, 
 while my lord lover stands questioning the Infinite, and 
 rants to the Impalpable." 
 
 Austin laughed. "Marriage and smiling babes she 
 would have in abundance, if Brawnley legislated. Wait 
 till you know him. He will be over at Poer Hall shortly, 
 and you will see what a Man of the Age means. But now, 
 pray, consult with me about these boys." 
 
 "Oh, those boys!" Adrian tossed a hand. "Are there 
 boys of the Age as well as men ? Not ? Then boys are 
 better than men : boys are for all Ages. What do you 
 think, Austin? They've been studying Latude's Escape. 
 I found the book open in Ricky's room, on the top of 
 Jonathan Wild. Jonathan preserved the secrets of his 
 profession, and taught them nothing. So they're going to
 
 JUVENILE STRATAGEMS 41 
 
 make a Latude of Mr. Tom Bakewell. He's to be Bastille 
 Bakewell, whether he will or no. Let them. Let the wild 
 colt run free! We can't help them. We can only look 
 on. We should spoil the play." 
 
 Adrian always made a point of feeding the fretful beast 
 Impatience with pleasantries — a not congenial diet; and 
 Austin, the most patient of human beings, began to lose 
 his self-control. 
 
 "You talk as if Time belonged to you, Adrian. We 
 have but a few hours left us. Work first, and joke after- 
 wards. The boy's fate is being decided now." 
 
 "So is everybody's, my dear Austin!" yawned the epi- 
 curean. 
 
 "Yes, but this boy is at present under our guardianship 
 — under yours especially." 
 
 "Not yet ! not yet !" Adrian interjected languidly. "No 
 getting into scrapes when I have him. The leash, young 
 hound ! the collar, young colt ! I'm perfectly irresponsible 
 at present." 
 
 "You may have something different to deal with when 
 you are responsible, if you think that." 
 
 "I take my young prince as I find him, coz : a Julian, 
 or a Caracalla: a Constantine, or a Nero. Then, if he 
 will play the fiddle to a conflagration, he shall play it well : 
 if he must be a disputatious apostate, at any rate he shall 
 understand logic and men, and have the habit of saying 
 his prayers." 
 
 "Then you leave me to act alone?" said Austin, rising. 
 
 "Without a single curb !" Adrian gesticulated an acqui- 
 esced withdrawal. "I'm sure you would not, still more 
 certain you cannot, do harm. And be mindful of my pro- 
 phetic words : Whatever's done, old Blaize will have to be 
 bought off. There's the affair settled at once. I suppose 
 I must go to the chief to-night and settle it myself. We 
 can't see this poor devil condemned, though it's nonsense 
 to talk of a boy being the prime instigator." 
 
 Austin cast an eye at the complacent languor of the 
 wise youth, his cousin, and the little that he knew of his 
 fellows told him he might talk for ever here, and not be 
 comprehended. The wise youth's two ears were stuffed 
 with his own wisdom. One evil only Adrian dreaded, it 
 was clear — the action of the law.
 
 42 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 As ho was moving away, Adrian called out to him, 
 "Stop, Austin! There! don't ho anxious! You invariably 
 take the glum side. I've done something. Never mind 
 what If you go down to Belthorpe, be civil, but not 
 obsequious. You remember tho tactics of Scipio Afri- 
 canus against the Punic elephants? Well, don't say a 
 word — in thine ear, coz: I've turned Master Blaize's 
 elephants. If they charge, 'twill he a feint, and back to 
 the destruction of his serried ranks! You understand. 
 Not? Well, 'tis as well. Only, let none say that! sleep. 
 If I must see him to-night, I go down knowing he has 
 not got us in his power." The wise youth yawned, and 
 stretched out a hand for any book that might he within 
 his reach. Austin left him to look about the grounds for 
 Richard. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 DAPHNE'S BOWER 
 
 A little laurel-shaded temple of white marble looked 
 out on the river from a knoll bordering the Raynham 
 beechwoods, and was dubbed by Adrian Daphne's Bower. 
 To this spot Richard had retired, and there Austin found 
 him with his head buried in his hands, a picture of des- 
 peration, whose last shift has been defeated. He allowed 
 Austin to greej him and sit by him without lifting his 
 head. Perhaps his eyes were not presentable. 
 
 ''Where's your friend ?" Austin began. 
 
 "Gone!" was the answer, sounding cavernous from be- 
 hind hair and fingers. An explanation presently followed, 
 that a summons had come for him in the morning from 
 Mr. Thompson ; and that Mr. Ripton had departed against 
 his will. 
 
 In fact, Ripton had protested that he would defy his 
 parent and remain by his friend in the hour of adversity 
 and at the post of danger. Sir Austin signified his opin- 
 ion that a boy should obey his parent, by giving orders to 
 Benson for Ripton's box to be packed and ready before 
 noon; and Ripton's alacrity in taking the baronet's view 
 of filial duty was as little feigned as his offer to Richard
 
 DAPHNE'S BOWEE 43 
 
 to throw filial duty to the winds. He rejoiced that the 
 Fates had agreed to remove him from the very hot neigh- 
 bourhood of Lobourne, while he grieved, like an honest 
 lad, to see his comrade left to face calamity alone. The 
 boys parted amicably, as they could hardly fail to do, when 
 Ripton had sworn fealty to the Feverels with a warmth 
 that made him declare himself bond, and due to appear 
 at any stated hour and at any stated place to fight all the 
 farmers in England, on a mandate from the heir of the 
 house. 
 
 "So you're left alone," said Austin, contemplating the 
 boy's shapely head. "I'm glad of it. We never know 
 what's in us till we stand by ourselves." 
 
 There appeared to be no answer forthcoming. Vanity, 
 however, replied at last, "He wasn't much support." 
 
 "Remember his good points now he's gone, Ricky." 
 
 "Oh ! he was staunch," the boy grumbled. 
 
 "And a staunch friend is not always to be found. Now, 
 have you tried your own way of rectifying this business, 
 Ricky?" 
 
 "I have done everything." 
 
 "And failed!" 
 
 There was a pause, and then the deep-toned evasion — 
 
 "Tom Bakewell's a coward!" 
 
 "I. suppose, poor fellow," said Austin, in his kind way, 
 "he doesn't want to get into a deeper mess. I don't think 
 he's a coward." 
 
 "He is a coward," cried Richard. "Do you think if I 
 had a file I would stay in prison? I'd be out the first 
 night! And he might have had the rope, too — a rope 
 thick enough for a couple of men his size and weight. 
 Ripton and I and Ned Markham swung on it for an hour, 
 and it didn't give way. He's a coward, and deserves his 
 fate. I've no compassion for a coward." 
 
 "Nor I much," said Austin. 
 
 Richard had raised his head in the heat of his denuncia- 
 tion of poor Tom. He would have hidden it had he known 
 the thought in Austin's clear eyes while he faced them. 
 
 "I never met a coward myself," Austin continued. "I 
 have heard of one or two. One let an innocent man die 
 for him." 
 
 "How base!" exclaimed the boy.
 
 44 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Yes, it was bad," Austin acquiesced. 
 
 "BadI" Richard scorned the poor contempt. "How I 
 would have spurned him! He was a coward!" 
 
 "I believe he pleaded the feelings of his family in his 
 excuse, and tried every means to get the man oil". I have 
 .•ead also in the confessions of a celebrated philosopher, 
 chat in his youth he committed some act of pilfering, and 
 accused a young servant-girl of his own theft, who was 
 condemned and dismissed for it, pardoning her guilty 
 accuser." 
 
 "What a coward !" shouted Richard. "And he confessed 
 it publicly?" 
 
 "You may read it yourself." 
 
 "He actually wrote it down, and printed it?" 
 
 "You have the book in your father's library. Would 
 you have done so much ?" 
 
 Richard faltered. No! he admitted that he never could 
 have told people. 
 
 "Then who is to call that man a coward?" Said 
 Austin. "He expiated his cowardice as all who give way 
 in moments of weakness, and are not cowards, must do. 
 The coward chooses to think 'God does not see. I shall 
 escape.' He who is not a coward, and has succumbed, 
 knows that God has seen all, and it is not so hard a 
 task for him to make his heart bare to the world. Worse, 
 I should fancy it, to know myself an impostor when men 
 praised me." 
 
 Young Richard's eyes were wandering on Austin's 
 gravely cheerful face. A keen intentness suddenly fixed 
 them, and he dropped his head. 
 
 "So I think you're wrong, Ricky, in calling this poor 
 Tom a coward because he refuses to try your means of 
 escape," Austin resumed. "A coward hardly objects to 
 drag in his accomplice. And, where the person involved 
 belongs to a great family, it seems to me that for a poor 
 plough-lad to volunteer not to do so speaks him anything 
 but a coward." 
 
 Richard was dumb. Altogether to surrender his rope 
 and file was a fearful sacrifice, after all the time, trepida- 
 tion, and study he had spent on those two saving instru- 
 ments. If he avowed Tom's manly behaviour, Richard 
 Feverel was in a totally new position. Whereas, by keep-
 
 DAPHNE'S BOWER 45 
 
 ing Tom a coward, Richard Feverel was the injured one, 
 and to seem injured is always a luxury; sometimes a 
 necessity, whether among boys or men. 
 
 In Austin the Magian conflict would not have lasted 
 long. He had but a blind notion of the fierceness with 
 which it raged in young Richard. Happily for the boy, 
 Austin was not a preacher. A single instance, a cant 
 phrase, a fatherly manner, might have wrecked him, by 
 arousing ancient or latent opposition. The born preacher 
 we feel instinctively to be our foe. He may do some good 
 to the wretches that have been struck down and lio gasp- 
 ing on the battlefield : he rouses antagonism in the strong. 
 Richard's nature, left to itself, wanted little more than 
 an indication of the proper track, and when he said, 
 "Tell me what I can do, Austin?" he had fought the best 
 half of the battle. His voice was subdued. Austin put 
 his hand on the boy's shoulder. 
 
 "You must go down to Farmer Blaize." 
 
 "Well!" said Richard, sullenly divining the deed of 
 penance. 
 
 "You'll know what to say to him when you're there." 
 
 The boy bit his lip and frowned. "Ask a favour of 
 that big brute, Austin? I can't!" 
 
 "Just tell him the whole case, and that you don't intend 
 to stand by and let the poor fellow suffer without a friend 
 to help him out of his scrape." 
 
 "But, Austin," the boy pleaded, "I shall have to ask 
 him to help off Tom Bakewell! How can I ask him, when 
 I hate him?" 
 
 Austin bade him go, and think nothing of the conse- 
 quences till he got there. 
 
 Richard groaned in soul. 
 
 "You've no pride, Austin." 
 
 "Perhaps not." 
 
 "You don't know what it is to ask a favour of a brute 
 you hate." 
 
 Richard stuck to that view of the case, and stuck to it 
 the faster the more imperatively the urgency of a move- 
 ment dawned upon him. 
 
 "Why," continued the boy, "I shall hardly be able to 
 keep my fists off him!" 
 
 "Surely you've punished him enough, boy ?" said Austin.
 
 46 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "He struck me!" Richard's lip quivered. "He dared 
 not come at me with his hands. He struck me with a 
 whip. He'll be telling everybody that he horsewhipped 
 me, and that I went down and begged his pardon. Begged 
 his pardon! A Feverel beg his pardon! Oh, if I had 
 my will!" 
 
 "The man earns his bread. Micky. You poached on his 
 grounds. Ho turned you off, and you fired his rick." 
 
 "And I'll pay him for his loss. And I won't do any 
 more." 
 
 "Because you won't ask a favour of him?" 
 
 "No! I will not ask a favour of him." 
 
 Austin looked at the boy steadily. "You prefer to re- 
 ceive a favour from poor Tom Bakewell ?" 
 
 At Austin's enunciation of this obverse view of the 
 matter Richard raised his brow. Dimly a new light broke 
 in upon him. "Favour from Tom Bakewell, the plough- 
 man? How do you mean, Austin?" 
 
 "To save yourself an unpleasantness you permit a 
 country lad to sacrifice himself for you? I confess I 
 should not have so much pride." 
 
 "Pride!" shouted Richard, stung by the taunt, and set 
 his sight hard at the blue ridges of the hills. 
 
 Not knowing for the moment what else to do, Austin 
 drew a picture of Tom in prison, and repeated Tom's 
 volunteer statement. • The picture, though his intentions 
 were far from designing it so, had to Richard, whose per- 
 ception of humour was infinitely keener, a horrible chaw- 
 bacon smack about it. Visions of a grinning lout, open 
 from ear to ear, unkempt, coarse, splay-footed, rose before 
 him and afflicted him with the strangest sensations of 
 disgust and comicality, mixed up with pity and remorse — 
 a sort of twisted pathos. There lay Tom; hobnail Tom! 
 a bacon-munching, reckless, beer-swilling animal! and yet 
 a man-, a dear brave human heart notwithstanding; ca- 
 pable of devotion and unselfishness. The boy's better 
 spirit was touched, and it kindled his imagination to 
 realize the abject figure of poor clodpole Tom, and sur- 
 round it with a halo of mournful light. His soul was 
 alive. Feelings he had never known streamed in upon him 
 as from an ethereal casement, an unwonted tenderness, 
 an embracing humour, a consciousness of some ineffable
 
 THE BITTER CUP 47 
 
 glory, an irradiation of the features of humanity. All 
 this was in the bosom of the boy, and through it all the 
 vision of an actual hob-nail Tom, coarse, unkempt, open 
 from ear to ear; whose presence was a finger of shame to 
 him and an oppression of clodpole; yet toward whom he 
 felt just then a loving-kindness beyond what he felt for 
 any living creature. He laughed at him, and wept over 
 him. He prized him, while he shrank from him. It was 
 a genial strife of the angel in him with constituents less 
 divine; but the angel was uppermost and led the van — 
 extinguished loathing, humanized laughter, transfigured 
 pride — pride that would persistently contemplate the cor- 
 duroys of gaping Tom, and cry to Richard, in the very 
 tone of Adrian's ironic voice, "Behold your benefactor!'* 
 
 Austin sat by the boy, unaware of the sublimer tumult 
 he had stirred. Little of it was perceptible in Richard's 
 countenance. The Hues of his mouth were slightly drawn; 
 his eyes hard set into the distance. He remained thus 
 many minutes. Finally he jumped to his legs, saying, 
 "I'll go at once to old Blaize and tell him." 
 
 Austin grasped his hand, and together they issued out 
 of Daphne's Bower, in the direction of Lobourne. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 THE BITTER CUP 
 
 Farmer Blaize was not so astonished at the visit of 
 Richard Feverel as that young gentleman expected him to 
 be. The farmer, seated in his easy-chair in the little low- 
 roofed parlour of an old-fashioned farm-house, with a long 
 clay pipe on the table at his elbow, and a veteran pointer 
 at his feet, had already given audience to three dis- 
 tinguished members of the Feverel blood, who had come 
 separately, according to their accustomed secretiveness, 
 and with one object. In the morning it was Sir Austin 
 himself. Shortly after his departure, arrived Austin 
 Wentworth ; close on his heels, Algernon, known about 
 Lobourne as the Captain, popular wherever he was known. 
 Farmer Blaize reclined in considerable elation. He had
 
 48 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 brought these great people to a pretty low pitch. He had 
 welcomed them hospitably, as a British yeoman should; 
 but not budged a foot in his demands: not to the baronet: 
 not to the Captain: not to good. young Mr. Wentworth. 
 For Farmer Blaize was a solid Englishman; and, on hear- 
 ing from the baronet a frank confession of the hold he 
 had on the family, he determined to tighten his hold, 
 and only relax it in exchange for tangible advantages — 
 compensation to his pocket, his wounded person, and his 
 still more wounded sentiments: the total indemnity being, 
 in round figures, three hundred pounds, and a spoken 
 apology from the prime offender, young Mister Richard. 
 Even then there was a reservation. Provided, the farmer 
 said, nobody had been tampering with any of his witnesses. 
 In that case Farmer Blaize declared the money might go, 
 and he would transport Tom Bakewell, as he had sworn 
 he would. And it goes hard, too, with an accomplice, by 
 law, added the farmer, knocking the ashes leisurely out 
 of his pipe. He had no wish to bring any disgrace any- 
 where; he respected the inmates of Raynham Abbey, aa 
 in duty bound ; he should be sorry to see them in trouble. 
 Only no tampering with his witnesses. He was a man 
 for Law. Rank was much: money was much : but Law 
 was more. In this country Law was above the sovereign. 
 To tamper with the Law was treason to the realm. 
 
 "I come to you direct," the baronet explained. "I tell 
 you candidly in what way I discovered my son to be mixed 
 u]) in this miserable affair. I promise you indemnity for 
 your loss, and an apology that shall, I trust, satisfy your 
 feelings, assuring you that to tamper with witnesses is 
 not the province of a Feverel. All I ask of you in return 
 is, not to press the prosecution. At present it rests with 
 you. I am bound to do all that lies in my power for this 
 imprisoned man. How and wherefore my son was 
 prompted to suggest, or assist in, such an act, I cannot 
 explain, for I do not know." 
 
 "Hum!" said the farmer. "I think I do." 
 
 "You know the cause?" Sir Austin stared. "I beg you 
 to confide it to me." 
 
 '"Least, I can pretty nigh neighbour it with a guess," 
 said the farmer. "We an't good friends, Sir Austin, me 
 and your son, just now — not to say cordial. I, ye see, Sir
 
 THE BITTER CUP 49 
 
 Austin, I'm a man as don't like young gentlemen 
 a-poachin' on his grounds without his permission, — in 
 special when birds is plentiful on their own. It appear 
 he do like it. Consequently I has to flick this whip — as 
 them fellers at the races: All in this 'ere Ring's mine! 
 as much as to say; and who's been hit, he's had fair 
 warnin'. I'm sorry for't, but that's just the case." 
 
 Sir Austin retired to communicate with his son, when 
 he should find him. 
 
 Algernon's interview passed off in ale and promises. 
 He also assured Farmer Blaize that no Feverel could be 
 affected by his proviso. 
 
 No less did Austin Wentworth. The farmer was 
 satisfied. 
 
 "Money's safe, I know," said he ; "now for the 'pology !" 
 and Farmer Blaize thrust his legs further out, and his 
 head further back. 
 
 The farmer naturally reflected that the three separate 
 visits had been conspired together. Still the baronet's 
 frankness, and the baronet's not having reserved himself 
 for the third and final charge, puzzled him. He was con- 
 sidering whether they were a deep, or a shallow lot, when 
 young Richard was announced. 
 
 A pretty little girl with the roses of thirteen springs in 
 her cheeks, and abundant beautiful bright tresses, tripped 
 before the boy, and loitered shyly by the farmer's arm- 
 chair to steal a look at the handsome new-comer. She 
 was introduced to Richard as the farmer's niece, Lucy 
 Desborough, the daughter of a lieutenant in the Royal 
 Navy, and, what was better, though the farmer did not 
 pronounce it so loudly, a real good girl. 
 
 Neither the excellence of her character, nor her rank in 
 life, tempted Richard to inspect the little lady. He made 
 an awkward bow, and sat down. 
 
 The farmer's eyes twinkled. "Her father," he con- 
 tinued, "fought and fell for his coontry. A man as fights 
 for's coontry's a right to hould up his head — ay! with 
 any in the land. Desb'roughs o' Dorset! d'ye know that 
 family, Master Feverel?" 
 
 Richard did not know them, and, by his air, did not 
 desire to become acquainted with any offshoot of that 
 family.
 
 50 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "She can make puddens and pies," the fanner went on, 
 regardless of his auditor's gloom. "She's a lady, as good 
 as the best of 'em, I don't care about their being Cath- 
 olics—the Desb'roughs o' Dorset are gentlemen. And 
 she's good for the pianer, too! She strums to me of 
 eyenin's. I'm for the old tunes: she's for the new. Gal- 
 like! While she's with me she shall be taught things 
 use'l. She can parley-voo a good 'un and foot it, as it 
 goes ; been in France a couple of year. I prefer the singin' 
 of 't to the talkin' of 't. Come, Luce! toon up — ehf — 
 Ye wun't? That song about the Viffendeer — a female" 
 — Farmer Blaize volunteered the translation of the title — 
 "who wears the — you guess what ! and marches along with 
 the French sojers: a pretty brazen hit </ goods, 1 sh'd 
 fancy." 
 
 Mademoiselle Lucy corrected her uncle's French, but 
 objected to do more. The handsome cross boy had almost 
 taken away her voice for speech, as it was, and sing in his 
 company she could not; so she stood, a hand on her uncle's 
 chair to stay herself from falling, while she wriggled a 
 dozen various shapes of refusal, and shook her head at the 
 farmer with fixed eyes. 
 
 "Aha!" laughed the farmer, dismissing her, "they soon 
 learn the difference 'twixt the young 'un and the old 'un. 
 Go along, Luce! and learn yer lessons for to-morrow." 
 
 Reluctantly the daughter of the Royal Navy glided 
 away. Her uncle's head followed her to the door, where 
 she dallied to catch a last impression of the young 
 stranger's lowering face, and darted through. 
 
 Farmer Blaize laughed and chuckled. "She an't so 
 fond of her uncle as that, every day! Not that she an't 
 a good nurse — the kindest little soul you'd meet of a win- 
 ter's walk ! She'll read t' ye, and make drinks, and sing, 
 too, if ye likes it, and she won't be tired. A obstinate 
 good 'un, she be! Bless her!" 
 
 The farmer may have designed, by these eulogies of his 
 niece, to give his visitor time to recover his composure, 
 and establish a common topic. His diversion only irri- 
 tated and confused our shame-eaten youth. Richard's 
 intention had been to come to the farmer's threshold : to 
 summon the farmer thither, and in a loud and haughty 
 tone then and there to take upon himself the whole
 
 THE BITTER CUP 51 
 
 burden of the charge against Tom Bakewell. He had 
 strayed, during his passage to Belthorpe, somewhat back 
 to his old nature; and his being compelled to enter the 
 house of his enemy, sit in his chair, and endure an intro- 
 duction to his family, was more than he bargained for. 
 He commenced blinking hard in preparation for the horri- 
 ble dose to which delay and the farmer's cordiality added 
 inconceivable bitters. Farmer Blaize was quite at his 
 ease ; nowise in a hurry. He spoke of the weather and the 
 harvest: of recent doings up at the Abbey: glanced over 
 that year's cricketing; hoped that no future Feverel would 
 lose a leg to the game. Richard saw and heard Arson in 
 it all. He blinked harder as he neared the cup. In a 
 moment of silence, he seized it with a gasp. 
 
 "Mr. Blaize ! I have come to tell you that I am the per- 
 Eon who set fire to your rick the other night." 
 
 An odd contraction formed about the farmer's mouth. 
 He changed his posture, and said, "Ay? that's what ye're 
 come to tell me, sir?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Richard, firmly. 
 
 "And that be all?" 
 
 "Yes!" Richard reiterated. 
 
 The farmer again changed his posture. "Then, my lad, 
 ye've come to tell me a lie!" 
 
 Farmer Blaize looked straight at the boy, undismayed 
 by the dark flush of ire he had kindled. 
 
 "You dare to call me a liar!" cried Richard, starting 
 up. 
 
 "I say," the farmer renewed his first emphasis, and 
 smacked his thigh thereto, "that's a lie!" 
 
 Richard held out his clenched fist. "You have twice 
 insulted me. You have struck me: you have dared to 
 call me a liar. I would have apologized — I would have 
 asked your pardon, to have got off that fellow in prison. 
 Yes! I would have degraded myself that another man 
 should not suffer for my deed" 
 
 "Quite proper!" interposed the farmer. 
 
 "And you take this opportunity of insulting me afresh. 
 You're a coward, sir! nobody but a coward would have 
 insulted me in his own house." 
 
 "Sit ye down, sit ye down, young master," said the 
 farmer, indicating the chair and cooling the outburst with
 
 52 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 his hand. "Sit ye down. Don't ye be hasty. If ye hadn't 
 been hasty t'other day, we sh'd a been friends yet. Sit ye 
 down, sir. I sh'd be sorry to reckon you out a liar, Mr. 
 Feverel. <«r anybody o' your name. I respects yer father 
 though we're opp'site politics. I'm willin' to think well 
 o' you. What I say is, that as you say an't the trewth. 
 Mind! I don't like you none the worse for't. But it an't 
 what is. That's all! You knows it as well's I!" 
 
 Richard, disdaining to show signs of being pacified, 
 angrily reseated himself. The farmer spoke sense, and 
 the boy, after his late interview with Austin, had become 
 capable of perceiving vaguely that a towering passion is 
 hardly the justification for a wrong course of conduct. 
 
 "Come," continued the farmer, not unkindly, "what else 
 have you to say?" 
 
 Here was the same bitter cup he had already once 
 drained brimming at Richard's lips again! Alas, poor 
 human nature! that empties to the dregs a dozen of these 
 evil drinks, to evade the single one which Destiny, less 
 cruel, had insisted upon. 
 
 The boy blinked and tossed it off. 
 
 "I came to say that I regretted the revenge I had taken 
 on you for your striking me." 
 
 Farmer Blaize nodded. 
 
 "And now ye've done, young gentleman?" 
 
 Still another cupful! 
 
 "I should be very much obliged," Richard formally 
 began, but his stomach was turned ; he could but sip and 
 sip, and gather a distaste which threatened to make the 
 penitential act impossible. "Very much obliged," he re- 
 peated: "much obliged, if you would be so kind," and it 
 struck him that had he spoken this at first he would have 
 given it a wording more persuasive with the farmer and 
 more worthy of his own pride: more hones!:, in fact: for 
 a sense of the dishonesty of what he was saying caused 
 him to cringe and simulate humility to deceive the farmer, 
 and the more he said the less he felt his words, and, feeling 
 them less, ke inflated them more. "So kind," he stam- 
 mered, "so kind" (fancy a Feveral asking this big brute 
 to be so kind!) "as to do me the favour" (me the favour!) 
 "to exert yourself (it's all to please Austin) "to en- 
 deavour to — hem! to" (there's no Baying it!)
 
 THE BITTER CUP 53 
 
 The cup was full as ever. Richard dashed at it again. 
 
 "What I came to ask is, whether you would have the 
 kindness to try what you could do" (what an infamous 
 shame to have to beg like this!) "do to save — do to en- 
 sure — whether you would have the kindness" It 
 
 seemed out of all human power to gulp it down. The 
 draught grew more and more abhorrent. To proclaim 
 one's iniquity, to apologize for one's wrongdoing; thus 
 much could be done; but to beg a favour of the offended 
 party — that was beyond the self-abasement any Feverel 
 could consent to. Pride, however, whose inevitable bat- 
 tle is against itself, drew aside the curtains of poor Tom's 
 prison, crying a second time, "Behold your Benefactor!" 
 and, with the words burning in his ears, Richard swal- 
 lowed the dose: 
 
 "Well, then, I want you, Mr. Blaize, — if you don't mind 
 — will you help me to get this man Bakewell off his pun- 
 ishment ?" 
 
 To do Farmer Blaize justice, he waited very patiently 
 for the boy, though he could not quite see why he did not 
 take the gate at the first offer. 
 
 "Oh !" said he, when he heard and had pondered on the 
 request. "Hum! ha! we'll see about it t'morrow. But if 
 he's innocent, you know, we shan't mak'n guilty." 
 
 "It was I did it!" Richard declared. 
 
 The farmer's half -amused expression sharpened a bit. 
 
 "So, young gentleman! and you're sorry for the night's 
 work?" 
 
 "I shall see that you are paid the full extent of your 
 losses." 
 
 "Thank'ee," said the farmer drily. 
 
 "And, if this poor man is released to-morrow, I don't 
 care what the amount is." 
 
 Farmer Blaize deflected his head twice in silence. "Bri- 
 bery," one motion expressed : "Corruption," the other. 
 
 "Now," said he, leaning forward, and fixing his elbows 
 on his knees, while he counted the case at his fingers' 
 ends, "excuse the liberty, but wishin' to know where this 
 'ere money's to come from, I sh'd like jest t'ask if so be 
 Sir Austin know o' this?" 
 
 "My father knows nothing of it," replied Richard. 
 
 The farmer flung back in his chair. "Lie number Two,"
 
 1 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 s;iid his shoulders, soured by the British aversion to being 
 plotted at, and not dealt with openly. 
 
 "And ye've the money ready, young gentleman?" 
 
 "I shall ask my father for it." 
 
 "And he'll hand't out?" 
 
 "Certainly he will !" 
 
 Richard had not the slightest intention of ever letting 
 his father into his counsels. 
 
 "A good three hundred pounds, ye know?" the farmer 
 suggested. 
 
 No consideration of the extent of damages, and the size 
 of the sum, affected young Richard, who said boldly, "He 
 will not object when I tell him I want that sum." 
 
 It was natural Farmer Blaize should be a trifle sus- 
 picious that a youth's guarantee would hardly be given for 
 his father's readiness to disburse such a thumping bill, 
 unless he had previously received his father's sanction and 
 authority. 
 
 "Hum!" said he, "why not 'a told him before?" 
 
 The farmer threw an objectionable shrewdness into his 
 query, that caused Richard to compress his mouth and 
 glance high. 
 
 Farmer Blaize was positive 'twas a lie. 
 
 "Hum ! Ye still hold to't you fired the rick ?" he asked. 
 
 "The blame is mine!" quoth Richard, with the loftiness 
 of a patriot of old Rome. 
 
 "Na, na!" the straightforward Briton put him aside. 
 "Ye did't, or ye didn't do't. Did ye do't, or no?" 
 
 Thrust in a corner, Richard said, "I did it." 
 
 Farmer Blaize reached his hand to the bell. It was 
 answered in an instant by little Lucy, who received orders 
 to fetch in a dependent at Belthorpe going by the name of 
 the Bantam, and made her exit as she had entered, with 
 her eyes on the young stranger. 
 
 "Now," said the farmer, "these be my principles. I'm 
 a plain man, Mr. Feverel. Above board with me, and 
 you'll find me handsome. Try to circumvent me, and I'm 
 a ugly customer. I'll show you I've no animosity. Your 
 father pays — you apologize. That's enough for me! Let 
 Tom Bakewell fight't out with the Law, and I'll look on. 
 The Law wasn't on the spot, I suppose? so the Law ain't 
 much witness. But I am. Leastwise the Bantam is. I
 
 A FINE DISTINCTION 55 
 
 tell you, young gentleman, the Bantam saw't! It's no 
 moral use whatever your denyin' that ev'dence. And 
 where's the good, sir, I ask ? What comes of 't ? Whether 
 it be you, or whether it be Tom Bakewell — ain't all one? 
 If I holds back, ain't it sim'lar? It's the trewth I want I 
 And here't comes," added the farmer, as Miss Lucy 
 ushered in the Bantam, who presented a curious figure for 
 that rare divinity to enliven. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 A FINE DISTINCTION 
 
 In build of body, gait and stature, Giles Jinkson, the 
 Bantam, was a tolerably fair representative of the Punic 
 elephant, whose part, with diverse anticipations, the gen- 
 erals of the Blaize and Feverel forces, from opposing 
 ranks, expected him to play. Giles, surnamed the Bantam, 
 on account of some forgotten sally of his youth or infancy, 
 moved and looked elephantine. It sufficed that Giles was 
 well fed to assure that Giles was faithful — if uncorrupted. 
 The farm which supplied to him ungrudging provender 
 had all his vast capacity for work in willing exercise : the 
 farmer who held the farm his instinct reverenced as the 
 fountain-source of beef and bacon, to say nothing of beer, 
 which was plentiful at Belthorpe, and good. This Farmer 
 Blaize well knew, and he reckoned consequently that here 
 was an animal always to be relied on — a sort of human 
 composition out of dog, horse, and bull, a cut above each 
 of these quadrupeds in usefulness, and costing propor- 
 tionately more, but on the whole worth the money, and 
 therefore invaluable, as everything worth its money must 
 be to a wise man. When the stealing of grain had been 
 made known at Belthorpe, the Bantam, a fellow-thresher 
 with Tom Bakewell, had shared with him the shadow of 
 the guilt. Farmer Blaize, if he hesitated which to suspect, 
 did not debate a second as to which he would discard; 
 and, when the Bantam said he had seen Tom secreting 
 pilkins in a sack, Farmer Blaize chose to believe him, and
 
 56 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 off went poor Torn, told to rejoice in the clemency that 
 spared his appearance at Sessions. 
 
 The Bantam's small sleepy orbits saw many things, and 
 just at the right moment, it seemed. Jle was certainly the 
 hrst to give the clue at Belthorpe on the night of the 
 conflagration, and he may, therefore, have seen poor Tom 
 retreating stealthily from the scene, as he averred he did. 
 Lobourne had its say on the subject. Rustic Lobourne 
 hinted broadly at a young woman in the case, and more- 
 over, told a tale of how these fellow-threshers had, in 
 noble rivalry, one day turned upon each other to see 
 which of the two threshed the best ; whereof the Bantam 
 still bore marks, and malice, it was said. However, there 
 he stood, and tugged his forelocks to the company, and if 
 Truth really had concealed herself in him she must have 
 been hard set to find her unlikeliest hiding-place. 
 
 "Now," said the farmer, marshalling forth his elephant 
 with the confidence of one who delivers his ace of trumps, 
 "tell this young gentleman what ye saw on the night of 
 the fire. Bantam !" 
 
 The Bantam jerked a bit of a bow to his patron, and 
 then swung round, fully obscuring him from Richard. 
 
 Richard fixed his eyes on the floor, while the Bantam 
 in rudest Doric commenced his narrative. Knowing what 
 was to come, and thoroughly nerved to confute the main 
 incident, Richard barely listened to his barbarous locu- 
 tion : but when the recital arrived at the point where the 
 Bantam affirmed he had seen "T'm Baak'll wi's owen 
 hoies," Richard faced him, and was amazed to find him- 
 self being mutely addressed by a series of intensely sig- 
 nificant grimaces, signs, and winks. 
 
 "What do you mean? Why are you making those faces 
 at me?" cried the boy indignantly. 
 
 Farmer Blaize leaned round the Bantam to have a look 
 at him, and beheld the stolidest mask ever given to man. 
 
 "Bain't makin' no faces at nobody," growled the sulky 
 elephant. 
 
 The farmer commanded him to face about and finish. 
 
 "A see T'm Baak'll," the Bantam recommenced, and 
 again the contortions of a horrible wink were directed at 
 Richard. The boy might well believe this churl was lying, 
 and he did, and was emboldened to exclaim —
 
 A FINE DISTINCTION 57 
 
 "You never saw Tom Bakewell set fire to that rick !" 
 
 The Bantam swore to it, grimacing an accompaniment. 
 
 "I tell you," said Bichard, "I put the lucifers there 
 myself!" 
 
 The suborned elephant was staggered. He meant to 
 telegraph to the young gentleman that he was loyal and 
 true to certain gold pieces that had been given him, and 
 that in the right place and at the right time he should 
 prove so. Why was he thus suspected? Why was he not 
 understood ? 
 
 "A thowt I see 'un, then," muttered the Bantam, trying 
 a middle course. 
 
 This brought down on him the farmer, who roared, 
 "Thought ! Ye thought ! What d'ye mean ? Speak out, 
 and don't be thinkin'. Thought ? What the devil's that ?" 
 
 "How could he see who it was on a pitch-dark night?" 
 Bichard put in. 
 
 "Thought!" the farmer bellowed louder. "Thought — 
 Devil take ye, when ye took yer oath on't. Hulloa ! What 
 are ye screwin' yer eye at Mr. Feverel for? — I say, young 
 gentleman, have you spoken to this chap before now ?" 
 
 "I ?" replied Bichard. "I have not seen him before." 
 
 Farmer Blaize grasped the two arms of the chair he sat 
 on, and glared his doubts. 
 
 "Come," said he to the Bantam, "speak out, and ha' 
 done wi't. Say what ye saw, and none o' yer thoughts. 
 Damn yer thoughts ! Ye saw Tom Bakewell fire that there 
 rick!" The farmer pointed at some musk-pots in the 
 window. "What business ha' you to be a-thinkin' ? You're 
 a witness? Thinkin' an't ev'dence. What'll ye say to- 
 morrow before magistrate ! Mind ! what you say to-day, 
 you'll stick by to-morrow." 
 
 Thus adjured, the Bantam hitched his breech. What 
 on earth the young gentleman meant he was at a loss to 
 speculate. He could not believe that the young gentleman 
 wanted to be transported, but if he had been paid to help 
 that, why, he would. And considering that this day's 
 evidence rather bound him down to the morrow's, he de- 
 termined, after much ploughing and harrowing through 
 obstinate shocks of hair, to be not altogether positive as 
 to the person. It is possible that he became thereby more 
 a mansion of truth than he previously had been; for the
 
 58 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 night, as he said, was so dark that you could not see your 
 hand before your face; and though, as he expressed it, 
 you might be mortal sure of a man, you could not identify 
 him upon oath, and the party he had taken for Tom 
 Bakewell, and could have sworn to, might have been the 
 young gentleman present, especially as he was ready to 
 swear it upon oath. 
 
 So ended the Bantam. 
 
 No sooner had he ceased, than Farmer Blaize jumped 
 up from his chair, and made a tine effort to lift him out 
 of the room from the point of his toe. He failed, and 
 sank back groaning with the pain of the exertion and 
 disappointment. 
 
 "They're liars, every one!" he cried. "Liars, perj'rers, 
 bribers, and c'rrupters! — Stop!" to the Bantam, who was 
 slinking away. "You've done for yerself already! You 
 swore to it!" 
 
 "A din't!" said the Bantam, doggedly. 
 
 "You swore to't," the fanner vociferated afresh. 
 
 The Bantam played a tune upon the handle of the door, 
 and still affirmed that he did not; a double contradiction 
 at which the farmer absolutely raged in his chair, and was 
 hoarse, as he called out a third time that the Bantam had 
 sworn to it. 
 
 "Noa!" said the Bantam, ducking his poll. "Noa!" he 
 repeated in a lower note; and then, while a sombre grin 
 betokening idiotic enjoyment of his profound casuistical 
 quibble worked at his jaw: 
 
 "Not up'n o-ath!" he added, with a twitch of the 
 shoulder and an angular jerk of the elbow. 
 
 Farmer Blaize looked vacantly at Richard, as if to ask 
 him what he thought of England's peasantry after the 
 sample they had there. Richard would have preferred not 
 to laugh, but his dignity gave way to his sense of the 
 ludicrous, and he let fly a shout. The farmer was in no 
 laughing mood. Lie turned a wide eye back to the door. 
 "Lucky forni." ho exclaimed, seeing the Bantam had 
 vanished, for his fingers itched to break that stubborn 
 head. He grew very puffy, and addressed Richard 
 solemnly: 
 
 "Now, look ye here, Mr. Feverel! You've been a-tam- 
 pering with my witness. It's no use denyin'! I say y' 'ave,
 
 A FINE DISTINCTION 59 
 
 sir ! You, or some of ye. I don't care about no Feverel ! 
 My witness there has been bribed. The Bantam's been 
 bribed," and he shivered his pipe with an energetic thump 
 on the table — "bribed! I knows it! I could swear 
 to 't !" 
 
 "Upon oath?" Richard inquired, with a grave face. 
 
 "Ay, upon oath!" said the farmer, not observing the 
 impertinence. 
 
 "I'd take my Bible oath on't! He's been corrupted, 
 my principal witness ! Oh, it's dam cunnin', but it won't 
 do the trick. I'll transpoort Tom Bakewell, sure as a gun. 
 He shall travel, that man shall. Sorry for you, Mr. 
 Feverel — sorry you haven't seen how to treat me proper — 
 you, or yours. Money won't do everything — no ! it won't. 
 It'll c'rrupt a witness, but it won't clear a felon. I'd ha' 
 'scused you, sir! You're a boy and'll learn better. I 
 asked no more than payment and a 'pology; and that I'd 
 ha' taken content — always provided my witnesses weren't 
 tampered with. Now you must stand yer luck, all o' ye." 
 
 Richard stood up and replied, "Very well, Mr. Blaize." 
 
 "And if," continued the farmer, "Tom Bakewell don't 
 drag you into't after 'm, why, you're safe, as I hope ye'll 
 be, sincere!" 
 
 "It was not in consideration of my own safety that 
 I sought this interview with you," said Richard, head 
 erect. 
 
 "Grant ye that," the farmer responded. "Grant ye 
 that ! Yer bold enough, young gentleman — comes of the 
 blood that should be ! If y' had only ha' spoke trewth ! — 
 I believe yer father — believe every word he said. I do 
 wish I could ha' said as much for Sir Austin's son and 
 heir." 
 
 "What!" cried Richard, with an astonishment hardly 
 to be feigned, "you have seen my father?" 
 
 But Farmer Blaize had now such a scent for lies that 
 he could detect them where they did not exist, and mum- 
 bled gruffly, 
 
 "Ay, we knows all about that !" 
 
 The boy's perplexity saved him from being irritated. 
 Who could have told his father? An old fear of his 
 father came upon him, and a touch of an old inclination 
 to revolt.
 
 60 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "My father knows of this?" said he, very loudly, and 
 staring, as he spoke, right through the farmer. "Who has 
 played me false? Who would betray me to him? It was 
 Austin! No one knew it but Austin. Yes, and it was 
 Austin who persuaded me to come here and submit to 
 these indignities. Why couldn't he be open with me? I 
 shall never trust him again!" 
 
 "And why not you with me, young gentleman?" said the 
 farmer. "I sh'd trust you if ye had." 
 
 Kiehard did not see the analogy. He bowed stiffly and 
 bade him good afternoon. 
 
 Farmer Elaize pulled the bell. " 'Company the young 
 gentleman out, Lucy," he waved to the little damsel in 
 the doorway. "Do the honours. And, Mr. Richard, ye 
 might ha' made a friend o' me, sir, and it's not too lato 
 so to do. I'm not cruel, but I hate lies. I whipped my 
 boy Tom, bigger than you, for not bein' above board, 
 only yesterday, — ay! made 'un stand within swing o' 
 this chair, and take's measure. Now, if ye'll come down 
 to me, and speak trewth before the trial — if it's only five 
 minutes before't; or if Sir Austin, who's a gentleman, '11 
 say there's been no tamperin' with any o' my witnesses, 
 his word for't — well and good! I'll do my best to help 
 off Tom Bakewell. And I'm glad, young gentleman, 
 you've got a conscience about a poor man, though he's a 
 villain. Good afternoon, sir." 
 
 Richard marched hastily out of the room, and through 
 the garden, never so much as deigning a glance at his 
 wistful little guide, who hung at the garden gate to watch 
 him up the lane, wondering a world of fancies about the 
 handsome proud boy. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 RICHARD PASSES THROUGH HIS PRELIMINARY 
 ORDEAL, AND IS THE OCCASION OF AN APHORISM 
 
 To have determined upon an act something akin to 
 heroism in its way, and to have fulfilled it by lying heart- 
 ily, and so subverting the whole structure built by good 
 resolution, seems a sad downfall if we forget what human
 
 THE PRELIMINARY ORDEAL 61 
 
 nature, in its green weedy spring, is composed of. Young 
 Richard had quitted his cousin Austin fully resolved to do 
 his penance and drink the bitter cup; and he had drunk 
 it; drained many cups to the dregs; and it was to no pur- 
 pose. Still they floated before him, brimmed, trebly bit- 
 ter. Away from Austin's influence, he was almost the 
 same boy who had slipped the guinea into Tom Bakewell's 
 hand, and the lucifers into Farmer Blaize's rick. For 
 good seed is long ripening; a good boy is not made in a 
 minute. Enough that the seed was in him. He chafed 
 on his road to Raynham at the scene he had just endured, 
 and the figure of Belthorpe's fat tenant burnt like hot 
 copper on the tablet of his brain, insufferably condescend- 
 ing, and, what was worse, in the right. Richard, obscured 
 as his mind's eye was by wounded pride, saw that clearly, 
 and hated his enemy for it the more. 
 
 Heavy Benson's tongue was knelling dinner as Richard 
 arrived at the Abbey. He hurried up to his room to dress. 
 Accident, or design, had laid the book of Sir Austin's 
 aphorisms open on the dressing-table. Hastily combing 
 his hair, Richard glanced down and read — 
 
 "The Dog returneth to his vomit: the Liar must eat 
 his Lie." 
 
 Underneath was interjected in pencil: ''The Devil's 
 mouthful !" 
 
 Young Richard ran downstairs feeling that his father 
 had struck him in the face. 
 
 Sir Austin marked the scarlet stain on his son's cheek- 
 bones. He sought the youth's eye, but Richard would not 
 look, and sat conning his plate, an abject copy of Adrian's 
 succulent air at that employment. How could he pretend 
 to the relish of an epicure when he was painfully endeav- 
 ouring to masticate The Devil's mouthful? 
 
 Heavy Benson sat upon the wretched dinner. Hippias, 
 usually the silent member, as if awakened by the un- 
 natural stillness, became sprightly, like the goatsucker 
 owl at night, and spoke much of his book, his digestion, 
 and his dreams, and was spared both by Algernon and 
 Adrian. One inconsequent dream he related, about fancy- 
 ing himself quite young and rich, and finding himself 
 suddenly in a field cropping razors around him, when, 
 just as he had, by steps dainty as those of a French
 
 62 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD EEVEREL 
 
 dancing-master, reached the middle, he to his dismay be- 
 held a path clear of the bloodthirsty steel-crop, which he 
 might have taken at lirst had he looked narrowly; and 
 there he was. 
 
 llippias's hrethrcn regarded him with eyes that plainly 
 said they wished he had remained there. Sir Austin, 
 however, drew forth his note-book, and jotted down a re- 
 flection. A composer of aphorisms can pluck blossoms 
 even from a razor-crop. Was not llippias's dream the 
 very counterpart of Richard's position? lie, had he 
 looked narrowly, might have taken the clear path: he, 
 too, had been making dainty steps till he was surrounded 
 by the grinning blades. And from that text Sir Austin 
 preached to his son when they were alone. Little Clare 
 was still too unwell to be permitted to attend the dessert, 
 and father and son were soon closeted together. 
 
 It was a strange meeting. They seemed to have been 
 separated so long. The father took his son's hand; they 
 sat without a word passing between them. Silence said 
 most. The boy did not understand his father: his father 
 frequently thwarted him : at times he thought his father 
 foolish: but that paternal pressure of his hand was elo- 
 quent to him of how warmly he was beloved. He tried 
 once or twice to steal his hand away, conscious it was 
 melting him. The spirit of his pride, and old rebellion, 
 whispered him to be hard, unbending, resolute. Hard 
 he had entered his father's study: hard he had met his 
 father's eyes. He could not meet them now. His father 
 sat beside him gently; with a manner that was almost 
 meekness, so he loved this boy. The poor gentleman's 
 lips moved. He was praying internally to God for him. 
 
 By degrees an emotion awoke in the boy's bosom. Love 
 is that blessed wand which wins the waters from the hard- 
 ness of the heart. Richard fought against it, for the 
 dignity of old rebellion. The tears would come; hot and 
 struggling over the dams of pride. Shamefully fast they 
 began to fall. He could no longer conceal them, or check 
 the sobs. Sir Austin drew him nearer and nearer, till 
 the beloved head was on his breast. 
 
 An hour afterwards, Adrian Harley, Austin Wentworth, 
 and Algernon Eeverel were summoned to the baronet's 
 study.
 
 THE PRELIMINARY ORDEAL 63 
 
 Adrian came last. There was a style of affable omnipo- 
 tence about the wise youth as he slung himself into a 
 chair, and made an arch of the points of his fingers, 
 through which to gaze on his blundering kinsmen. Care- 
 less as one may be whose sagacity has foreseen, and whose 
 benevolent efforts have forestalled, the point of danger at 
 the threshold, Adrian crossed his legs, and only intruded 
 on their introductory remarks so far as to hum half au- 
 dibly at intervals — 
 
 "Ripton and Richard were two pretty men," 
 
 in parody of the old ballad. Young Richard's red eyes, 
 and the baronet's ruffled demeanour, told him that an ex- 
 planation had taken place, and a reconciliation. That was 
 well. The baronet would now pay cheerfully. Adrian 
 summed and considered these matters, and barely listened 
 when the baronet called attention to what he had to say: 
 which was elaborately to inform all present, what all pres- 
 ent very well knew, that a rick had been fired, that his 
 son was implicated as an accessory to the fact, that the 
 perpetrator was now imprisoned, and that Richard's fam- 
 ily were, as it seemed to him, bound in honour to do their 
 utmost to effect the man's release. 
 
 Then the baronet stated that he had himself been down 
 to Belthorpe, his son likewise: and that he had found 
 every disposition in Blaize to meet his wishes. 
 
 The lamp which ultimately was sure to be lifted up to 
 illumine the acts of this secretive race began slowly to 
 dispread its rays; and, as statement followed statement, 
 they saw that all had known of the business: that all 
 had been down to Belthorpe : all save the wise youth 
 Adrian, who, with due deference and a sarcastic shrug, 
 objected to the proceeding, as putting them in the hands 
 of the man Blaize. His wisdom shone forth in an oration 
 so persuasive and aphoristic that had it not been based 
 on a plea against honour, it would have made Sir Austin 
 waver. But its basis was expediency, and the baronet 
 had a better aphorism of his own to confute him with. 
 
 "Expediency is man's wisdom, Adrian Harley. Doing 
 right is God's." 
 
 Adrian curbed his desire to ask Sir Austin whether an
 
 M THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 attempt to counteract the just working of the law was 
 doing right. The direct application of an aphorism was 
 unpopular at Raynham. 
 
 "I am to understand then," said he, "that Blaize con- 
 sents not to press the prosecution." 
 
 "Of course he won't," Algernon remarked. "Confound 
 him! he'll have his money, and what does he want 
 besides?" 
 
 "These agricultural gentleman are delicate customers 
 to deal with. However, if he really consents" 
 
 "I have his promise," said the haronet, fondling his son. 
 
 Young Richard looked up to his father, as if he wished 
 to speak. He said nothing, and Sir Austin took it as a 
 mute reply to his caresses, and caressed him the more. 
 Adrian perceived a reserve in the boy's manner, and as 
 he was not quite satisfied that his chief should suppose 
 him to have been the only idle, and not the most acute 
 and vigilant member of the family, he commenced a 
 cross-examination of him by asking who had last spoken 
 with the tenant of Belthorpe? 
 
 "I think I saw him last," murmured Richard, and relin- 
 quished his father's hand. 
 
 Adrian fastened on his prey. "And left him with a 
 distinct and satisfactory assurance of his amicable inten- 
 tions?" 
 
 "No," said Richard. 
 
 "Not?" the Feverels joined in astounded chorus. 
 
 Richard sidled away from his father, and repeated a 
 shamefaced "No." 
 
 "Was he hostile?" inquired Adrian, smoothing his 
 palms, and smiling. 
 
 "Yes," the boy confessed. 
 
 Here was quite another view of their position. Adrian, 
 generally patient of results, triumphed strongly at having 
 evoked it, and turned upon Austin Wentworth, reproving 
 him for inducing the boy to go down to Belthorpe. Austin 
 looked grieved. He feared that Richard had failed in 
 his good resolve. 
 
 "I thought it his duty to go," he observed. 
 
 "It was!" said the baronet, emphatically. 
 
 "And you see what comes of it, sir," Adrian struck in. 
 "These agricultural gentlemen, I repeat, are delicate cus-
 
 THE PRELIMINARY ORDEAL 65 
 
 tomers to deal with. For my part I would prefer being 
 in the hands of a policeman. We are decidedly collared 
 by Blaize. What were his words, Ricky? Give it in his 
 own Doric." 
 
 ''He said he would transport Tom Bakewell." 
 
 Adrian smoothed his palms, and smiled again. Then 
 they could afford to defy Mr. Blaize, he informed them 
 significantly, and made once more a mysterious allusion 
 to the Punic elephant, bidding his relatives be at peace. 
 They were attaching, in his opinion, too much importance 
 to Richard's complicity. The man was a fool, and a very 
 extraordinary arsonite, to have an accomplice at all. It 
 was a thing unknown in the annals of rick-burning. 
 But one would be severer than law itself to say that a boy 
 of fourteen had instigated to crime a full-grown man. 
 At that rate the boy was "father of the man' with a ven- 
 geance, and one might hear next that "the baby was 
 father of the boy." They would find common sense a more 
 benevolent ruler than poetical metaphysics. 
 
 When he had done, Austin, with his customary direct- 
 ness, asked him what he meant. 
 
 "I confess, Adrian," said the baronet, hearing him ex- 
 postulate with Austin's stupidity, "I for one am at a loss. 
 I have heard that this man, Bakewell, chooses voluntarily 
 not to inculpate my son. Seldom have I heard anything 
 that so gratified me. It is a view of innate nobleness in 
 the rustic's character which many a gentleman might 
 take example from. We are bound to do our utmost for 
 the man." And, saying that he should pay a second visit 
 to Belthorpe, to inquire into the reasons for the farmer's 
 sudden exposition of vindictiveness, Sir Austin rose. 
 
 Before he left the room, Algernon asked Richard if the 
 farmer had vouchsafed any reasons, and the boy then 
 spoke of the tampering with the witnesses, and the Ban- 
 tam's "Not upon oath!" which caused Adrian to choke 
 with laughter. Even the baronet smiled at so cunning 
 a distinction as that involved in swearing a thing, and not 
 swearing it upon oath. 
 
 "How little," he exclaimed, "does one yeoman know 
 another! To elevate a distinction into a difference is the 
 natural action of their minds. I will point that out to 
 Blaize. He shall see that the idea is native born."
 
 66 THE ORDEAL OF EICHAED FEVEKEL 
 
 Richard saw his father go forth. Adrian, too, was ill 
 at case. 
 
 'This trotting down to Belthorpe spoils all," said he. 
 "The alTair wmdd pass over to-morrow — Blaize has no 
 witnesses. The old rascal is only standing out for more 
 money." 
 
 "No, he isn't," Richard corrected him. "It's not that. 
 I'm sure he believes his witnesses have been tampered 
 with, as he calls it." 
 
 "What if they have, boy?" Adrian put it boldly. "The 
 ground is cut from under his feet." 
 
 "Blaize told me that if my father would give his word 
 there had boon nothing of the sort, he would take it. My 
 father will give his word." 
 
 "Thou," said Adrian, "you had better stop him from 
 going down." 
 
 Austin looked at Adrian keenly, and questioned him 
 whether he thought the farmer was justified in his sus- 
 picions. The wise youth was not to be entrapped. He 
 had only been given to understand that the witnesses were 
 tolerably unstable, and, like the Bantam, ready to swear 
 lustily, but not upon the Book. Sow given to understand, 
 he chose not to explain, but he reiterated that the chief 
 should not be allowed to go down to Belthorpe. 
 
 Sir Austin was in the lane leading to the farm when 
 he heard steps of some one running behind him. It was 
 dark, and he shook off the hand that laid hold of his cloak, 
 roughly, not recognizing his son. 
 
 "It's I, sir," said Richard panting. "Pardon me. You 
 mustn't go in there." 
 
 "Why not?" said the baronet, putting his arm about 
 him. 
 
 "Not now," continued the boy. "I will tell you all to- 
 night. I must see the farmer myself. It was my fault, 
 sir. I — J lied to him — the Liar must cat his Lie. Oh, 
 forgive me for disgracing you, sir. I did it — 1 hope I did 
 it to save Tom Bakewell. Let me go in alone, and speak 
 the truth." 
 
 "Go, and I will wait for you here," said his father. 
 
 The wind that bowed the old elms, and shivered the 
 dead leaves in the air, had a voice and a meaning for the 
 baronet during that half-hour's lonely pacing up and
 
 LAST ACT OF THE COMEDY 67 
 
 down under the darkness, awaiting his boy's return. The 
 solemn gladness of his heart gave nature a tongue. 
 Through the desolation flying overhead — the wailing of 
 the Mother of Plenty across the bare-swept land — he 
 caught intelligible signs of the beneficent order of the 
 universe, from a heart newly confirmed in its grasp of 
 the principle of human goodness, as manifested in the 
 dear child who had just left him; confirmed in its belief 
 in the ultimate victory of good within us, without which 
 nature has neither music nor meaning, and is rock, stone, 
 tree, and nothing more. 
 
 In the dark, the dead leaves beating on his face, he had 
 a word for his note-book : "There is for the mind but one 
 grasp of happiness : from that uppermost pinnacle of wis- 
 dom, whence we see that this world is well designed." 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IN WHICH THE LAST ACT OF THE BAKEWELL 
 COMEDY IS CLOSED IX A LETTER 
 
 Of all the chief actors in the Bakewell Comedy, Master 
 Eipton Thompson awaited the fearful morning which was 
 to decide Tom's fate, in dolefullest mood, and suffered 
 the gravest mental terrors. Adrian, on parting with him, 
 had taken casual occasion to speak of the position of the 
 criminal in modern Europe, assuring him that Inter- 
 national Treaty now did what Universal Empire had afore- 
 time done, and that among Atlantic barbarians now, as 
 among the Scythians of old, an offender would find pre- 
 carious refuge and an emissary haunting him. 
 
 In the paternal home, under the roofs of Law, and 
 removed from the influence of his conscienceless young 
 chief, the staggering nature of the act he had put his 
 hand to, its awful felonious aspect, overwhelmed Eipton. 
 He saw it now for the first time. "Why, it's next to mur- 
 der!" he cried out to his amazed soul, and wandered about 
 the house with a prickly skin. Thoughts of America, and 
 commencing life afresh as an innocent gentleman, had 
 crossed his disordered brain. He wrote to his friend
 
 Gs THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Richard, proposing to collect disposable funds, and em- 
 bark, in case of Tom's breaking his word, or of accidental 
 discovery. He dared not confide the secret to his family, 
 as his leader had sternly enjoined him to avoid any weak- 
 ness of that kind; and, being by nature honest and com- 
 municative, the restriction was painful, and melancholy 
 fell upon the boy. Mama Thompson attributed it to love. 
 The daughters of parchment rallied him concerning Miss 
 Clare Forey. His hourly letters to Raynham, and silence 
 as to everything and everybody there, his nervousness, 
 and unwonted propensity to sudden inflammation of the 
 cheeks, were set down for sure signs of the passion. Miss 
 Letitia Thompson, the pretty and least parchmenty one, 
 destined by her Papa for the heir of Raynham, and per- 
 fectly aware of her brilliant future, up to which she had, 
 since Ripton's departure, dressed and grimaced, and 
 studied cadences (the latter with such success, though not 
 yet fifteen, that she languished to her maid, and melted 
 the small factotum footman) — Miss Letty, whose insati- 
 able thirst for intimations about the young heir Ripton 
 could not satisfy, tormented him daily in revenge, and 
 once, quite unconsciously, gave the lad a fearful turn ; for 
 after linner, when Mr. Thompson read the paper by the 
 fire, preparatory to sleeping at his accustomed post, and 
 Mama Thompson and her submissive female brood sat 
 tasking the swift intricacies of the needle, and emulating 
 them with the tongue, Miss Letty stole behind Ripton's 
 chair, and introduced between him and his book the Latin 
 initial h ?er, large and illuminated, of the theme she sup- 
 posed to be absorbing him, as it did herself. The unex- 
 pected vision of this accusing Captain of the Alphabet, 
 this resplendent and haunting A, fronting him bodily, 
 threw Ripton straight back in his chair, while Guilt, with 
 her ancient indecision what colours to assume on detec- 
 tion, flew from red to white, from white to red, across his 
 fallen chaps. Letty laughed triumphantly. Amor, the 
 word she had in mind, certainly has a connection with 
 Arson. 
 
 But the delivery of a letter into Master Ripton's hands, 
 furnished her with other and likelier appearances to study. 
 For scarce had Ripton plunged his head into the missive 
 than ho gave way to violent transports, such as the
 
 LAST ACT OF THE COMEDY 69 
 
 healthy-minded little damsel, for all her languishing ca- 
 dences, deemed she really could express were a downright 
 declaration to be made to her. The boy did not stop at 
 table. Quickly recollecting the presence of his family, he 
 rushed to his own room. And now the girl's ingenuity was 
 taxed to gain possession of that letter. She succeeded, of 
 course, she being a huntress with few scruples and the 
 game unguarded. With the eyes of amazement she read 
 this foreign matter: 
 
 '•'Dear Eipton, — If Tom had been committed I would 
 have shot old Blaize. Do you know my father was behind 
 us that night when Clare saw the ghost and heard all we 
 said before the fire burst out. It is no use trying to con- 
 ceal anything from him. Well as you are in an awful 
 state I will tell you all about it. After you left Eipton I 
 had a conversation with Austin and he persuaded me to 
 go down to old Blaize and ask him to help off Tom. I 
 went, for I would have done anything for Tom after what 
 he said to Austin and I defied the old churl to do his 
 worst. Then he said if my father paid the money and no- 
 body had tampered with his witnesses he would not mind 
 if Tom did get off and he had his chief witness in called 
 the Bantam very like his master I think and the Bantam 
 began winking at me tremendjously as you say, and said 
 he had sworn he saw Tom Bakewell but not upon oath. 
 He meant not on the Bibla He could swear to it 
 but not on the Bible. I burst out laughing and you should 
 have seen the rage old Blaize was in. It wa: splendid 
 fun. Then we had a consultation at home Austin Rady 
 my father Uncle Algernon who has come down to us 
 again and your friend in prosperity and adversity R. D. F. 
 My father said he would go down to old Blaize and give 
 him the word of a gentleman we had not tampered with 
 his witnesses and when he was gone we were all talking 
 and Rady says he must not see the farmer. I am as certain 
 as I live that it was Rady bribed the Bantam. Well I ran 
 and caught up with my father and told him not to go in 
 to old Blaize but I would and eat my words and tell him 
 the truth. He waited for me in the lane. Never mind 
 what passed between me and old Blaize. He made me beg 
 and pray of him not to press it against Tom and then to
 
 70 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 complete it he brought in a little girl a niece of his and 
 says to me she's your best friend after all and told me to 
 thank her. A little girl twelve years of age. What bus- 
 iness had she to mix herself up in my matters. Depend 
 upon it Ripton wherever there is mischief there are girls 
 I think. She had the insolence to notice my face, and 
 ask me not to be unhappy. I was polite of course but I 
 would not look at her. Well the morning came and Tom 
 was had up before Sir Miles Papworth. , It was Sir Miles 
 gout gave us the time or Tom would have been had up be- 
 fore we could do anything. Adrian did not want me to 
 go but my father said I should accompany him and held 
 my hand all the time. I shall be careful about getting 
 into these scrapes again. When you have done anything 
 honourable you do not mind but getting among policemen 
 and magistrates makes you ashamed of yourself. Sir 
 Miles was very attentive to my father and me and dead 
 against Tom. We sat beside him and Tom was brought 
 in. Sir Miles told my father that if there was one thing 
 that showed a low villain it was rick-burning. What do 
 you think of that. I looked him straight in the face and 
 he said to me he was doing me a service in getting Tom 
 committed and clearing the country of such fellows and 
 Rady began laughing. I hate Rady. My father said his 
 son was not in haste to inherit and have estates of his 
 own to watch and Sir Miles laughed too. I thought we 
 were discovered at first. Then they began the examina- 
 tion of Tom. The Tinker was the first witness and he 
 proved that Tom had spoken against old Blaize and said 
 something about burning his rick. I wished I had stood 
 in the lane to Bursley with him alone. Our country 
 lawyer we engaged for Tom cross-questioned him and then 
 he said he was not ready to swear to the exact words that 
 had passed between him and Tom. I should think not. 
 Then came another who swore he had seen Tom lurking 
 about the fanner's grounds that night. Then came the 
 Bantam and I saw him look at Rady. I was tremend- 
 jously excited and my father kepi pressing niy hand. Just 
 fancy my being brought to feel that a word from that 
 fellow would make me miserable for life and he must 
 perjure himself to help me. That comes of giving way to 
 passion. My father says when we do that we are calling
 
 LAST ACT OF THE COMEDY 71 
 
 in the devil as doctor. "Well the Bantam was told to state 
 what he had seen and the moment he began Rady who 
 was close by me began to shake and he was laughing I 
 knew though his face was as grave as Sir Miles. You 
 never heard such a rigmarole but I could not laugh. He 
 said he thought he was certain he had seen somebody by 
 the rick and it was Tom Bakewell who was the only man 
 he knew who had a grudge against Farmer Blaize and 
 if the object had been a little bigger he- would not mind 
 swearing to Tom and would swear to him for he was dead 
 certain it was Tom only what he saw looked smaller and 
 it was pitch-dark at the time. He was asked what time 
 it was he saw the person steal away from the rick and then 
 he began to scratch his head and said supper-time. Then 
 they asked what time he had supper and he said nine 
 o'clock by the clock and we proved that at nine o'clock 
 Tom was drinking in the ale-house with the Tinker at 
 Bursley and Sir Miles swore and said he was afraid he 
 could not commit Tom and when he heard that Tom 
 looked up at me and I say he is a noble fellow and no one 
 shall sneer at Tom while I live. Mind that. Well Sir 
 Miles asked us to dine with him and Tom was safe and I 
 am to have him and educate him if I like for my servant 
 and I will. And I will give money to "his mother and make 
 her rich and he shall never repent he knew me. I say Rip. 
 The Bantam must have seen me. It was when I went to 
 stick in the lucifers. As we were all going home from Sir 
 Miles's at night he has lots of redfaced daughters but I did 
 not dance with them though they had music and were full 
 of fun and I did not care to I was so delighted and almost 
 let it out. When we left and rode home Rady said to my 
 father the Bantam was not such a fool as he was thought 
 and my father said one must be in a state of great per- 
 sonal exaltation to apply that epithet to any man and 
 Rady shut his mouth and I gave my pony a clap of the 
 heel for joy. I think my father suspects what Rady did 
 and does not approve of it. And he need not have done 
 it after all and might have spoilt it. I have been obliged 
 to order him not to call me Ricky for he stops short at 
 Rick so that everybody knows what he means. My dear 
 Austin is going to South America. My pony is in capital 
 condition. My father is the cleverest and best man in the
 
 r2 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD EEVEREL 
 
 world. Clare is a little bettor. I am quite happy. I 
 hope we shall meet Boon my dear Old Rip and we will not 
 pet into any more treinendjous scrapes will we. — I re- 
 main, Your sworn friend, 
 
 "RlCHAKD DoKI.V EKVEREL." 
 
 "P.S. I am to have a nice River Yacht. Good-bye, 
 Rip. Mind you learn to box. Mind you are not to show 
 this to any of your friends on pain of my displeasure. 
 
 "N.B. Lady B. was so angry when I told her that I 
 had not come to her before. She would 'do anything in 
 the world for me. I like her next best to my father and 
 Austin. Good-bye old Rip." 
 
 Poor little Letitia, after three perusals of this ingenuous 
 epistle, where the laws of punctuation were so disre- 
 garded, resigned it to one of the pockets of her brother 
 Ripton's best jacket, deeply smitten with the careless com- 
 poser. And so ended the last act of the Bakewell Comedy, 
 ojx which the curtain closes with Sir Austin's pointing out 
 to his friends the beneficial action of the System in it 
 from beginning to end. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 THE BLOSSOMING SEASON 
 
 Laying of ghosts is a public duty, and as the mystery 
 of the apparition that had frightened little Clare was never 
 solved on the stage of events at Raynham, where dread 
 walked the Abbey, let us go behind the scones a moment. 
 Morally superstitious as the baronet was, the character of 
 his mind was opposed to anything like spiritual agency in 
 the affairs of men, and, when the matter was made clear to 
 him, it shook off a weight of weakness and restored his 
 mental balance; so that from this time ho went about 
 more like the man he had once been, grasping more thor- 
 oughly the great truth, that This World is well designed. 
 Nay, he could laugh on hearing Adrian, in reminiscence
 
 THE BLOSSOMING SEASON 73 
 
 of the ill luck of one of the family members at its first 
 manifestation, call the uneasy spirit, Algernon's Leg. 
 
 Mrs. Doria was outraged. She maintained that her 
 
 child had seen Not to believe in it was almost to 
 
 rob her of her personal property. After satisfactorily 
 studying his old state of mind in her, Sir Austin, moved 
 by pity, took her aside one day and showed her that her 
 Ghost could write words in the flesh. It was a letter from 
 the unhappy lady who had given Richard birth, — brief 
 cold lines, simply telling him his house would be disturbed 
 by her no more. Cold lines, but penned by what heart- 
 broken abnegation, and underlying them with what an- 
 guish of soul ! Like most who dealt with him, Lady 
 Eeverel thought her husband a man fatally stern and im- 
 placable, and she acted as silly creatures will act when 
 they fancy they see a fate against them: she neither 
 petitioned for her right nor claimed it: she tried to ease 
 her heart's yearning by stealth, and now she renounced 
 all. Mrs. Doria, not wanting in the family tenderness 
 and softness, shuddered at him for accepting the sacrifice 
 so composedly: but he bade her to think how distracting 
 to this boy would be the sight of such relations between 
 mother and father. A few years, and as man he should 
 know, and judge, and love her. "Let this be her penance, 
 not inflicted by me!" Mrs. Doria bowed to the System 
 for another, not opining when it would be her turn to bow 
 for herself. 
 
 Further behind the scenes we observe Rizzio and Mary 
 grown older, much disenchanted : she discrowned, di- 
 shevelled, — he with gouty fingers on a greasy guitar. The 
 Diaper Sandoe of promise lends his pen for small hires. 
 His fame has sunk; his bodily girth has sensibly in- 
 creased. What he can do, and will do, is still his 
 theme; meantime the juice of the juniper is in requisi- 
 tion, and it seems that those small hires cannot be per- 
 formed without it. Returning from her wretched journey 
 to her wretcheder home, the lady had to listen to a mild 
 reproof from easy-going Diaper, — a reproof so mild that 
 he couched it in blank verse: for, seldom writing metri- 
 cally now, he took to talking it. With a fluent sympathetic 
 tear, he explained to her that she was damaging her inter- 
 ests by these proceedings; nor did he shrink from under-
 
 74 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 taking to elucidate wherefore. Pluming a smile upon his 
 succulent mouth, he told her that the poverty she lived 
 in was utterly unbefitting her gentle nurture, and that he 
 had reason to believe — could assure her — that an an- 
 nuity was on the point of being granted her by her hus- 
 band. And Diaper broke his bud of a smile into full 
 flower as he delivered this information. She learnt that 
 he had applied to her husband for money. It is hard to 
 have one's prop of self-respect cut away just when we are 
 Buffering a martyr's agony at the stake. There was a live 
 minutes tragic colloquy in the recesses behind the scenes, 
 — totally tragic to Diaper, who had fondly hoped to bask 
 in the warm sun of that annuity, and re-emerge from his 
 state of grub. The lady then wrote the letter Sir Austin 
 held open to his sister. The atmosphere behind the scenes 
 is not wholesome, so, having laid the Ghost, we will re- 
 turn and face the curtain. 
 
 That infinitesimal dose of The World which Master 
 Ripton Thompson had furnished to the System with such 
 instantaneous and surprising effect was considered by Sir 
 Austin to have worked well, and to be for the time quite 
 sufficient, so that Ripton did not receive a second invita- 
 tion to Raynham, and Richard had no special intimate of 
 his own age to rub his excessive vitality against, and 
 wanted none. His hands were full enough with Tom 
 Bakewell. Moreover, his father and he were heart in 
 heart. The boy's mind was opening, and turned to his 
 father affectionately reverent. At this period, when the 
 young savage grows into higher influences, the faculty 
 of worship is foremost in him. At this period Jesuits will 
 stamp the future of their chargeling flocks; and all who 
 bring up youth by a System, and watch it, know that it 
 is the malleable moment. Boys possessing any mental or 
 moral force to give them a tendency, then predestinate 
 their careers; or, if under supervision, take the impress 
 that is given them: not often to cast it off, and seldom to 
 cast it off altogether. 
 
 In Sir Austin's Note-book was written: "Between 
 Simple Boyhood and Adolescence — The Blossoming Sea- 
 son — on the threshold of Puberty, there is one Unselfish 
 Hour — say, Spiritual Seed-time." 
 
 He took care that good seed should be planted in Rich-
 
 THE BLOSSOMING SEASON 75 
 
 ard, and that the most fruitful seed for a youth, namely, 
 Example, should be of a kind to germinate in him the love 
 of every form of nobleness. 
 
 "I am only striving to make my son a Christian," he 
 said, answering them who persisted in expostulating with 
 the System. And to these instructions he gave an aim: 
 "First be virtuous," he told his son, "and then serve your 
 country with heart and soul." The youth was instructed 
 to cherish an ambition for statesmanship, and he and his 
 father read history and the speeches of British orators 
 to some purpose; for one day Sir Austin found him lean- 
 ing cross-legged, and with his hand to his chin, against 
 a pedestal supporting the bust of Chatham, contemplating 
 the hero of our Parliment, his eyes streaming with tears. 
 
 People said the baronet carried the principle of Example 
 so far that he only retained his boozing dyspeptic brother 
 Hippias at Raynham in order to exhibit to his son the 
 woeful retribution nature wreaked upon a life of indul- 
 gence; poor Hippias having now become a walking com- 
 plaint. This was unjust, but there is no doubt he made 
 use of every illustration to disgust or encourage his son 
 that his neighbourhood afforded him, and did not spare his 
 brother, for whom Richard entertained a contempt in pro- 
 portion to his admiration of his father, and was for fly- 
 ing into penitential extremes which Sir Austin had to 
 soften. 
 
 The boy prayed with his father morning and night. 
 
 "How is it, sir," he said one night, "I can't get Tom 
 Bakewell to pray?" 
 
 "Does he refuse?" Sir Austin asked. 
 
 "He seems to be ashamed to," Richard replied. "He 
 wants to know what is the good ? and I don't know what 
 to tell him." 
 
 "I'm afraid it has gone too far with him," said Sir 
 Austin, "and until he has had some deep sorrows he will 
 not find the divine want of Prayer. Strive, my son, when 
 you represent the people, to provide for their education. 
 He feels everything now through a dull impenetrable rind. 
 Culture is half-way to heaven. Tell him, my son, should 
 he ever be brought to ask how he may know the efficacy 
 of Prayer, and that his prayer will be answered, tell him 
 (he quoted The Pilgrim's Scrip) :
 
 76 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 " 'Who rises from Prayer a better man, his prayer is 
 answered.' " 
 
 " I will, sir," said Richard, and went to sleep happy. 
 Happy in his father and in himself, the youth rum 
 lived. Conscience was beginning to inhabit him, and he 
 carried some of the freightage known to men; though in 
 so crude a form that it overweighed him, now on this 
 side, now on that. 
 
 The wise youth Adrian observed these further progros- 
 sionary developments in bis pupil, soberly cynical. He 
 was under Sir Austin's interdict not to banter him, and 
 eased his acrid humours inspired by the sight of a felo- 
 nious young rick-burner turning saint, by grave affecta- 
 tions of sympathy and extreme accuracy in marking the 
 not widely-distant dates of his various changes. The 
 Bread-and-water phase lasted a fortnight: the Vegetarian 
 (an imitation of his cousin Austin), a little better than 
 a month: the religious, somewhat longer: the religious- 
 propagandist (when he was for converting the heathen of 
 Lobourne and Bursley, and the domestics of the Abbey, 
 including Tom Bakewell), longer still, and hard to bear; 
 — he tried to convert Adrian ! All the while Tom was 
 being exercised like a raw recruit. Richard had a drill- 
 sergeant from the nearest barracks down for him, to give 
 him a proper pride in himself, and marched him to and 
 fro with immense satisfaction, and nearly broke his heart 
 trying to get the round-shouldered rustic to take in the 
 rudiments of letters: for the boy had unbounded hopes 
 for Tom, as a hero in grain. 
 
 Richard's pride also was cast aside. He affected to be, 
 and really thought he was, humble. Whereupon Adrian, 
 as by accident, imparted to him the fact that men were 
 animals, and he an animal with the rest of them. 
 
 "/ an animal!" cried Richard in scorn, and for weeks he 
 was as troubled by this rudiment of self-knowledge as 
 Tom by his letters. Sir Austin had him instructed in 
 the wonders of anatomy, to restore his self-respect. 
 
 Seed-time passed thus smoothly, and adolescence came 
 on, and his cousin Clare felt what it was to be of an op- 
 posite sex to him. She too was growing, but nobody cared 
 how she grew. Outwardly even her mother seemed ab- 
 sorbed in the sprouting of the green off-shoot of the
 
 THE BLOSSOMING SEASON" 77 
 
 Feverel tree, and Clare was his handmaiden, little marked 
 by him. 
 
 Lady Blandish honestly loved the boy. She would tell 
 him : "If I had been a girl, I would have had you for my 
 husband." And he with the frankness of his years 
 would reply: "And how do you know I would have had 
 you?" causing her to laugh and call him a silly boy, 
 for had he not heard her say she would have had him? 
 Terrible words, he knew not then the meaning of ! 
 
 "You don't read your father's Book," she said. Her 
 own copy was bound in purple velvet, gilt-edged, as decor- 
 ative ladies like to have holier books, and she carried it 
 about with her, and quoted it, and (Adrian remarked to 
 Mrs. Doria) hunted a noble quarry, and deliberately aimed 
 at him therewith, which Mrs. Doria chose to believe, and 
 regretted her brother would not be on his guard. 
 
 "See here," said Lady Blandish, pressing an almondy 
 finger-nail to one of the Aphorisms, which instanced how 
 age and adversity must clay-enclose us ere we can effec- 
 tually resist the magnetism of any human creature in our 
 path. "Can you understand it, child?" 
 
 Richard informed her that when she read he could. 
 
 "Well, then, my squire," she touched his cheek and ran 
 her fingers through his hair, "learn as quick as you can 
 not to be all hither and yon with a hundred different 
 attractions, as I was before I met a wise man to guide me." 
 
 "Is my father very wise?" Richard asked. 
 
 "I think so," the lady emphasized her individual judg- 
 ment. 
 
 "Do you " Richard broke forth, and was stopped 
 
 by a beating of his heart. 
 
 "Do I — what?" she calmly queried. 
 
 "I was going to say, do you — I mean, I love him so 
 much." 
 
 Lady Blandish smiled and slightly coloured. 
 
 They frequently approached this theme, and always re- 
 treated from it; always with the same beating of heart to 
 Richard, accompanied by the sense of a growing mystery, 
 which, however, did not as yet generally disturb him. 
 
 Life was made very pleasant to him at Raynham, as it 
 was part of Sir Austin's principle of education that his 
 boy should be thoroughly joyous and happy; and when-
 
 78 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ever Adrian sent in a satisfactory report of his pupil's 
 advancement, which he did pretty liberally, diversions 
 were planned, just as prizes are given to diligent school- 
 boys, and Richard was supposed to have all his desires 
 gratified while he attended to his studies. The System 
 nourished. Tall, strong, bloomingly healthy, he took the 
 lead of his companions on land and water, and had more 
 than one bondsman in his service besides Ripton Thomp- 
 son—the boy without a Destiny! Perhaps the boy with a 
 Destiny was growing up a trifle too conscious of it. His 
 generosity^ to his occasional companions was princely, but 
 was exercised something too much in the manner of a 
 prince; and, notwithstanding his contempt for baseness, 
 he would overlook that more easily than an offence to his 
 pride, which demanded an utter servility when it had once 
 been rendered susceptible. If Richard had his followers 
 he had also his feuds. The Papworths were as subservient 
 as Ripton, but young Ralph Morton, the nephew of Mr. 
 Morton, and a match for Richard in numerous promising 
 qualities, comprising the noble science of fisticuffs, this 
 youth spoke his mind too openly, and moreover would not 
 be snubbed. There was no middle course for Richard's 
 comrades between high friendship or absolute slavery. He 
 was deficient in those cosmopolite habits and feelings 
 which enable boys and men to hold together without car- 
 ing much for each other; and, like every insulated mortal, 
 he attributed the deficiency, of which he was quite aware, 
 to the fact of his possessing a superior nature. Young 
 Ralph was a lively talker: therefore, argued Richard's 
 vanity, he had no intellect. He was affable : therefore he 
 was frivolous. The women liked him: therefore he was 
 a butterfly. In fine, young Ralph was popular, and our 
 superb prince, denied the privilege of despising, ended by 
 detesting him. 
 
 Early in the days of their contention for leadership, 
 Richard saw the absurdity of afl'ecting to scorn his rival. 
 Ralph was an Eton boy, and hence, being robust, a swim- 
 mer and a cricketer. A swimmer and a cricketer is no- 
 where to be scorned in youth's republic. Finding that 
 manoeuvre would not do, Richard was prompted once or 
 twice to entrench himself behind his greater wealth and 
 his position; but he soon abandoned that also, partly be-
 
 THE BLOSSOMING SEASON 79 
 
 cause his chilliness to ridicule told him he was exposing 
 himself, and chiefly that his heart was too chivalrous. 
 And so he was dragged into the lists by Ralph, and expe- 
 rienced the luck of champions. For cricket, and for div- 
 ing, Ralph bore away the belt : Richard's middle-stump 
 tottered before his ball, and he could seldom pick up more 
 than three eggs under water to Ralph's half-dozen. He 
 was beaten, too, in jumping and running. Why will silly 
 mortals strive to the painful pinnacles of championship? 
 Or why, once having reached them, not have the magna- 
 nimity and circumspection to retire into private life 
 immediately? Stung by his defeats, Richard sent one of 
 his dependent Papworths to Poer Hall, with a challenge 
 to Ralph Barthrop Morton; matching himself to swim 
 across the Thames and back, once, twice, or thrice, within 
 a less time than he, Ralph Barthrop Morton, would require 
 for the undertaking. It was accepted, and a reply re- 
 turned, equally formal in the trumpeting of Christian 
 names, wherein Ralph Barthrop Morton acknowledged the 
 challenge of Richard Doria Feverel, and was his man. 
 The match came off on a midsummer morning, under the 
 direction of Captain Algernon. Sir Austin was a spec- 
 tator from the cover of a plantation by the river-side, un- 
 known to his son, and, to the scandal of her sex, Lady 
 Blandish accompanied the baronet. He had invited her 
 attendance, and she, obeying her frank nature, and know- 
 ing what The Pilgrim's Scrip said about prudes, at once 
 agreed to view the match, pleasing him mightily. For was 
 not here a woman worthy the Golden Ages of the world? 
 one who could look upon man as a creature divinely made, 
 and look with a mind neither tempted, nor taunted, by the 
 Serpent! Such a woman was rare. Sir Austin did not 
 discompose her by uttering his praises. She was con- 
 scious of his approval only in an increased gentleness of 
 manner, and something in his voice and communications, 
 as if he were speaking to- a familiar, a very high compli- 
 ment from him. While the lads were standing ready for 
 the signal to plunge from the steep decline of greensward 
 into the shining water, Sir Austin called upon her to 
 admire their beauty, and she did, and even advanced her 
 head above his shoulder delicately. In so doing, and just 
 as the start was given, a bonnet became visible to Richard.
 
 80 THE ORDEAL OE El (HARD EEVEREL 
 
 Young Ralph was heels in air before ho moved, and then 
 he dropped like lead. He was beaten by several lengths. 
 
 The result of the match was unaccountable to all pres- 
 ent, and Richard's friends unanimously pressed him to 
 plead a false start. But though the youth, with full con- 
 fidence in his better style and equal strength, had backed 
 himself heavily against his rival, and bad lost his little 
 river-yacht to Ralph, he would do nothing of the sort. 
 It was the Bonnet had beaten him, not Ralph. The Bon- 
 net, typical of the mystery that caused his heart those 
 violent palpitations, was his dear, detestable enemy. 
 
 And now, as he progressed from mood to mood, his am- 
 bition turned towards a field where Ralph could not rival 
 him, and where the Bonnet was etherealized, and reigned 
 glorious mistress. A check to the pride of a boy will fre- 
 quently divert him to the path where lie his subtlest 
 powers. Richard gave up his companions, servile or an- 
 tagonistic: he relinquished the material world to young 
 Ralph, and retired into himself, where he was growing to 
 be lord of kingdoms: where Beauty was his handmaid, and 
 History his minister, and Time his ancient harper, and 
 sweet Romance his bride; where he walked in a realm 
 vaster and more gorgeous than the great Orient, peopled 
 with the heroes that have been. For there is no princely 
 wealth, and no loftiest heritage, to equal this early one 
 that is made bountifully common to so many, when the 
 ripening blood has put a spark to the imagination, and 
 the earth is seen through rosy mists of a thousand fresh- 
 awakened nameless and aimless desires; panting for bliss 
 and taking it as it comes; making of any sight or sound, 
 perforce of the enchantment they carry with them, a key 
 to infinite, because innocent, pleasure. The passions then 
 are gambolling cubs; not the ravaging gluttons they grow 
 to. They have their teeth and their talons, but they 
 neither tear nor bite. They are in counsel and fellowship 
 with the quickened heart and brain. The whole sweet 
 system moves to music. 
 
 Something akin to the indications of a change in the 
 spirit of his son, which were now seen, Sir Austin had 
 marked down to be expected, as due to his plan. The 
 blushes of the youth, his long vigils, his clinging to. soli- 
 tude, his abstraction, and downcast but not melan<«oly
 
 THE BLOSSOMING SEASON 81 
 
 air, were matters for rejoicing to the prescient gentleman. 
 "For it comes," said he to Dr. Clifford of Lobourne, after 
 consulting him medically on the youth's behalf and being 
 assured of his soundness, "it comes of a thoroughly sane 
 condition. The blood is healthy, the mind virtuous: 
 neither instigates the other to evil, and both are perfect- 
 ing toward the flower of manhood. If he reach that pure 
 — in the untainted fulness and perfection of his natural 
 powers — I am indeed a happy father! But one thing he 
 will owe to me : that at one period of his life he knew para- 
 dise, and could read God's handwriting on the earth! 
 Now those abominations whom you call precocious boys — 
 your little pet monsters, doctor! — and who can wonder 
 that the world is what it is? when it is full of them — as 
 they will have no divine time to look back upon in their 
 own lives, how can they believe in innocence and goodness, 
 or be other than sons of selfishness and the Devil ? But 
 my boy," and the baronet dropped his voice to a key that 
 was touching to hear, "my boy, if he fall, will fall from 
 an actual region of purity. He dare not be a sceptic as to 
 that. Whatever his darkness, he will have the guiding 
 light of a memory behind him. So much is secure." 
 
 To talk nonsense, or poetry, or the dash between the two, 
 in a tone of profound sincerity, and to enunciate solemn 
 discordances with received opinion so seriously as to con- 
 vey the impression of a spiritual insight, is the peculiar 
 gift by which monomaniacs, having first persuaded them- 
 selves, to contrive to influence their neighbours, and 
 through them to make conquest of a good half of the 
 world, for good or for ill. Sir Austin had this gift. He 
 spoke as if he saw the truth, and, persisting in it so long, 
 he was accredited by those who did not understand him, 
 and silenced them that did. 
 
 "We shall see," was all the argument left to Dr. Clif- 
 ford, and other unbelievers. 
 
 So far certainly the experiment had succeeded. A 
 comelier, braver, better boy was nowhere to be met. His 
 promise was undeniable. The vessel, too, though it lay 
 now in harbour and had not yet been proved by the buffets 
 of the elements on the great ocean, had made a good trial 
 trip, and got well through stormy weather, as the records 
 of the Bakewell Comedy witnessed to at Baynham. No
 
 82 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 augury could bo hopefuller. The Fates must indeed be 
 hard, the Ordeal Bevere, the Destiny dark, that could de- 
 Btroy so bright a Springl But, bright as it was, the bar- 
 onet^ relaxed nothing of his vigilant supervision. He said 
 to his intimates: "Every act, every fostered inclination, 
 almost every thought in this Blossoming Season, bears 
 its seed for the Future. The living Tree now requires 
 incessant watchfulness." And, acting up to his light. 
 Sir Austin did watch. The youth submitted to an ex- 
 amination every night before he sought his bed; profess- 
 edly to give an account of his studies, but really to 
 recapitulate his moral experiences of the day. He could 
 do so, for he was pure. Any wildness in him that his father 
 noted, any remoteness or richness of fancy in his ex- 
 pressions, was set down as incidental to the Blossoming 
 Season. There is nothing like a theory for binding the 
 wise. Sir Austin, despite his rigid watch and ward, knew 
 less of his son than the servant of his household. And he 
 was deaf, as well as blind. Adrian thought it his duty to 
 tell him that the youth was consuming paper. Lady 
 Blandish likewise hinted at his mooning propensities. Sir 
 Austin from his lofty watch-tower of the System had 
 foreseen it, he said. But when he came to hear that the 
 youth was writing poetry, his wounded heart had its rea- 
 sons for being much disturbed. 
 
 "Surely," said Lady Blandish, "you knew he scribbled V* 
 
 "A very different thing from writing poetry," said the 
 baronet. "No Feverel has ever written poetry." 
 
 "I don't think it's a sign of degeneracy," the lady re- 
 marked. "He rhymes very prettily to me." 
 
 A London phrenologist, and a friendly Oxford Professor 
 of poetry, quieted Sir Austin's fears. 
 
 The phrenologist said he was totally deficient in the 
 imitative faculty; and the Professor, that he was equally 
 so in the rhythmic, and instanced several consoling false 
 quantities in a few effusions submitted to him. Added 
 to this, Sir Austin told Lady Blandish that Richard had, 
 at his best, done what no poet had ever been known to be 
 capable of doing: he had, with his own hands, and in cold 
 blood, committed his virgin manuscript to the flames: 
 which made Lady Blandish sigh forth, "Poor hoy!" 
 
 Killing one's darling child is a painful imposition. For
 
 THE MAGNETIC AGE 83 
 
 a youth in his Blossoming Season, who fancies himself 
 a poet, to be requested to destroy his first-born, without a 
 reason (though to pretend a reason cogent enough to jus- 
 tify the request were a mockery), is a piece of abhorrent 
 despotism, and Richard's blossoms withered under it. A 
 strange man had been introduced to him, who traversed 
 and bisected his skull with sagacious stiff fingers, and 
 crushed his soul while, in an infallible voice, declaring 
 him the animal he was : making him feel such an animal ! 
 Not only his blossoms withered, his being seemed to draw 
 in its shoots and twigs. And when, coupled thereunto 
 (the strange man having departed, his work done), his 
 father, in his tenderest manner, stated that it would give 
 him pleasure to see those same precocious, utterly value- 
 less, scribblings among the cinders, the last remaining 
 mental blossom spontaneously fell away. Richard's spirit 
 stood bare. He protested not. Enough that it could be 
 wished ! He would not delay a minute in doing it. Desir- 
 ing his father to follow him, he went to a drawer in his 
 room, and from a clean-linen recess, never suspected by 
 Sir Austin, the secretive youth drew out bundle after 
 bundle : each neatly tied, named, and numbered : and 
 pitched them into flames. And so Farewell my young 
 Ambition ! and with it farewell all true confidence be- 
 tween Father and Son. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 THE MAGNETIC AGE 
 
 It was now, as Sir Austin had written it down, The 
 Magnetic Age: the Age of violent attractions, when to 
 hear mention of love is dangerous, and to see it, a com- 
 munication of the disease. People at Raynham were 
 put on their guard by the baronet, and his reputation for 
 wisdom was severely criticized in consequence of the in- 
 junctions he thought fit to issue through butler and 
 housekeeper down to the lower household, for the preser- 
 vation of his son from any visible symptom of the passion.
 
 84 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 A footman and two housemaids are believed to have been 
 dismissed on the report of heavy Benson that they were 
 in or inclining to the state: upon which an under-cook and 
 a dairymaid voluntarily throw up their places, averring 
 that "they did not want no young men, but to have their 
 sex spied after by an old wretch like that," indicating the 
 ponderous butler, "was a little too much for a Christian 
 woman," and then they were ungenerous enough to glance 
 at Benson's well-known marital calamity, hinting that 
 some men met their deserts. So intolerable did heavy 
 Benson's espionage become, that Raynham would have 
 grown depopulated of its womankind had not Adrian 
 interfered, who pointed out to the baronet what a fear- 
 ful arm his butler was wielding. Sir Austin acknowl- 
 edged it despondently. "It only shows," said he, with a 
 fine spirit of justice, "how all but impossible it is to leg- 
 islate where there are women!" 
 
 "I do not object," he added; "I hope I am too just to 
 object to the exercise of their natural inclinations. All 
 I ask from them is discreetness." 
 
 "Ay," said Adrian, whose discreetness was a marvel. 
 
 "No gadding about in couples," continued the baronet, 
 "no kissing in public. Such occurrences no boy should 
 witness. Whenever people of both sexes are thrown to- 
 gether, they will be silly ; and where they are high-fed, un- 
 educated, and barely occupied, it must be looked for as 
 a matter of course. Let it be known that I only require 
 discreetness." 
 
 Discreetness, therefore, was instructed to reign at the 
 Abbey. Under Adrian's able tuition the fairest of its 
 domestics acquired that virtue. 
 
 Discreetness, too, was enjoined to the upper household. 
 Sir Austin, who had not previously appeared to notice the 
 case of Lobourne's hopeless curate, now desired Mrs. 
 Doria to interdict, or at least discourage, his visits, for 
 the appearance of the man was that of an embodied sigh 
 ami groan. 
 
 "Really, A\istin!" said Mrs. Doria, astonished to find 
 her brother more awake than she had supposed, "I have 
 never allowed him to hope." 
 
 "Let him see it, then," replied the baronet; "let him 
 see it."
 
 THE MAGNETIC AGE 85 
 
 "The man amuses me," said Mrs. Doria. "You know, 
 we have few amusements here, we inferior creatures. I 
 confess I should like a barrel-organ better; that reminds 
 one of town and the opera; and besides, it plays more 
 than one tune. However, since you think my society bad 
 for him, let him stop away." 
 
 With the self-devotion of a woman she grew patient 
 and sweet the moment her daughter Clare was spoken of, 
 and the business of her life in view. Mrs. Doria's ma- 
 ternal heart had betrothed the two cousins, Richard and 
 Clare; had already beheld them espoused and fruitful. 
 For this she yielded the pleasures of town ; for this she 
 immured herself at Raynham; for this she bore with a 
 thousand follies, exactions, inconveniences, things abhor- 
 rent to her, and heaven knows what forms of torture and 
 self-denial, which are smilingly endured by that greatest 
 of voluntary martyrs — a mother with a daughter to 
 marry. Mrs. Doria, an amiable widow, had surely married 
 but for her daughter Clare. The lady's hair no woman 
 could possess without feeling it her pride. It was the daily 
 theme of her lady's-maid, — a natural aureole to her head. 
 She was gay, witty, still physically youthful enough to 
 claim a destiny; and she sacrificed it to accomplish her 
 daughter's ! sacrificed, as with heroic scissors, hair, wit, 
 gaiety — let us not attempt to enumerate how much ! more 
 than may be said. And she was only one of thousands; 
 thousands who have no portion of the hero's reward; for 
 he may reckon on applause, and condolence, and sym- 
 pathy, and honour ; they, poor slaves ! must look for noth- 
 ing but the opposition of their own sex and the sneers 
 of ours. O, Sir Austin! had you not been so blinded, 
 what an Aphorism might have sprung from this point 
 of observation ! Mrs. Doria was coolly told, between sister 
 and brother, that during the Magnetic Age her daughter's 
 presence at Raynham was undesirable. Instead of nurs- 
 ing offence, her sole thought was the mountain of preju- 
 dice she had to contend against. She bowed, and said, 
 Clare wanted sea-air — she had never quite recovered the 
 shock of that dreadful night. How long, Mrs. Doria 
 wished to know, might the Peculiar Period be expected 
 to last?" 
 
 "That," said Sir Austin, "depends. A year, perhaps,
 
 86 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 He is entering on it. I shall be most grieved to lose yotf, 
 Helen. Clare is now — how old '." 
 
 "Seventeen." 
 
 "She is marriageable." 
 
 "Marriageable, Austin! at seventeen! don't name such 
 a thing. My child shall not be robbed of her youth." 
 
 "Our women marry early, Helen." 
 
 "My child shall not!" 
 
 The baronet reflected a moment. He did not wish to 
 lose his sister. 
 
 "As you are of that opinion, Helen," said he, "perhaps 
 we may still make arrangements to retain you with us. 
 Would you think it advisable to send Clare — she should 
 know discipline — to some establishment for a few 
 months?" . . . 
 
 "To an asylum, Austin?" cried Mrs. Doria, controlling 
 her indignation as well as she could. 
 
 "To some select superior seminary, Helen. There are 
 such to be found." 
 
 "Austin!" Mrs. Doria exclaimed, and had to fight with 
 a moisture in her eyes. "Unjust! absurd!" she mur- 
 mured. The baronet thought it a natural proposition 
 that Clare should be a bride or a schoolgirl. 
 
 "I cannot leave my child." Mrs. Doria trembled. 
 "Where she goes, I go. I am aware that she is only one of 
 our sex, and therefore of no value to the world, but she 
 is my child. I will see, poor dear, that you have no cause 
 to complain of her." 
 
 "I thought," Sir Austin remarked, "that you acquiesced 
 in my views with regard to my son." 
 
 "Yes — generally," said Mrs. Doria, and felt culpable 
 that she had not before, and could not then, tell her 
 brother that he had set up an Idol in his house — an Idol 
 of flesh! more retributive and abominable than wood or 
 brass or gold. But she had bowed to the Idol too long — 
 she had too entirely bound herself to gain her project by 
 subserviency. She had, and she dimly perceived it, com- 
 mitted a greater fault in tactics, in teaching her daughter 
 to bow to the Idol also. Love of that kind Richard took 
 for tribute. He was indifferent to Clare's soft eyes. The 
 parting kiss he gave her was ready and cold as his father 
 could desire. Sir Austin now grew eloquent to him in
 
 THE MAGNETIC AGE 87 
 
 laudation of manly pursuits: but Kichard thought his 
 eloquence barren, his attempts at companionship awkward, 
 and all manly pursuits and aims, life itself, vain and 
 worthless. To what end? sighed the blossomless youth, 
 and cried aloud, as soon as he was relieved of his father's 
 society, what was the good of anything? Whatever he 
 did — whichever path he selected, led back to Eaynham. 
 And whatever he did, however wretched and wayward he 
 showed himself, only confirmed Sir Austin more and more 
 in the truth of his previsions. Tom Bakewell, now the 
 youth's groom, had to give the baronet a report of his 
 young master's proceedings, in common with Adrian, and 
 while there was no harm to tell, Tom spoke out. "He 
 do ride like fire every day to Pig's Snout," naming the 
 highest hill in the neighbourhood, "and stand there and 
 stare, never movin', like a mad 'un. And then hoam agin 
 all slack as if he'd been beaten in a race by somebody." 
 
 "There is no woman in that!" mused the baronet. 
 "He would have ridden back as hard as he went," reflected 
 this profound scientific humanist, "had there been a wom- 
 an in it. He would shun vast expanses, and seek shade, 
 concealment, solitude. The desire for distances betokens 
 emptiness and undirected hunger: when the heart is pos- 
 sessed by an image we fly to wood and forest, like the 
 guilty." 
 
 Adrian's report accused his pupil of an extraordinary 
 access of cynicism. 
 
 "Exactly," said the baronet. "As I foresaw. At this 
 period an insatiate appetite is accompanied by a fastidious 
 palate. Nothing but the quintessences of existence, and 
 those in exhaustless supplies, will satisfy this craving, 
 which is not to be satisfied! Hence his bitterness. Life 
 can furnish no food fitting for him. The strength^ and 
 purity of his energies have reached to an almost divine 
 height, and roam through the Inane. Poetry, love, and 
 such-like, are the drugs earth has to offer to high natures, 
 as she offers to low ones debauchery. 'Tis a sign, this 
 sourness, that he is subject to none of the empiricisms 
 that are afloat. Now to keep him clear of them!" 
 
 The Titans had an easier task in storming Olympus. 
 As yet, however, it could not be said that Sir Austin's 
 System had failed. On the contrary, it had reared a
 
 Ill l: OKDKAI. OK KK'UAKI) FEVER hi. 
 
 youth, handsome, Intelligent, well-bred, and. observed the 
 
 ladies, with acute emphasis, innocent. Where, they asked, 
 was such another ymiiii,' man to he found? 
 
 "Oh!" said Lady Blandish to Sir Austin, "if men could 
 give their hands to women unsoiled — how differenl would 
 many a marriage he! She will be a happy girl who calls 
 Richard husband." 
 
 "Happy, indeed!" was the baronet's caustic ejaculation. 
 "But where shall I meet one equal to him, and his match?" 
 
 "I was innocent when 1 was a girl," said the lady. 
 
 Sir Austin bowed a reserved opinion. 
 
 ''Do you think no girls innocent \ n 
 
 Sir Austin gallantly thougb.1 them all so. 
 
 "No, that you know they are not," said the lady, stamp- 
 ing. "But they are more innocent than boys, I am sure." 
 
 "Because of their education, madam. You see now 
 what a youth can be. Perhaps, when my System is pub- 
 lished, or rather — to speak more humbly — when it is 
 practised, the balance may be restored, and we shall have 
 virtuous young men." 
 
 "It's too late for poor me to hope for a husband from 
 one of them," said the lady, pouting and laughing. 
 
 "It is never too late for beauty to waken love," returned 
 the baronet, and they trifled a little. They were approach- 
 ing Daphne's Bower, which they entered, and sat there to 
 taste the coolness of a descending midsummer day. 
 
 The baronet seemed in a humour for dignified fooling; 
 the lady for serious converse. 
 
 "I shall believe again in Arthur's knights," she said. 
 "When I was a girl I dreamed of one." 
 
 "And he was in quest of the San Greal ?" 
 
 "If you like." 
 
 "And showed his good taste by turning aside for the 
 more tangible San Blandish?" 
 
 "Of course you consider it would have been so," sighed 
 the lady, ru tiling. 
 
 "I can only judge by our generation," said Sir Austin, 
 with a bend of homage. 
 
 The lady gathered her mouth. "Either we are very 
 mighty or you are very weak." 
 
 "Both, madam." 
 
 "But whatever we are. and if we are bad, bad! we love
 
 THE MAGNETIC AGE 89 
 
 virtue, and truth, and lofty souls, in men : and, when we 
 meet those qualities in them, we are constant, and would 
 die for them — die for them. Ah! you know men but not 
 women." 
 
 "The knights possessing such distinctions must be 
 young, I presume?" said Sir Austin. 
 
 "Old, or young!" 
 
 "But if old, they are scarce capable of enterprise?" 
 
 "They are loved for themselves, not for their deeds." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Yes — ah !" said the lady. "Intellect may subdue wom- 
 en — make slaves of them; and they worship beauty per- 
 haps as much as you do. But they only love for ever and 
 are mated when they meet a noble nature." 
 
 Sir Austin looked at her wistfully. 
 
 "And did you encounter the knight of your dream?" 
 
 "Not then." She lowered her eyelids. It was prettily 
 done. 
 
 "And how did you bear the disappointment?" 
 
 "My dream was in the nursery. The day my frock was 
 lengthened to a gown I stood at the altar. I am not the 
 only girl that has been made a woman in a day, and 
 given to an ogre instead of a true knight." 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Sir Austin, "women have much 
 to bear." 
 
 Here the couple changed characters. The lady became 
 gay as the baronet grew earnest. 
 
 "You know it is our lot," she said. "And we are allowed 
 many amusements. If we fulfil our duty in producing 
 children, that, like our virtue, is its own reward. Then, 
 as a widow, I have wonderful privileges." 
 
 "To preserve which, you remain a widow?" 
 
 "Certainly," she responded. "I have no trouble now in 
 patching and piecing that rag the world calls — a char- 
 acter. I can sit at your feet every day unquestioned. 
 To be sure, others do the same, but they are female 
 eccentrics, and have cast off the rag altogether." 
 
 Sir Austin drew nearer to her. "You would have made 
 an admirable mother, madam." 
 
 This from Sir Austin was very like positive wooing. 
 
 "It is," he continued, "ten thousand pities that you are 
 not one."
 
 90 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Do you think so?" She spoke with humility. 
 "I would," he went on, "that heaven had given you a 
 daughter." 
 
 'Would you have thought her worthy of Richard?" 
 
 "Our blood, madam, should have been one!" 
 
 The lady tapped her toe with her parasol. "But I am 
 a mother," she said. "Richard is my son. Yes! Richard 
 is my boy," she reiterated. 
 
 Sir Austin most graciously appended, "Call him ours, 
 madam," and held his head as if to catch the word from 
 her lips, which, however, she chose to refuse, or defer. 
 They made the coloured West a common point for their 
 eyes, and then Sir Austin said : 
 
 "As you will not say 'ours,' let me. And, as you have 
 therefore an equal claim on the boy, I will confide to you 
 a project I have lately conceived." 
 
 The announcement of a project hardly savoured of a 
 coming proposal, but for Sir Austin to confide one to a 
 woman was almost tantamount to a declaration. So Lady 
 Blandish thought, and so said her soft, deep-eyed smile, 
 as she perused the ground while listening to the project. 
 It concerned Richard's nuptials. He was now nearly 
 eighteen. He was to marry when he was five-and-twenty. 
 Meantime a young lady, some years his junior, was to be 
 sought for in the homes of England, who would be every 
 way fitted by education, instincts, and blood — on each of 
 which qualifications Sir Austin unreservedly enlarged — 
 to espouse so perfect a youth and accept the honourable 
 duty of assisting in the perpetuation of the Feverels. 
 The baronet went on to say that he proposed to set forth 
 immediately, and devote a couple of months, to the first 
 essay in his Coelebite search. 
 
 "I fear," said Lady Blandish, when the project had 
 been fully unfolded, "you have laid down for yourself a 
 difficult task. You must not be too exacting." 
 
 "I know it." The baronet's shake of the head was 
 piteous. 
 
 "Even in England she will be rare. But I confine my- 
 self to no class. If I ask for blood it is for untainted, not 
 what you call high blood. I believe many of the middle 
 classes are frequently more careful — more pure-blooded — 
 than our aristocracy. Show me among them a God-fear-
 
 THE MAGNETIC AGE 91 
 
 ing family who educate their children — I should prefer a 
 girl without brothers and sisters — as a Christian damsel 
 should be educated — say, on the model of my son, and she 
 may be penniless, I will pledge her to Richard Feverel." 
 
 Lady Blandish bit her lip. "And what do you do with 
 Eichard while you are absent on this expedition?" 
 
 "Oh!" said the baronet, "he accompanies his father." 
 
 "Then give it up. His future bride is now pinafored 
 and bread-and-buttery. She romps, she cries, she dreams 
 of play and pudding. How can he care for her? He 
 thinks more at his age of old women like me. He will 
 be certain to kick against her, and destroy your plan, 
 believe me, Sir Austin." 
 
 "Ay? ay? do you think that?" said the baronet. 
 
 Lady Blandish gave him a multitude of reasons. 
 
 "Ay! true," he muttered. "Adrian said the same. He 
 must not see her. How could I think of it ! The child is 
 naked woman. He would despise her. Naturally!" 
 
 "Naturally!" echoed the lady. 
 
 "Then, madam," and the baronet rose, "there is one 
 thing for me to determine upon. I must, for the first 
 time in his life, leave him." 
 
 "Will you, indeed?" said the lady. 
 
 "It is my duty, having thus brought him up, to see that 
 he is properly mated, — not wrecked upon the quicksands 
 of marriage, as a youth so delicately trained might be; 
 more easily than another ! Betrothed, he will be safe from 
 a thousand snares. I may, I think, leave him for a term. 
 My precautions have saved him from the temptations of 
 his season." 
 
 "And under whose charge will you leave him?" Lady 
 Blandish inquired. 
 
 She had emerged from the temple, and stood beside 
 Sir Austin on the upper steps, under a clear summer 
 twilight. 
 
 "Madam!" he took her hand, and his voice was gallant 
 and tender, "under whose but yours?" 
 
 As the baronet said this, he bent above her hand, and 
 raised it to his lips. 
 
 Lady Blandish felt that she had been wooed and asked 
 in wedlock. She did not withdraw her hand. The bar- 
 onet's salute was flatteringly reverent. He deliberated
 
 92 T1IK ORDEAL OF RICHARD EEVEREL 
 
 over it, as one going through a grave ceremony. And 
 he, the scorner of women, had chosen her for his homage! 
 Lady Blandish forgot that she had taken some trouble 
 to arrive at it. She received the exquisite compliment in 
 all its unique honey-sweet: for in love we must deserve 
 nothing or the fine bloom of fruition is gone. 
 
 The lady's hand was still in durance, and the baronet 
 had not recovered from his profound inclination, when a 
 noise from the neighbouring beechwood startled the two 
 actors in this courtly pantomime. They turned their 
 heads, and beheld the hope of Raynham on horseback 
 surveying the scene. The next moment he had galloped 
 away. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 AN ATTRACTION 
 
 All night Richard tossed on his bed with his heart in a 
 rapid canter, and his brain bestriding it, traversing the 
 rich untasted world, and the great Realm of Mystery, from 
 which he was now restrained no longer. Months he had 
 wandered about the gates of the Bonnet, wondering, sigh- 
 ing, knocking at them, and getting neither admittance 
 nor answer. He had the key now. His own father had 
 given it to him. His heart was a lightning steed, and 
 bore him on and on over limitless regions bathed in super- 
 human beauty and strangeness, where cavaliers and ladies 
 leaned whispering upon close green swards, and knights 
 and ladies cast a splendour upon savage forests, and tilts 
 and tourneys were held in golden courts lit to a glorious 
 day by ladies' eyes, one pair of which, dimly visioned, 
 constantly distinguishable, followed him through the 
 boskage and dwelt upon him in the press, beaming while 
 he bent above a hand glittering white and fragrant as the 
 frosted blossom of a May night. 
 
 Awhile the heart would pause and flutter to a shock: he 
 was in the act of consummating all earthly bliss by press- 
 ing his lips to the small white hand. Only to do that, 
 and die! cried the Magnetic Youth: to fling the Jewel of 
 Life into that one cup and drink it oil! Ho was intoxi-
 
 AN ATTRACTION 93 
 
 cated by anticipation. For that he was bom. There was, 
 then, some end in existence, something to live for! to 
 kiss a woman's hand, and die! He would leap from the 
 couch, and rush to pen and paper to relieve his swarming 
 sensations. Scarce was he seated when the pen was 
 dashed aside, the paper sent flying with the exclamation, 
 ''Have I not sworn I would never write again?" Sir 
 Austin had shut that safety-valve. The nonsense that 
 was in the youth might have poured harmlessly out, and 
 its urgency for ebullition was so great that he was re- 
 peatedly oblivious of his oath, and found himself seated 
 under the lamp in the act of composition before pride 
 could speak a word. Possibly the pride even of Richard 
 Feverel had been swamped if the act of composition were 
 easy at such a time, and a single idea could stand clearly 
 foremost; but myriads were demanding the first place; 
 chaotic hosts, like ranks of stormy billows, pressed im- 
 petuously for expression, and despair of reducing them 
 to form, quite as much as pride, to which it pleased him 
 to refer his incapacity, threw down the powerless pen, and 
 sent him panting to his outstretched length and another 
 headlong career through the rosy-girdled land. 
 
 Toward morning the madness of the fever abated some- 
 what, and he went forth into the air. A lamp was still 
 burning in his father's room, and Eichard thought, as he 
 looked up, that he saw the ever-vigilant head on the 
 watch. Instantly the lamp was extinguished, the window 
 stood cold against the hues of dawn. 
 
 Strong pulling is an excellent medical remedy for cer- 
 tain classes of fever. Richard took to it instinctively. 
 The clear fresh water, burnished with sunrise, sparkled 
 against his arrowy prow; the soft deep shadows curled 
 smiling away from his gliding keel. Overhead solitary 
 morning unfolded itself, from blossom to bud, from bud 
 to flower; still, delicious changes of light and colour, to 
 whose influences he was heedless as he shot under willows 
 and aspens, and across sheets of river-reaches, pure mir- 
 rors to the upper glory, himself the sole tenant of the 
 stream. Somewhere at the founts of the world lay the 
 land he was rowing toward; something of its shadowed 
 lights might be discerned here and there. It was not a 
 dream, now he knew. There was a secret abroad. The
 
 94 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 woods were full of it ; the waters rolled with it, and the 
 winds. Oh, why could not one in these days do some 
 high knightly deed which should draw down ladies' eyes 
 from their heaven, as in the days of Arthur! To such 
 a meaning breathed the unconscious sighs of the youth, 
 when he had pulled through his first feverish energy. 
 
 He was off Bursley, and had lapsed a little into that 
 musing quietude which follows strenuous exercise, when 
 he heard a hail and his own name called. It was no lady ; 
 no fairy, but young Ralph Morton, an irruption of miser- 
 able masculine prose. Heartily wishing him abed with 
 the rest of mankind, Richard rowed in and jumped ashore. 
 Ralph immediately seized his arm, saying that he desired 
 earnestly to have a talk with him, and dragged the Mag- 
 netic Youth from his water-dreams, up and down the wet 
 mown grass. That he had to say seemed to be difficult 
 of utterance, and Richard, though he barely listened, soon 
 had enough of his old rival's gladness at seeing him, and 
 exhibited signs of impatience; whereat Ralph, as one who 
 branches into matter somewhat foreign to his mind, but 
 of great human interest and importance, put the question 
 to him: 
 
 "I say, what woman's name do you like best?" 
 
 "I don't know any," quoth Richard, indifferently. 
 ''Why are you out so early?" 
 
 In answer to this, Ralph suggested that the name of 
 Mary might be considered a pretty name. 
 
 Richard agreed that it might be; the housekeeper at 
 Raynham, half the women cooks, and all the housemaids 
 enjoyed that name; the name of Mary was equivalent for 
 women at home. 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Ralph. "We have lots of Marys. 
 It's so common. Oh I I don't like Mary best. What do 
 you think of Lucy?" 
 
 Richard thought it just like another. 
 
 "Do you know," Ralph continued, throwing off the mask 
 and plunging into the subject, "I'd do anything on earth 
 for some names — one or two. It's not Mary, nor Lucy. 
 Clarinda's pretty, but it's like a novel. Claribel, I like. 
 Names beginning with 'CI' I prefer. The 'CIV are al- 
 ways gentle and lovely girls you would die for! Don't 
 you think so?"
 
 AN ATTRACTION 95 
 
 Richard had never been acquainted with any of them to 
 inspire that emotion. Indeed these urgent appeals to his 
 fancy in feminine names at five o'clock in the morning 
 slightly surprised him, though he was but half awake to 
 the outer world. By degrees he perceived that Ralph was 
 changed. Instead of the lusty boisterous boy, his rival in 
 manly sciences, who spoke straightforwardly and acted up 
 to his speech, here was an abashed and blush-persecuted 
 youth, who sued piteously for a friendly ear wherein to 
 pour the one idea possessing him. Gradually, too, Richard 
 apprehended that Ralph likewise was on the frontiers of 
 the Realm of Mystery, perhaps further toward it than he 
 himself was; and then, as by a sympathetic stroke, was 
 revealed to him the wonderful beauty and depth of mean- 
 ing in feminine names. The theme appeared novel and 
 delicious, fitted to the season and the hour. But the 
 hardship was, that Richard could choose none from 
 the number; all were the same to him; he loved them 
 all. 
 
 "Don't you really prefer the 'Cl's'?" said Ralph, per- 
 suasively. 
 
 "Not better than the names ending in 'a' and 'y,' " Rich- 
 ard replied, wishing he could, for Ralph was evidently 
 ahead of him. 
 
 "Come under these trees," said Ralph. And under the 
 trees Ralph unbosomed. His name was down for the 
 army: Eton was quitted for ever. In a few months he 
 would have to join his regiment, and before he left he 
 .must say good-bye to his friends. . . . Would Richard 
 tell him Mrs. Forey's address ? he had heard she was some- 
 where by the sea. Richard did not remember the ad- 
 dress, but said he would willingly take charge of any 
 letter and forward it. 
 
 Ralph dived his hand into his pocket. "Here it is. But 
 don't let anybody see it." 
 
 "My aunt's name is not Clare," said Richard, perusing 
 what was composed of the exterior formula. "You've 
 addressed it to Clare herself." 
 
 That was plain to see. 
 
 "Emmeline Clementina Matilda Laura, Countess Bland- 
 ish," Richard continued in a low tone, transferring the 
 names, and playing on the musical strings they were to
 
 96 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 him. Then he said: "Names of ladies! How they 
 sweeten their names 1" 
 
 He fixed his eyes on Ralph. If he discovered anything 
 further he said nothing, but bade the good fellow good- 
 bye, jumped into his boat, and pulled down the tide. The 
 moment Ralph was hidden by an abutment of the banks, 
 Richard perused the address. For the first time it struck 
 him that his cousin Clare was a very charming creature: 
 he remembered the look of her eyes, and especially the 
 last reproachful glance she gave him at parting. What 
 business had Ralph to write to her? Did she not belong 
 to Richard Feverel ? He read the words again and again : 
 Clare Doria Forey. Why, Clare was the name he liked 
 best — nay, he loved it. Doria, too — she shared his own 
 name with him. Away went his heart, not at a canter 
 now, at a gallop, as one who sights the quarry. He felt 
 too weak to pull. Clare Doria Forey — oh, perfect melody ! 
 Sliding with the tide, he heard it fluting in the bosom of 
 the hills. 
 
 When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs 
 that the Fates are behindhand in furnishing a temple for 
 the flame. 
 
 Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by 
 the thunder below, lilies, golden and white, were swaying 
 at anchor among the reeds. Meadow-sweet hung from 
 the banks thick with weed and trailing bramble, and there 
 also hung a daughter of earth. Her face was shaded by a 
 broad straw hat with a flexible brim that left her lips and 
 chin in the sun, and, sometimes nodding, sent forth a 
 light of promising eyes. Across her shoulders, and behind, 
 flowed large loose curls, brown in shadow, almost golden 
 where the ray touched them. She was simply dressed, be- 
 fitting decency and the season. On a closer inspection 
 you might see that her lips were stained. This blooming 
 young person was regaling on dewberries. They grew be- 
 tween the bank and the water. Apparently she found the 
 fruit abundant, fur her hand was making pretty progress 
 to her mouth. Fastidious youth, which revolts at woman 
 plumping her exquisite proportions on bread-and-butter, 
 and would (we must suppose) joyfully have her scraggy 
 to have her poetical, can hardly object to dewberries. In- 
 deed the act of eating them is dainty and induces musing.
 
 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 97 
 
 The dewberry is a sister to the lotus, and an innocent 
 sister. You eat: mouth, eye, and hand are occupied, and 
 the undrugged mind free to roam. And so it was with the 
 damsel who knelt there. The little skylark went up above 
 her, all song, to the smooth southern cloud lying along 
 the blue: from a dewy copse dark over her nodding hat 
 the blackbird fluted, calling to her with thrice mellow 
 note: the kingfisher flashed emerald out of green osiers: 
 a bow-winged heron travelled aloft, seeking solitude: a 
 boat slipped toward her, containing a dreamy youth; and 
 still she plucked the fruit, and ate, and mused, as if no 
 fairy prince were invading her territories, and as if she 
 wished not for one, or knew not her wishes. Surrounded 
 by the green shaven meadows, the pastoral summer buzz, 
 the weir-fall's thundering white, amid the breath and 
 beauty of wild flowers, she was a bit of lovely human life 
 in a fair setting; a terrible attraction. The Magnetic 
 Youth leaned round to note his proximity to the weir- 
 piles, and beheld the sweet vision. Stiller and stiller grew 
 nature, as at the meeting of two electric clouds. Her 
 posture was so graceful, that though he was making 
 straight for the weir, he dared not dip a scull. Just then 
 one enticing dewberry caught her eyes. He was floating 
 by unheeded, and saw that her hand stretched low, and 
 could not gather what it sought. A stroke from his 
 right brought him beside her. The damsel glanced up 
 dismayed, and her whole shape trembled over the brink. 
 Kichard sprang from his boat into the water. Pressing 
 a hand beneath her foot, which she had thrust against 
 the crumbling wet sides of the bank to save herself, he 
 enabled her to recover her balance, and gain safe earth, 
 whither he followed her. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 
 
 He had landed on an island of the still-vexed Ber- 
 moothes. The world lay wrecked behind him: Raynham 
 hung in mists, remote, a phantom to the vivid reality of 
 this white hand which had drawn him thither away thou-
 
 98 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 sands of leagues in an eye-twinkle. ITark, how Ariel 
 sang overhead! What splendour in the heavens! What 
 marvels of beauty aboul his enchanted brows! And, 
 you wonder! Fair Flame! by whose light the glories of 
 being are HOW first seen. . . . Radiant Miranda! Frince 
 Ferdinand is at your feet. 
 
 Or is it Adam, his rib taken from his side in sleep, 
 and thus transformed, to make him behold his Paradi 
 and lose it? . . . 
 
 The youth looked on her with as glowing an eye. It 
 was the First Woman to him. 
 
 And she — mankind was all Caliban to her, saving this 
 one princely youth. 
 
 So to each other said their changing eyes in the moment 
 they stood together; he pale, and she blushing. 
 
 She was indeed sweetly fair, and would have been held 
 fair among rival damsels. On a magic shore, and to a 
 youth educated by a System, strung like an arrow drawn 
 to the head, he, it might be guessed, could fly fast and far 
 with her. The soft rose in her cheeks, the clearness of 
 her eyes, bore witness to the body's virtue; and health 
 and happy blood were in her bearing. Had she stood 
 before Sir Austin among rival damsels, that Scientific 
 Humanist, for the consummation of his System, would 
 have thrown her the handkerchief for his son. The wide 
 summer-hat, nodding over her forehead to her brows, 
 seemed to flow with the flowing heavy curls, and those 
 fire-threaded mellow curls, only half-curls, waves of hair 
 call them, rippling at the ends, went like a sunny red- 
 veined torrent down her back almost to her waist : a 
 glorious vision to the youth, who embraced it as a flower 
 of beauty, and read not a feature. There were curious 
 features of colour in her face for him to have read. Her 
 brows, thick and brownish against a soft skin showing the 
 action of the blood, met in the bend of a bow, extending 
 to the temples long and level : you saw that she was fash- 
 ioned to peruse the sights of earth, and by the pliability 
 of her brows that the wonderful creature used her faculty, 
 and was not going to be a statue to the gazer. Under the 
 dark thick brows an arch of lashes shot out, giving a 
 wealth of darkness to the full frank blue eyes, a mystery 
 of meaning — more than brain was ever meant to fathom:
 
 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 99 
 
 richer, henceforth, than all mortal wisdom to Prince Fer- 
 dinand. For when nature turns artist, and produces con- 
 trasts of colour on a fair face, where is the Sage, or what 
 the Oracle, shall match the depth of its lightest look? 
 
 Prince Ferdinand was also fair. In his slim boating- 
 attire his figure looked heroic. His hair, rising from the 
 parting to the right of his forehead, in what his admiring 
 Lady Blandish called his plume, fell away slanting silkily 
 to the temples across the nearly imperceptible upward 
 curve of his brows there — felt more than seen, so slight 
 it was — and gave to his profile a bold beauty, to which 
 his bashful, breathless air was a flattering charm. An 
 arrow drawn to the head, capable of flying fast and far 
 with her! He leaned a little forward, drinking her in 
 with all his eyes, and young Love has a thousand. Then 
 truly the System triumphed, just ere it was to fall ; and 
 could Sir Austin have been content to draw the arrow 
 to the head, and let it fly, when it would fly, he might 
 have pointed to his son again, and said to the world, 
 "Match him!" Such keen bliss as the youth had in the 
 sight of her, an innocent youth alone has powers of soul 
 in him to experience. 
 
 "O Women!" says The Pilgrim's Scrip, in one of its 
 solitary outbursts, "Women, who like, and will have for 
 hero, a rake ! how soon are you not to learn that you have 
 taken bankrupts to your bosoms, and that the putrescent 
 gold that attracted you is the slime of the Lake of Sin!" 
 
 If these two were Ferdinand and Miranda, Sir Austin 
 was not Prospero, and was not present, or their fates 
 might have been different. 
 
 So they stood a moment, changing eyes, and then 
 Miranda spoke, and they came down to earth, feeling 
 no less in heaven. 
 
 She spoke to thank him for his aid. She used quite 
 common simple words ; and used them, no doubt, to express 
 a common simple meaning: but to him she was uttering 
 magic, casting spells, and the effect they had on him was 
 manifested in the incoherence of his replies, which were 
 too foolish to be chronicled. 
 
 The couple were again mute. Suddenly Miranda, with
 
 100 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 an exclamation of anguish, and innumerable lights and 
 
 shadows playing over her lovely face, clapped her hands, 
 crying aloud, "My book! my book!" and ran to the bank. 
 
 Prince Ferdinand was at her side. "What have you 
 lost?" he said. 
 
 "My book!" she answered, her delicious curls swinging 
 across her shoulders to the stream. Then turning to him, 
 "Oh, no, no ! let me entreat you not to," she said ; "I do 
 not so very much mind losing it." And in her eagerness 
 to restrain him she unconsciously laid her gentle hand 
 upon his arm, and took the force of motion out of him. 
 
 "Indeed, I do not really care for the silly book," she 
 continued, withdrawing her hand quickly, and reddening. 
 "Pray, do not!" 
 
 The young gentleman had kicked off his shoes. No 
 sooner was the spell of contact broken than he jumped 
 in. The water was still troubled and discoloured by his 
 introductory adventure, and, though he ducked his head 
 with the spirit of a dabchick, the book was missing. A 
 scrap of paper floating from the bramble just above the 
 water, and looking as if fire had caught its edges and 
 it had flown from one adverse element to the other, was 
 all he could lay hold of; and he returned to land dis- 
 consolately, to hear Miranda's murmured mixing of thanks 
 and pretty expostulations. 
 
 "Let me try again," he said. 
 
 "No, indeed!" she replied, and used the awful threat: 
 "I will run away if you do," which effectually restrained 
 him. 
 
 Her eye fell on the fire-stained scrap of paper, and 
 brightened, as she cried, "There, there! you have what I 
 want. It is that. I do not care for the book. No, please! 
 You are not to look at it. Give it me." 
 
 Before her playfully imperative injunction was fairly 
 spoken, Richard had glanced at the document and dis- 
 covered a Griffin oetween two Wheatsheaves : his crest in 
 silver: and below — O wonderment immense! his own hand- 
 writing ! 
 
 He handed it to her. She took it, and put it in her 
 bosom. 
 
 Who would have thought, that, where all else perished, 
 Odes, Idyls, Lines, Stanzas, this one Sonnet to the stars
 
 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 101 
 
 should be miraculously reserved for such a starry fate — 
 passing beatitude! 
 
 As they walked silently across the meadow, Richard 
 strove to remember the hour and the mood of mind in 
 which he had composed the notable production. The 
 stars were invoked, as seeing and foreseeing all, to tell 
 him where then his love reclined, and so forth; Hesper 
 was complacent enough to do so, and described her in 
 a couplet — 
 
 "Through sunset's amber see me shining fair, 
 As. her blue eyes shine through her golden hair." 
 
 And surely no words could be more prophetic. Here 
 were two blue eyes and golden hair; and by some strange 
 chance, that appeared like the working of a divine finger, 
 she had become the possessor of the prophecy, she that 
 was to fulfil it! The youth was too charged with emo- 
 tion to speak. Doubtless the damsel had less to think of, 
 or had some trifling burden on her conscience, for she 
 seemed to grow embarrassed. At last she drew up her 
 chin to look at her companion under the nodding brim 
 of her hat (and the action gave her a charmingly freakish 
 air), crying, "But where are you going to? You are wet 
 through. Let me thank you again; and, pray, leave me, 
 and go home and change instantly." 
 
 "Wet?" replied the magnetic muser, with a voice of 
 tender interest; "not more than one foot, I hope. I will 
 leave you while you dry your stockings in the sun." 
 
 At this she could not withhold a shy laugh. 
 
 "Not I, but you. You would try to get that silly book 
 for me, and you are dripping wet. Are you not very 
 uncomfortable ?" 
 
 In all sincerity he assured her that he was not. 
 
 "And you really do not feel that you are wet?" 
 
 He really did not : and it was a fact that he spoke truth. 
 
 She pursed her dewberry mouth in the most comical 
 way, and her blue eyes lightened laughter out of the half- 
 closed lids. 
 
 "I cannot help it," she said, her mouth opening^ and 
 sounding harmonious bells of laughter in his ears. "Par- 
 don me, won't you?"
 
 102 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 His face took the same soft smiling curves in admira- 
 tion of her. 
 
 "Not to feel that you have been in the water, the very 
 moment after!" she musically interjected, seeing she was 
 excused. 
 
 "It's true," he said; and his own gravity then touched 
 him to join a duet with her, which made them no longer 
 feel strangers, and did the work of a month of intimacy. 
 Better than sentiment, laughter opens the breast to love; 
 opens the whole breast to his full quiver, instead of a 
 corner here and there for a solitary arrow. Hail the 
 occasion propitious, O British young! and laugh and 
 treat love as an honest God, and dabble not with the 
 sentimental rouge. These two laughed, and the souls of 
 each cried out to the other, "It is I, it is I." 
 
 They laughed and forgot the cause of their laughter, 
 and the sun dried his light river clothing, and they strolled 
 toward the blackbird's copse, and stood near a stile in 
 sight of the foam of the weir and the many-coloured rings 
 of eddies streaming forth from it. 
 
 Richard's boat, meanwhile, had contrived to shoot the 
 weir, and was swinging, bottom upward, broadside with 
 the current down the rapid backwater. 
 
 "Will you let it go?" said the damsel, eyeing it curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "It can't be stopped," he replied, and could have added: 
 "What do I care for it now!" 
 
 His old life was whirled away with it, dead, drowned. 
 His new life was with her, alive, divine. 
 
 She flapped low the brim of her hat. "You must really 
 not come any farther," she softly said. 
 
 "And will you go, and not tell me who you are?" he 
 asked, growing bold as the fears of losing her came across 
 him. "And will you not tell me before you go"— his face 
 burned — "how you came by that — that paper?" 
 
 She chose to select the easier question for answer: 
 "You ought to know me; we have been introduced." Sweet 
 was her winning oil-hand affability. 
 
 "Then who, in heaven's name, are you? Tell mel I 
 never could have forgotten you." 
 "You have, I think," she said. 
 
 "Impossible that we could ever have met, and I forget 
 you!"
 
 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 103 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 "Do you remember Belthorpe?" 
 
 "Belthorpe! Belthorpe!" quoth Richard, as if he had 
 to touch his brain to recollect there was such a place. 
 "Do you mean old Blaize's farm?" 
 
 "Then I am old Blaize's niece." She tripped him a 
 soft curtsey. 
 
 The magnetized youth gazed at her. By what magic 
 was it that this divine sweet creature could be allied with 
 that old churl! 
 
 "Then what — what is your name?" said his mouth, 
 while his eyes added, "O wonderful creature! How came 
 you to enrich the earth?" 
 
 "Have you forgot the Desboroughs of Dorset, too?" she 
 peered at him from a side-bend of the napping brim. 
 
 "The Desboroughs of Dorset?" A light broke in on 
 him. "And have you grown to this? That little girl I 
 saw there!" 
 
 He drew close to her to read the nearest features of 
 the vision. She could no more laugh off the piercing 
 fervour of his eyes. Her volubility fluttered under his 
 deeply wistful look, and now neither voice was high, and 
 they were mutually constrained. 
 
 "You see," she murmured, "we are old acquaintances." 
 
 Richard, with his eyes still intently fixed on her, re- 
 turned, "You are very beautiful!" 
 
 The words slipped out. Perfect simplicity is uncon- 
 sciously audacious. Her overpowering beauty struck his 
 heart, and, like an instrument that is touched and answers 
 to the touch, he spoke. 
 
 Miss Desborough made an effort to trifle with this ter- 
 rible directness; but his eyes would not be gainsaid, and 
 checked her lips. She turned away from them, her bosom 
 a little rebellious. Praise so passionately spoken, and by 
 one who has been a damsel's first dream, dreamed of 
 nightly many long nights, and clothed in the virgin silver 
 of her thoughts in bud, praise from him is coin the heart 
 cannot reject, if it would. She quickened her steps. 
 
 "I have offended you!" said a mortally wounded voice 
 across her shoulder. 
 
 That he should think so were too dreadful. 
 
 "Oh no, no! you would never offend me." She gave 
 him her whole sweet face.
 
 104 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Then why — why do you leave me?" 
 
 "Because," she hesitated, "I must go." 
 
 "No. You must not go. Why must you go? Do not 
 
 "Indeed 1 must/' she said, pulling at the obnoxious 
 broad brim of her hat; and, interpreting a pause he made 
 for his assent to her rational resolve, shyly looking at him, 
 she held her hand out, and said, "Good-bye," as if it were 
 a natural thing to say. 
 
 The hand was pure white — white and fragrant as the 
 frosted blossom of a Maynight. It was the hand whose 
 shadow, cast before, he had last night bent his head rever- 
 entially above, and kissed — resigning himself thereupon 
 over to execution for payment of the penalty of such dar- 
 ing — by such bliss well rewarded. 
 
 He took the hand, and held it, gazing between her eyes. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said again, as frankly as she could, 
 and at the same time slightly compressing her fingers on 
 his in token of adieu. It was a signal for his to close 
 firmly upon hers. 
 
 "You will not go?" 
 
 "Pray, let me," she pleaded, her sweet brows suing in 
 wrinkles. 
 
 "You will not go?" Mechanically he drew the white 
 hand nearer his thumping heart. 
 
 "I must," she faltered piteously. 
 
 "You will not go?" 
 
 "Oh yes! yes!" 
 
 "Tell me. Do you wish to go?" 
 
 The question was a subtle one. A moment or two she 
 did not answer, and then forswore herself, and said, Yes. 
 
 "Do you — you wish to go?" He looked with quivering 
 eyelids under hers. 
 
 A fainter Yes responded. 
 
 "You wish — wish to leave me?" His breath went with 
 the words. 
 
 "Indeed I must." 
 
 Her hand became a closer prisoner. 
 
 All at once an alarming delicious shudder went through 
 her frame. From him to her it coursed, and back from 
 her to him. Forward and back love's electric messenger 
 rushed from heart to heart, knocking at each, till it
 
 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 105 
 
 surged tumultuously against the bars of its prison, cry- 
 ing out for its mate. They stood trembling in unison, 
 a lovely couple under these fair heavens of the morning. 
 
 When he could get his voice it said, "Will you go?" 
 
 But she had none to reply with, and could only mutely 
 bend upward her gentle wrist. 
 
 "Then, farewell !" he said, and, dropping his lips to the 
 soft fair hand, kissed it, and hung his head, swinging 
 away from her, ready for death. 
 
 Strange, that now she was released she should linger 
 by him. Strange, that his audacity, instead of the ex- 
 ecutioner, brought blushes and timid tenderness to his 
 side, and the sweet words, "You are not angry with me?" 
 
 "With you, O Beloved!" cried his soul. "And you for- 
 give me, fair charity!" 
 
 "I tbink it was rude of me to go without thanking you 
 again," she said, and again proffered her hand. 
 
 The sweet heaven-bird shivered out his song above him. 
 The gracious glory of heaven fell upon his soul. He 
 touched her hand, not moving his eyes from her, nor 
 speaking, and she, with a soft word of farewell, passed 
 across the stile, and up the pathway through the dewy 
 shades of the copse, and out of the arch of the light, 
 away from his eyes. 
 
 And away with her went the wild enchantment. He 
 looked on barren air. But it was no more the world of 
 yesterday. The marvellous splendours had sown seeds in 
 him, ready to spring up and bloom at her gaze; and in his 
 bosom now the vivid conjuration of her tones, her face, 
 her shape, makes them leap and illumine him like fitful 
 summer lightnings — ghosts of the vanished sun. 
 
 There was nothing to tell him that he had been making 
 love and declaring it with extraordinary rapidity; nor did 
 he know it. Soft flushed cheeks! sweet mouth! strange 
 sweet brows! eyes of softest fire! how could his ripe eyes 
 behold you, and not plead to keep you? Nay, how could 
 he let you go? And he seriously asked himself that 
 question. 
 
 To-morrow this place will have a memory — the river 
 and the meadow, and the white falling weir: his heart will 
 build a temple here; and the skylark will be its high-
 
 10G THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 priest, and the old blackbird its glossy-gowned chorister, 
 and there will be a sacred repast of dewberries. To-day 
 the grass is grass: his heart is chased by phantoms and 
 finds rest nowhere. Only when the most tender freshness 
 of his flower comes across him does he taste a moment's 
 calm; and no sooner does it come than it gives place to 
 keen pangs for fear that she may not be his for ever. 
 
 Erelong be learns that her name is Lucy. Erelong he 
 meets Ralph, and discovers that in a day he has distanced 
 him by a sphere. He and Ralph and the curate of Lo- 
 bourne join in their walks, and raise classical discussions 
 on ladies' hair, fingering a thousand delicious locks, from 
 those of Cleopatra to the Borgia's. "Fair! fair! all of 
 them fair!" sighs the melancholy curate, "as are those 
 women formed for our perdition ! I think we have in 
 this country what will match the Italian or the Greek." 
 His mind flutters to Mrs. Doria, Richard blushes before 
 the vision of Lucy, and Ralph, whose heroine's hair is a 
 dark luxuriance, dissents, and claims a noble share in 
 the slaughter of men for dark-haired Wonders. They 
 have no mutual confidences, but they are singularly kind 
 to each other, these three children of instinct. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 UNMASKING OF' MASTER RIPTON TTTOMRSON 
 
 Lady Blandish, and others who professed an interest in 
 the fortunes and future of the systematized youth, had oc- 
 casionally mentioned names of families whose alliance 
 according to apparent calculations, would not degrade his 
 blood : and over these names, secretly preserved on an open 
 leaf of the note-book, Sir Austin, as he neared the me- 
 tropolis, distantly dropped his eye. There were names 
 historic and names mushroomic; names that the Con- 
 queror might have called in his muster-roll ; names that 
 had been, clearly, tossed into the upper stratum of civilized 
 life by a mill-wheel or a merchant-stool. Against them 
 the baronet had written M., or Po. or Pr. — signifying, 
 Money, Position, Principles, favouring the latter with 
 special brackets. The wisdom of a worldly man, which
 
 UNMASKING OF KIPTON THOMPSON 107 
 
 he could now and then adopt, determined him, before he 
 commenced his round of visits, to consult and sound his 
 solicitor and his physician thereanent; lawyers and doc- 
 tors being the rats who know best the merits of a house, 
 and on what sort of foundation it may be standing. 
 
 Sir Austin entered the great city with a sad mind. 
 The memory of his misfortune came upon him vividly, 
 as if no years had intervened, and it were but yesterday 
 that he found the letter telling him that he had no wife 
 and his son no mother. He wandered on foot through the 
 streets the first night of his arrival, looking strangely at 
 the shops and shows and bustle of the world from which 
 he had divorced himself; feeling as destitute as the poor- 
 est vagrant. He had almost forgotten how to find his 
 way about, and came across his old mansion in his efforts 
 to regain his hotel. The windows were alight — signs of 
 merry life within. He stared at it from the shadow of 
 the opposite side. It seemed to him he was a ghost gazing 
 upon his living past. And then the phantom which had 
 stood there mocking while he felt as other men — the 
 phantom, now flesh and blood reality, seized and convulsed 
 his heart, and filled its unforgiving crevices with bitter 
 ironic venom. He remembered by the time reflection re- 
 turned to him that it was Algernon, who had the house 
 at his disposal, probably giving a card-party, or something 
 of the sort. In the morning, too, he remembered that he 
 had divorced the world to wed a System, and must be 
 faithful to that exacting Spouse, who, now alone of things 
 on earth, could fortify and recompense him. 
 
 Mr. Thompson received his client with the dignity and 
 emotion due to such a rent-roll and the unexpectedness 
 of the honour. He was a thin stately man of law, garbed 
 as one who gave audience to sacred bishops, and carrying 
 on his countenance the stamp of paternity to the parch- 
 ment-skins, and of a virtuous attachment to Port wine 
 sufficient to increase his respectability in the eyes of moral 
 Britain. After congratulating Sir Austin on the fortunate 
 issue of two or three suits, and being assured that the 
 baronet's business in town had no concern therewith, Mr. 
 Thompson ventured to hope that the young heir was all 
 his father could desire him to be, and heard with sat- 
 isfaction that he was a pattern to the youth of the Age.
 
 Hi* THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "A difficult time of life, Sir Austin!" said the old law- 
 yer, shaking his head. "We must keep our eyes on them 
 — keep awake! The mischief is done in a minute." 
 
 "We must, take ''arc to have seen where we planted, and 
 that the root was sound, or the mischief will do itself in 
 Bpite of, or under the very spectacles of, supervision," 
 said the baronet. 
 
 His legal adviser murmured "Exactly," as if that w< re 
 his own idea, adding, "It is my plan with Ripton, who has 
 had the honour of an introduction to you, and a very 
 pleasant time he spent with my young friend, whom he 
 does not forget. Ripton follows the Law. He is articled 
 to me, and will, I trust, succeed me worthily in your 
 confidence. I bring him into town in the morning; I take 
 him back at night. I think I may say that I am quite 
 content with him." 
 
 "Do you think," said Sir Austin, fixing his brows, "that 
 you can trace every act of his to its motive?" 
 
 The old lawyer bent forward and humbly requested that 
 this might be repeated. 
 
 "Do you" — Sir Austin held the same searching expres- 
 sion — "do you establish yourself in a radiating centre of 
 intuition: do you base your watchfulness on so thorough 
 an acquaintance with his character, so perfect a knowledge 
 of the instrument, that all its movements — even the ec- 
 centric ones — are anticipated by you, and provided for?" 
 
 The explanation was a little too long for the old lawyer 
 to entreat another repetition. Winking with the painful 
 deprecation of a deaf man, Mr. Thompson smiled urbanely, 
 coughed conciliatingly, and said he was afraid he could 
 not affirm that much, though he was happily enabled to 
 say that Ripton had borne an extremely good character 
 at school. 
 
 "I find," Sir Austin remarked, as sardonically he re- 
 laxed his inspecting pose and mien, "there are fathers 
 who are content to be simply obeyed. Now I require not 
 only that my son should obey; I would have him guiltless 
 of the impulse to gainsay my wishes — feeling me in him 
 stronger than his undeveloped nature, up to a certain 
 period, where my responsibility ends and his commences. 
 Man is a self-acting machine. He cannot cease to be a 
 machine; but, though self-acting, he may lose the powers
 
 UNMASKING OF RIPTON THOMPSON 109 
 
 of self-guidance, and in a wrong course his very vitalities 
 hurry him to perdition. Young, he is an organism ripen- 
 ing to the set mechanic diurnal round, and while so he 
 needs all the angels to hold watch over him that he grow 
 straight and healthy, and fit for what machinal duties he 
 may have to perform." . . . 
 
 Mr. Thompson agitated his eyebrows dreadfully. He was 
 utterly lost. He respected Sir Austin's estates too much 
 to believe for a moment he was listening to downright 
 folly. Yet how otherwise explain the fact of his excellent 
 client being incomprehensible to him? For a middle- 
 aged gentleman, and one who has been in the habit of 
 advising and managing, will rarely have a notion of ac- 
 cusing his understanding; and Mr. Thompson had not the 
 slightest notion of accusing his. But the baronet's con- 
 descension in coming thus to him, and speaking on the 
 subject nearest his heart, might well affect him, and he 
 quickly settled the case in favour of both parties, pro- 
 nouncing mentally that his honoured client had a mean- 
 ing, and so deep it was, so subtle, that no wonder he ex- 
 perienced difficulty in giving it fitly significant words. 
 
 Sir Austin elaborated his theory of the Organism and 
 the Mechanism, for his lawyer's edification. At a recur- 
 rence of the world "healthy" Mr. Thompson caught him 
 
 'T apprehended you! Oh, I agree with you, Sir Austin! 
 entirely! Allow me to ring for my son Ripton. I think, 
 if you condescend to examine him, you will say that 
 regular habits, and a diet of nothing but law-reading — 
 for other forms of literature I strictly interdict — have 
 made him all that you instance." 
 
 Mr. Thompson's hand was on the bell. Sir Austin ar- 
 rested him. 
 
 "Permit me to see the lad at his occupation," said he. 
 
 Our old friend Ripton sat in a room apart with the 
 confidential clerk, Mr. Beazley, a veteran of law, now 
 little better than a document, looking already signed and 
 sealed, and shortly to be delivered, who enjoined nothing 
 from his pupil and companion save absolute silence, and 
 sounded his praises to his father at the close of days when 
 it had been rigidly observed — not caring, or considering, 
 the finished dry old document that he was, under what
 
 110 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 kind of spell a turbulent commonplace youth could be 
 charmed into stillness for six hours of the day. Ripton 
 was supposed to be devoted to the study of Blackstone. 
 A tome of the classic legal commentator lay extended 
 
 outside his desk, under the partially lifted lid of which 
 nestled the assiduous student's head — law being thus 
 brought into direel contacl with his brainpan. The office- 
 door opened, and he heard not; his name was called, and 
 he remained equally moveless. His method of taking in 
 Blackstone seemed absorbing as it was novel. 
 
 "Comparing notes, I daresay," whispered Mr. Thompson 
 to Sir Austin. "I call that study!" 
 
 The confidential clerk rose, and bowed obsequious 
 senility. 
 
 "Is it like this every day, Beazley?" Mr. Thompson 
 asked with parental pride. 
 
 '•Ahem!" the old clerk replied, "he is like this every 
 day, sir. I could not ask more of a mouse." 
 
 Sir Austin stepped forward to the desk. His proximity 
 roused one of Ripton's senses, which blew a call to the 
 others. Down went the lid of the desk. Dismay, and the 
 ardours of study, flashed together in Ripton's face. He 
 slouched from his perch with the air of one who means 
 rather to defend his position than welcome a superior, 
 the right hand in his waistcoat pocket fumbling a key, 
 the left catching at his vacant stool. 
 
 Sir Austin put two fingers on the youth's shoulder, and 
 said, leaning his head a little on one side, in a w?ay 
 habitual to him, "I am glad to find my son's old comrade 
 thus profitably occupied. I know what study is myself. 
 But beware of prosecuting it too excitedly! Come! you 
 must not be offended at our interruption; you will soon 
 take up the thread again. Besides, you know, you must 
 get accustomed to the visits of your client." 
 
 So condescending and kindly did this speech sound to 
 Mr. Thompson, that, seeing Ripton still preserve his ap- 
 pearance of disorder and sneaking defiance, he thought 
 fit to nod and frown at the youth, and desired him to 
 inform the baronet what particular part of Blackstone he 
 was absorbed in mastering at that moment. 
 
 Ripton hesitated an instant, and blundered out, with 
 dubious articulation, "The Law of Gravelkind."
 
 UNMASKING OF EIPTON THOMPSON 111 
 
 "What Law?" said Sir Austin, perplexed. 
 
 "Gravelkind," again rumbled Kipton's voice. 
 
 Sir Austin turned to Mr. Thompson for an explanation. 
 The old lawyer was shaking his law-box. 
 
 "Singular!" he exclaimed. "He will make that mis- 
 take! What law, sir?" 
 
 Kipton read his error in the sternly painful expression 
 of his father's face, and corrected himself. "Gavelkind, 
 sir." 
 
 "Ah!" said Mr. Thompson, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "Gravelkind, indeed! Gavelkind! An old Kentish" 
 
 He was going to expound, but Sir Austin assured him he 
 knew it, and a very absurd law it was, adding, "I should 
 like to look at your son's notes, or remarks on the judi- 
 ciousness of that family arrangement, if he has any." 
 
 "You were making notes, or referring to them, as we 
 entered," said Mr. Thompson to the sucking lawyer; "a 
 very good plan, which I have always enjoined on you. 
 Were you not ?" 
 
 Ripton stammered that he was afraid he had not any 
 notes to show, worth seeing. 
 
 "What were you doing then, sir?" 
 
 "Making notes," muttered Ripton, looking incarnate 
 subterfuge. 
 
 "Exhibit!" 
 
 Ripton glanced at his desk and then at his father; at Sir 
 Austin, and at the confidential clerk. He took out his 
 key. It would not fit the hole. 
 
 "Exhibit!" was peremptorily called again. 
 
 In his praiseworthy efforts to accommodate the key- 
 hole, Ripton discovered that the desk was already un- 
 locked. Mr. Thompson marched to it, and held the lid 
 aloft. A book was lying open within, which Ripton im- 
 mediately hustled among a mass of papers and tossed 
 into a dark corner, not before the glimpse of a coloured 
 frontispiece was caught by Sir Austin's eye. 
 
 The baronet smiled, and said, "You study Heraldry, 
 too? Are you fond of the science?" 
 
 Ripton replied that he was very fond of it — extremely 
 attached, and threw a further pile of papers into the dark 
 corner. 
 
 The notes had been less conspicuously placed, and the
 
 in- THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Bearch for them waa tedious and vain. Papers, not legal, 
 or the fruits of study, were found, that made Mr. Thomp- 
 son more intimate with the condition of his son's ex- 
 chequer; nothing in the shape of a remark on the Law 
 of Gavelkind. 
 
 Mr. Thompson suggested to his son that they might be 
 among those scraps he had thrown carelessly into the dark 
 corner. Ripton, though he consented to inspect them, was 
 positive they were not there. 
 
 "What have we here?" said Mr. Thompson, seizing a 
 neatly folded paper addressed to the Editor of a law pub- 
 lication, as Ripton brought them forth, one by one. Forth- 
 with Mr. Thompson fixed his spectacles and read aloud : 
 
 "To the Editor of the 'Jurist.' 
 
 "Sir, — In your recent observations on the great case 
 of Crim" 
 
 Mr. Thompson hem'd ! and stopped short, like a man 
 who comes unexpectedly upon a s-nake in his path. Mr. 
 Beazley's feet shuffled. Sir Austin changed the position 
 of an arm. 
 
 "It's on the other side, I think," gasped Ripton. 
 
 Mr. Thompson confidently turned over, and intoned 
 with emphasis. 
 
 "To Absalom, the son of David, the little Jew usurer of 
 Bond Court, Whitecross Gutters, for his introduction to 
 Venus, I O U Five pounds, when I can pay. 
 
 "Signed: Ripton Thompson." 
 
 Underneath this fictitious legal instrument was dis- 
 creetly appended: 
 
 "(Mem. Document not binding.)'' 
 
 There was a pause: an awful under-breath of sanctified 
 wonderment and reproach passed round the office. Sir 
 Austin assumed an attitude. Mr. Thompson shed a 
 glance of severity on his confidential clerk, who parried 
 by throwing up his hands. 
 
 Ripton, now fairly bewildered, stuffed another paper
 
 UNMASKING OF EIPTON THOMPSON 113 
 
 under his father's nose, hoping the outside perhaps would 
 satisfy him: it was marked "Legal Considerations." Mr. 
 Thompson had no idea of sparing or shielding his son. 
 In fact, like many men whose self-love is wounded by 
 their offspring, he felt vindictive, and was ready to 
 sacrifice him up to a certain point, for the good of both. 
 He therefore opened the paper, expecting something worse 
 than what he had hitherto seen, despite its formal head- 
 ing, and he was not disappointed. 
 
 The "Legal Considerations" related to the Case regard- 
 ing which Ripton had conceived it imperative upon him to 
 address a letter to the Editor of the "Jurist," and was in- 
 deed a great case, and an ancient; revived apparently for 
 the special purpose of displaying the forensic abilities of 
 the Junior Counsel for the Plaintiff, Mr. Ripton Thomp- 
 son, whose assistance the Attorney-General, in his open- 
 ing statement, congratulated himself on securing, a rather 
 unusual thing, due probably to the eminence and renown 
 of that youthful gentleman at the Bar of his country. 
 So much was seen from the copy of a report purporting 
 to be extracted from a newspaper, and prefixed to the 
 Junior Counsel's remarks, or Legal Considerations, on 
 the conduct of the Case, the admissibility and non-ad- 
 missibility of certain evidence, and the ultimate decision 
 of the judges. 
 
 Mr. Thompson, senior, lifted the paper high, with the 
 spirit of one prepared to do execution on the criminal, and 
 in the voice of a town-crier, varied by a bitter accentua- 
 tion and satiric sing-song tone, deliberately read: 
 
 "Vulcan v. Mars. 
 
 "The Attorney-General, assisted by Mr. Ripton Thomp- 
 son, appeared on behalf of the Plaintiff. Mr. Serjeant 
 Cupid, Q.C., and Mr. Capital Opportunity, for the De- 
 fendant." 
 
 "Oh !" snapped Mr. Thompson, senior, peering venom at 
 the unfortunate Ripton over his spectacles, "your notes 
 are on that issue, sir! Thus you employ your time, sir!" 
 
 "With another side-shot at the confidential clerk, who 
 retired immediately behind a strong entrenchment of
 
 114 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 shrugs, Mr. Thompson was pushed by the devil of his 
 rancour to continue reading: 
 
 "This Case is too well known to require more than 
 a partial summary of particulars" . . . 
 
 "Ahem! we will skip the particulars, however partial.*' 
 said Mr. Thompson. "Ah! — what do you mean here, sir, 
 — but enough! I think we may be excused your Legal 
 Considerations on such a Case. This is how you employ 
 your law-studies, sir! You put them to this purpose? 
 Mr. Beazley! you will henceforward sit alone. I must have 
 this young man under my own eye. Sir Austin! permit 
 me to apologize to you for subjecting you to a scene so 
 disagreeable. It was a father's duty not to spare him." 
 
 Mr. Thompson wiped his forehead, as Brutus might 
 have done after passing judgment on the scion of his 
 house. 
 
 "These papers," he went on, fluttering Ripton's precious 
 lucubrations in a waving judicial hand. "I shall retain. 
 The day will come when he will regard them with shame. 
 And it shall be his penance, his punishment, to do so! 
 Stop !" he cried, as Ripton was noiselessly shutting his 
 desk, "have you more of them, sir; of a similar descrip- 
 tion? Rout them out! Let us know you at your worst. 
 What have you there — in that corner?" 
 
 Ripton was understood to say he devoted that corner 
 to old briefs on important cases. 
 
 Mr. Thompson thrust his trembling fingers among the 
 old briefs, and turned over the volume Sir Austin had 
 observed, but without much remarking it, for his sus- 
 picions had not risen to print. 
 
 "A Manual of Heraldry?" the baronet politely, and it 
 may be ironically, inquired, before it could well escape. 
 
 "I like it very much," said Ripton, clutching the book 
 in dreadful torment. 
 
 "Allow me to see that you have our arms and crest 
 correct." The baronet proffered a hand for the book. 
 
 "A Griffin between two Wheatsheaves," cried Ripton, 
 still clutching it nervously. 
 
 M r. Thompson, without any notion of what he was do- 
 ing, drew the book from Ripton's hold; whereupon the two
 
 GOOD WINE AND GOOD BLOOD 115 
 
 seniors laid their grey heads together over the title-page. 
 It set forth in attractive characters beside a coloured 
 frontispiece, which embodied the promise displayed there, 
 the entrancing adventures of Miss Random, a strange 
 young lady. 
 
 Had there been a Black Hole within the area of those 
 law regions to consign Ripton to there and then, or an 
 Iron Rod handy to mortify his sinful flesh, Mr. Thompson 
 would have used them. As it was, he contented himself 
 by looking Black Holes and Iron Rods at the detected 
 youth, who sat on his perch insensible to what might 
 happen next, collapsed. 
 
 Mr. Thompson cast the wicked creature down with a 
 "Pah !" He, however, took her up again, and strode away 
 with her. Sir Austin gave Ripton a forefinger, and kindly 
 touched his head, saying, "Good-bye, boy ! At some future 
 date Richard will be happy to see you at Raynham." 
 
 Undoubtedly this was a great triumph to the System! 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 GOOD WINE AND GOOD BLOOD 
 
 The conversation between solicitor and client was re- 
 sumed. 
 
 "Is it possible," quoth Mr. Thompson, the moment he 
 had ushered his client into his private room, "that you will 
 consent, Sir Austin, to see him and receive him again?" 
 
 "Certainly," the baronet replied. "Why not ? This by 
 no means astonishes me. When there is no longer danger 
 to my son he will be welcome as he was before. He is a 
 schoolboy. I knew it. I expected it. The results of your 
 principle, Thompson !" 
 
 "One of the very worst books of that abominable class !" 
 exclaimed the old lawyer, opening at the coloured frontis- 
 piece, from which brazen Miss Random smiled bewitch- 
 ingly out, as if she had no doubt of captivating Time and 
 all his veterans on a fair field. "Pah !" he shut her to 
 with the energy he would have given to the office of pub- 
 licly slapping her face; "from this day I diet him on bread
 
 L16 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 and water — rescind his pocket-money! — How he could 
 have got hold of such a book! How he — ! And what 
 ideas! Concealing them from me as he has done so 
 cunningly] He trifles with vice! His mind is in a putrid 
 state! I might have believed — I did believe — I might 
 have gone on believing — my son Ripton to be a moral 
 young man !" The old lawyer interjected on the delusion 
 of fathers, and sat down in a lamentable abstraction. 
 
 ''The lad has come out!" said Sir Austin. ''His adop- 
 tion' of the legal form is amusing. He trifles with vice, 
 true: people newly initiated are as hardy as its intimates, 
 and a young sinner's amusements will resemble those of a 
 confirmed debauchee. The satiated, and the insatiate, ap- 
 petite alike appeal to extremes. You are astonished at 
 this revelation of your son's condition. I expected it; 
 though assuredly, believe me, not this sudden and indis- 
 putable proof of it. But I knew that the seed was in 
 him, and therefore I have not latterly invited him to 
 Raynham. School, and the corruption there, will bear 
 its fruits sooner or later. I could advise you, Thompson, 
 what to do with him: it would be my plan." 
 
 Mr. Thompson murmured, like a true courtier, that he 
 should esteem it an honour to be favoured with Sir Austin 
 Eeverel's advice: secretly resolute, like a true Briton, to 
 follow his own. 
 
 "Let him, then," continued the baronet, "see vice in its 
 nakedness. While he has yet some innocence, nauseate 
 him! Vice, taken little by little, usurps gradually the 
 whole creature. My counsel to you, Thompson, would be, 
 to drag him through the sinks of town." 
 
 Mr. Thompson began to blink again. 
 
 "Oh, I shall punish him, Sir Austin! Do not fear me, 
 sir. I have no tenderness for vice." 
 
 "That is not what is wanted, Thompson. You mistake 
 me. He should be dealt with gently. Heavens! do you 
 hope to make him hate vice by making him a martyr for 
 its sake? You must descend from the pedestal of age to 
 become his Mentor: cause him to see how certainly and 
 pitilessly vice itself punishes: accompany him into its 
 haunts" 
 
 "Over town?" broke forth Mr. Thompson. 
 
 "Over town," said the baronet.
 
 GOOD WINE AND GOOD BLOOD 117 
 
 "And depend upon it," he added, "that, until fathers act 
 thoroughly up to their duty, we shall see the sights we see 
 in great cities, and hear the tales we hear in little villages, 
 with death and calamity in our homes, and a legacy of 
 sorrow and shame to the generations to come. I do aver," 
 he exclaimed, becoming excited, "that, if it were not for 
 the duty to my son, and the hope I cherish in him, I, see- 
 ing the accumulation of misery we are handing down to 
 an innocent posterity — to whom, through our sin, the fresh 
 breath of life will be foul — I — yes ! I would hide my 
 name! For whither are we tending? What home is pure 
 absolutely? What cannot our doctors and lawyers tell 
 us?" 
 
 Mr. Thompson acquiesced significantly. 
 
 "And what is to come of this?" Sir Austin continued. 
 "When the sins of the fathers are multiplied by the sons, 
 is not perdition the final sum of things ? And is not life, 
 the boon of heaven, growing to be the devil's game utterly ? 
 But for my son, I would hide my name. I would not be- 
 queath it to be cursed by them that walk above my grave !" 
 
 This was indeed a terrible view of existence. Mr. 
 ^Thompson felt uneasy. There was a dignity in his client, 
 an impressiveness in his speech, that silenced remonstrat- 
 ing reason and the cry of long years of comfortable 
 respectability. Mr. Thompson went to church regularly; 
 paid his rates and dues without overmuch, or at least 
 more than common, grumbling. On the surface he was 
 a good citizen, fond of his children, faithful to his wife, 
 devoutly marching to a fair seat in heaven on a path 
 paved by something better than a thousand a year. But 
 here was a man sighting him from below the surface, 
 and though it was an unfair, unaccustomed, not to say 
 un-English, method of regarding one's fellow-man, Mr. 
 Thompson was troubled by it. What though his client 
 exaggerated? Facts were at the bottom of what he said. 
 And he was acute — he had unmasked Ripton! Since Rip- 
 ton's exposure he winced at a personal application in the 
 text his client preached from. Possibly this was the secret 
 source of part of his anger against that peccant youth. 
 
 Mr. Thompson shook his head, and, with dolefully puck- 
 ered visage and a pitiable contraction of his shoulders, 
 rose slowly up from his chair. Apparently he was about
 
 lis THE ORDKAL i)K RICHARD 1 KVKKKL 
 
 to speak, but he straightway turned and went meditatively 
 to a ^de-recess in the room, whereof he opened a door, 
 drew forth a tray and a decanter labelled PORT, rilled a 
 glass for his client, deferentially invited him to partake 
 oi it; filled another glass for himself, and drank. 
 
 That was his reply. 
 
 Sir Austin never took wine before dinner. Thompson 
 had looked as if he meant to speak : he waited for Thomp- 
 son's words. 
 
 Mr. Thompson saw that, as his client did not join him 
 in his glass, the eloquence of that Porty reply was lost 
 on his client. 
 
 Having slowly ingurgitated and meditated upon this 
 precious draught, and turned its flavour over and over 
 with an aspect of potent Judicial wisdom (one might 
 have thought that he was weighing mankind in the bal- 
 ance), the old lawyer heaved, and said, sharpening his 
 lips over the admirable vintage, "The world is in a very 
 sad state, I fear, Sir Austin!" 
 
 His client gazed at him queerly. 
 
 ''But that," Mr. Thompson added immediately, ill-con- 
 cealing by his gaze the glowing intestinal congratulations, 
 going on within him, ''that is, I think you would say, Sir 
 Austin — if I could but prevail upon you — a tolerably 
 good character wine!" 
 
 "There's virtue somewhere, I see, Thompson!" Sir 
 Austin murmured, without disturbing his legal adviser's 
 dimples. 
 
 The old lawyer sat down to finish his glass, saying, that 
 such a wine was not to be had everywhere. 
 
 They were then outwardly silent for a space. Inwardly 
 one of them was full of riot and jubilant uproar: as if the 
 solemn fields of law were suddenly to be invaded and 
 possessed by troops of Bacchanals: and to preserve a 
 decently wretched physiognomy over it, and keep on terms 
 with his companion, he had to grimace like a melancholy 
 clown in a pantomime. 
 
 M r. Thompson brushed back his hair. The baronet was 
 still expectant. Mr. Thompson sighed deeply, and emptied 
 his glass. He combated the change that had come over 
 him. He tried not to see Ruby. lie tried to feel miser- 
 able, and it was not in him. He spoke, drawing what
 
 GOOD WINE AND GOOD BLOOD 119 
 
 appropriate inspirations he could from his client's coun- 
 tenance, to show that they had views in common: "De- 
 generating sadly, I fear!" 
 
 The baronet nodded. 
 
 "According to what my wine-merchants say," continued 
 Mr. Thompson, "there can be no doubt about it." 
 
 Sir Austin stared. 
 
 "It's the grape, or the ground, or something," Mr. 
 Thompson went on. "All I can say is, our youngsters 
 will have a bad look-out! In my opinion Government 
 should be compelled to send out a Commission to inquire 
 into the cause. To Englishmen it would be a public 
 calamity. It surprises me — I hear men sit and talk 
 despondently of this extraordinary disease of the vine, and 
 not one of them seems to think it incumbent on him to 
 act, and do his best to stop it." He fronted his client 
 like a man who accuses an enormous public delinquency. 
 "Nobody makes a stir! The apathy of Englishmen will 
 become proverbial. Pray, try it, Sir Austin! Pray, allow 
 me. Such a wine cannot disagree at any hour. Do ! I 
 am allowanced two glasses three hours before dinner. 
 Stomachic. I find it agree with me surprisingly: quite 
 a new man. I suppose it will last our time. It must ! 
 What should we do ? There's no Law possible without it. 
 Not a lawyer of us could live. Ours is an occupation 
 which dries the blood." 
 
 The scene with Ripton had unnerved him, the wine had 
 renovated, and gratitude to the wine inspired his tongue. 
 He thought that his client, of the whimsical mind, though 
 undoubtedly correct moral views, had need of a glass. 
 
 "Now that very wine — Sir Austin — I think I do not err 
 in saying, that very wine your respected father, Sir 
 Pylcher Feverel, used to taste whenever he came to con- 
 sult my father, when I was a boy. And I remember one 
 day being called in, and Sir Pylcher himself poured me 
 out a glass. I wish I could call in Ripton now, and do 
 the same. No ! Leniency in such a case as that ! — The 
 wine would not hurt him — I doubt if there be much left 
 for him to welcome his guests with. Ha! ha! Now if 
 I could persuade you, Sir Austin, as you do not take 
 wine before dinner, some day to favour me with your 
 company at my little country cottage — I have a wine there
 
 L20 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 — the fellow to thai — I think ymi would, I do think you 
 would" — -Mr. Thompson meant to say, he thought his 
 client would arrive at something of a similar jocund 
 contemplation of his follows in their degeneracy that in- 
 spirited lawyers alter potation, but condensed the sensual 
 promise into "highly approve.'' 
 
 Sir Austin speculated on his legal adviser with a sour 
 mouth comically compressed. 
 
 It stood clear to him that Thompson before his Port, 
 and Thompson after, were two (Liferent men. To in- 
 doctrinate him now was too late: it was perhaps the time 
 to make the positive use of him he wanted. 
 
 He pencilled on a handy slip of paper: ''Two prongs 
 of a fork; the World stuck between them — Port and the 
 Palate: 'Tis one which fails first — Down goes World;" 
 and again the hieroglyph — "Port-spectacles." He said, 
 "I shall gladly accompany you this evening, Thompson." 
 words that transfigured the delighted lawyer, and ensigned 
 the skeleton of a great Aphorism to his pocket, there to 
 gather flesh and form, with numberless others in a like 
 condition. 
 
 "I came to visit my lawyer," lie said to himself. "I 
 think I have been dealing with The World in epitome!" 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE SYSTEM ENCOUNTERS THE WILD OATS 
 SPECIAL PLEA 
 
 The rumour circulated that Sir Austin Feverel, the re- 
 cluse of Raynham. the rank misogynist, the rich baronet, 
 was in town, looking out a bride for his only son and 
 uncorrupted heir. Doctor Benjamin Bairam was the ex- 
 cellent authority. Doctor Bairam had safely delivered 
 .Mrs. Deborah Gossip of this interesting bantling, which 
 was forthwith dandled in dozens of feminine laps. Doctor 
 Bairam could boast the first interview with the famous 
 roe] use. He had it from his own lips that the object 
 of the baronet was to look out a bride for his only son 
 and uncorrupted heir; "and," added the doctor, "she'll
 
 THE WILD OATS PLEA 121 
 
 be lucky who gets him." Which was interpreted to mean, 
 that he would be a catch; the doctor probably intending 
 to allude to certain extraordinary difficulties in the way 
 of a choice. 
 
 A demand was made on the publisher of The Pilgrim's 
 Scrip for all his outstanding copies. Conventionalities 
 were defied. A summer-shower of cards fell on the 
 baronet's table. 
 
 He had few male friends. He shunned the Clubs as 
 nests of scandal. The cards he contemplated were mostly 
 those of the sex, with the husband, if there was a 
 husband, evidently dragged in for propriety's sake. He 
 perused the cards and smiled. He knew their purpose. 
 What terrible light Thompson and Bairam had thrown 
 on some of them! Heavens! in what a state was the 
 blood of this Empire. 
 
 Before commencing his campaign he called on two 
 ancient intimates, Lord Heddon, and his distant cousin 
 Darley Absworthy, both Members of Parliament, useful 
 men, though gouty, who had sown in their time a fine 
 crop of wild oats, and advocated the advantage of doing 
 so, seeing that they did not fancy themselves the worse 
 for it. He found one with an imbecile son and the other 
 with consumptive daughters. "So much," he wrote in 
 the Note-book, "for the Wild Oats theory!" 
 
 Darley was proud of his daughters' white and pink 
 skins. "Beautiful complexions," he called them. The 
 eldest was in the market, immensely admired. Sir Austin 
 was introduced to her. She talked fluently and sweetly. 
 A youth not on his guard, a simple school-boy youth, or 
 even a man, might have fallen in love with her, she was 
 so affable and fair. There was something poetic about 
 her. And she was quite well, she said, the baronet fre- 
 quently questioning her on that point. She intimated 
 that she was robust; but towards the close of their con- 
 versation her hand would now and then travel to her 
 side, and she breathed painfully an instant, saying, "Isn't 
 it odd? Dora, Adela, and myself, we all feel the same 
 queer sensation — about the heart, I think it is — after 
 talking much." 
 
 Sir Austin nodded and blinked sadly, exclaiming to his 
 soul, "Wild oats! wild oats!"
 
 122 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 lie did not ask permission to see Dora and Adela. 
 
 Lord Heddon vehemently preached wild oats. 
 
 "It's all nonsense, Feverel,'' he said, "about bringing up 
 a lad out of the common way. He's all the better for a 
 little racketing when he's green — feels his bone and muscle 
 — learns to knew the world. He'll never be a man if 
 he hasn't played at the old game one time in his life, 
 and the earlier the better. I've always found the best 
 fellows were wildish once. I don't care what he does 
 when he's a greenhorn; besides, he's got an excuse for it 
 then. You can't expect to have a man, if he doesn't take 
 a man's food. You'll have a milksop. And, depend upon 
 it, when he does break out he'll go to the devil, and 
 nobody pities him. Look what those fellows, the grocers, 
 do when they get hold of a young — what d'ye call 'em ? — 
 apprentice. They know the scoundrel was born with a 
 sweet tooth. Well! they give him the run of the shop, 
 and in a very short time he soberly deals out the goods, 
 a devilish deal too wise to abstract a morsel even for 
 the pleasure of stealing. I know you have contrary 
 theories. You hold that the young grocer should have a 
 soul above sugar. It won't do ! Take my word for it, 
 Feverel, it's a dangerous experiment, that of bringing up 
 flesh and blood in harness. No colt will bear it, or he's 
 a tame beast. And look you: take it on medical grounds. 
 Early excesses the frame will recover from : late ones 
 break the constitution. There's the case in a nutshell. 
 How's your son?" 
 
 "Sound and well!" replied Sir Austin. "And yours?" 
 
 "Oh, Lipscombe's always the same!" Lord Heddon 
 sighed peevishly. 'Tie's quiet — that's one good thing; 
 but there's no getting the country to take him, so I 
 must give up hopes of that." 
 
 Lord Lipscombe entering the room just then, Sir Austin 
 surveyed him, and was not astonished at the refusal of 
 the country to take him. 
 
 "Wild oats!" he thought, as he contemplated the head- 
 less, degenerate, weedy issue and result. 
 
 Both Darley Absworthy and Lord Heddon spoke of the 
 murriage of their offspring as a matter of course. "And 
 if I wore not a coward," Sir Austin confessed to himself, 
 "I should stand forth and forbid the banns! This uni-
 
 THE WILD OATS PLEA 123 
 
 versal ignorance of the inevitable consequence of sin is 
 frightful ! The wild oats plea is a torpedo that seems 
 to have struck the world, and rendered it morally insen- 
 sible." However, they silenced him. He was obliged to 
 spare their feelings on a subject to him so deeply sacred. 
 The healthful image of his noble boy rose before him, a 
 triumphant living rejoinder to any hostile argument. 
 
 He was content to remark to his doctor, that he thought 
 the third generation of wild oats would be a pretty thin 
 crop! 
 
 Families against whom neither Thompson lawyer nor 
 Bairam physician could recollect a progenitorial blot, 
 either on the male or female side, were not numerous. 
 "Only," said the doctor, "you really must not be too 
 exacting in these days, my dear Sir Austin. It is impos- 
 sible to contest your principle, and you are doing mankind 
 incalculable service in calling its attention to this the 
 gravest of its duties: but as the stream of civilization 
 progresses we must be a little taken in the lump, as it 
 were. The world is, I can assure you — and I do not 
 look only above the surface, you can believe — the world 
 is awakening to the vital importance of the question." 
 
 "Doctor," replied Sir Austin, "if you had a pure-blood 
 Arab barb would you cross him with a screw?" 
 
 "Decidedly not," said the doctor. 
 
 "Then permit me to say, I shall employ every care to 
 match my son according to his merits," Sir Austin re- 
 turned. "I trust the world is awakening, as you observe. 
 I have been to my publisher, since my arrival in town, 
 with a manuscript 'Proposal for a New System of Edu- 
 cation of our British Youth,' which may come in oppor- 
 tunely. I think I am entitled to speak on that subject." 
 
 "Certainly," said the doctor. "You will admit, Sir 
 Austin, that, compared with continental nations — our 
 neighbours, for instance — we shine to advantage, in 
 morals, as in everything else. I hope you admit that?" 
 
 "I find no consolation in shining by comparison with 
 a lower standard," said the baronet. "If I compare the 
 enlightenment of your views — for you admit my principle 
 — with the obstinate incredulity of a country doctor's, 
 who sees nothing of the world, you are hardly flattered, 
 I presume?"
 
 124 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Doctor Bairam would hardly be flattered at such a 
 comparison, assuredly, he interjected. 
 
 "Besides," added t ho baronet, "the French make no 
 pretences, and thereby escape one of the main penalties 
 of hypocrisy. Whereas we! — but I am not their advo- 
 cate, credit me. It is better, perhaps, to pay our homage to 
 virtue. At least it delays the spread of entire corruptness." 
 
 Doctor Bairam wished the baronet success, and dili- 
 gently endeavoured to assist his search for a mate worthy 
 of the pure-blood barb, by putting several mamas, whom 
 he visited, on the alert. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 A DIVERSION PLAYED ON A PENNY- WHISTLE 
 
 Away with Systems! Away with a corrupt World! Let 
 us breathe the air of the Enchanted Island. 
 
 Golden lie the meadows: golden run the streams; red 
 gold is on the pine-stems. The sun is coming down to 
 earth, and walks the fields and the waters. 
 
 The sun is coming down to earth, and the fields and the 
 waters shout to him golden shouts. He comes, and his 
 heralds run before him, and touch the leaves of oaks and 
 planes and beeches lucid green, and the pine-stems redder 
 gold; leaving brightest footprints upon thickly-weeded 
 banks, where the foxglove's last upper-bells incline, and 
 bramble-shoots wander amid moist rich herbage. The 
 plumes of the woodland are alight; and beyond them, over 
 the open, 'tis a race with the long-thrown shadows; a race 
 across the heaths and up the hills, till, at the farthest 
 bourne of mounted eastern cloud, the heralds of the sun 
 lay rosy fingers and rest. 
 
 Sweet are the shy recesses of the woodland. The ray 
 treads softly there. A film athwart the pathway quivers 
 many-hued against purple shade fragrant with warm 
 pines, deep moss-beds, feathery ferns. The little brown 
 squirrel drops tail, and leaps; the inmost bird is startled 
 to a chance tuneless note. From silence into silence things 
 move.
 
 A DIVERSION OX A PENNY- WHISTLE 125 
 
 Peeps of the revelling splendour above and around 
 enliven the conscious full heart within. The flaming 
 West, the crimson heights, shower their glories through 
 voluminous leafage. But these are bowers where deep 
 bliss dwells, imperial joy, that owes no fealty to yonder 
 glories, in which the young lamb gambols and the spirits 
 of men are glad. Descend, great Radiance! embrace 
 creation with beneficent fire, and pass from us! You and 
 the vice-regal light that succeeds to you, and all heavenly 
 pageants, are the ministers and the slaves of the throbbing 
 content within. 
 
 For this is the home of the enchantment. Here, se- 
 cluded from vexed shores, the prince and princess of the 
 island meet: here like darkling nightingales they sit, and 
 into eyes and ears and hands pour endless ever-fresh 
 treasures of their souls. 
 
 Roll on, grinding wheels of the world: cries of ships 
 going down in a calm, groans of a System which will not 
 know its rightful hour of exultation, complain to the 
 universe. You are not heard here. 
 
 He calls her by her name, Lucy: and she, blushing at 
 her great boldness, has called him by his, Richard. Those 
 two names are the key-notes of the wonderful harmonies 
 the angels sing aloft. 
 
 "Lucy! my beloved!" 
 
 "O Richard!" 
 
 Out in the world there, on the skirts of the wood- 
 land, a sheep-boy pipes to meditative eye on a penny- 
 whistle. 
 
 Love's musical instrument is as old, and as poor: it has 
 but two stops; and yet, you see, the cunning musician does 
 thus much with it! 
 
 Other speech they have little; light foam playing upon 
 waves of feeling, and of feeling compact, that bursts only 
 when the sweeping volume is too wild, and is no more 
 than their sigh of tenderness spoken. 
 
 Perhaps love played his tune so well because their 
 natures had unblunted edges, and were keen for bliss, 
 confiding in it as natural food. To gentlemen and ladies 
 he fine-draws upon the viol, ravishingly; or blows into 
 the mellow bassoon; or rouses the heroic ardours of the 
 trumpet; or, it may be, commands the whole Orchestra
 
 126 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 for them. And they are pleased. He is still the cunning 
 musician. They languish, and taste ecstasy: but it is, 
 however sonorous, an earthly concert. For them the 
 spheres move not to two notes. They have lost, or for- 
 feited and never known, the first supersensual spring of 
 the ripe senses into passion; when they carry the soul 
 with them, and have the privileges of spirits to walk dis- 
 embodied, boundlessly to feel. Or one has it, and the 
 other is a dead body. Ambrosia let them eat, and drink 
 the nectar: here sit a couple to whom Love's simple bread 
 and water is a finer feast. 
 
 Pipe, happy sheep-boy, Love! Irradiated angels, unfold 
 your wings and lift your voices! 
 
 They have outflown philosophy. Their instinct has shot 
 beyond the ken of science. They were made for their 
 Eden. 
 
 "And this divine gift was in store for me!" 
 
 So runs the internal outcry of each, clasping each: it 
 is their recurring refrain to the harmonies. How it 
 illumined the years gone by and suffused the living 
 Future ! 
 
 "You for me: I for you!" 
 
 "We are born for each other!" 
 
 They believe that the angels have been busy about them 
 from their cradles. The celestial hosts have worthily 
 striven to bring them together. And, O Victory! O 
 wonder! after toil and pain, and difficulties exceeding, the 
 celestial hosts have succeeded! 
 
 "Here we two sit who are written above as one!" 
 
 Pipe, happy Love! pipe on to these dear innocents! 
 
 The tide of colour has ebbed from the upper sky. In 
 the West the sea of sunken fire draws back; and the 
 stars leap forth, and tremble, and retire before the ad- 
 vancing moon, who slips the silver train of cloud from her 
 shoulders, and, with her foot upon the pine-tops, surveys 
 heaven. 
 
 "Lucy, did you never dream of meeting me?" 
 
 "O Richard ! yes ; for I remembered you." 
 
 "Lucv! and did you pray that we might meet?" 
 
 "I did!" 
 
 Young as when she looked upon the lovers in Paradise, 
 the fair Immortal journeys onward. Fronting her, it is
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 127 
 
 not night but veiled day. Full half the sky is flushed. 
 Not darkness, not day, but the nuptials of the two. 
 
 "My own! my own for ever! You are pledged to me? 
 Whisper!" 
 
 He hears the delicious music. 
 
 "And you are mine?" 
 
 A soft beam travels to the fern-covert under the pine- 
 wood where they sit, and for answer he has her eyes: 
 turned to him an instant, timidly fluttering over the 
 depths of his, and then downcast; for through her eyes 
 her soul is naked to him. 
 
 "Lucy! my bride! my life!" 
 
 The night-jar spins his dark monotony on the branch of 
 the pine. The soft beam travels round them, and listens 
 to their hearts. Their lips are locked. 
 
 Pipe no more, Love, for a time! Pipe as you will you 
 cannot express their first kiss; nothing of its sweetness, 
 and of the sacredness of it nothing. St. Cecilia up aloft, 
 before the silver organ-pipes of Paradise, pressing fingers 
 upon all the notes of which Love is but one, from her 
 you may hear it. 
 
 So Love is silent. Out in the world there, on the skirts 
 of the woodland, the self-satisfied sheep-boy delivers a 
 last complacent squint down the length of his penny- 
 whistle, and, with a flourish correspondingly awry, he also 
 marches into silence, hailed by supper. The woods are 
 still. There is heard but the night-jar spinning on the 
 pine-branch, circled by moonlight. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 CELEBRATES THE TIME-HONOURED TREATMENT OF 
 A DRAGON BY THE HERO 
 
 Enchanted Islands have not yet rooted out their old 
 brood of dragons. Wherever there is romance, these mon- 
 sters come by inimical attraction. Because the heavens 
 are certainly propitious to true lovers, the beasts of the 
 abysses are banded to destroy them, stimulated by innu-
 
 L28 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 merable sad victories; and every love-tale is an Epic War 
 of the upper and lower powers. I wish pood fairies were 
 a little more active. They seem to he cajoled into security 
 by the happiness of their favourites; whereas the wicked 
 are always alert, and circumspect. They let the little ones 
 shut their eyes to fancy they are not seen, and then com- 
 mence. 
 
 These appointments and meetings, involving a start 
 from the dinner-table at the hour of contemplative di- 
 gestion and prime claret; the hour when the wise youth 
 Adrian delighted to talk at his ease — to recline in dreamy 
 consciousness that a work of good was going on inside 
 him; these abstractions from his studies, excesses of 
 gaiety, and glumness, heavings of the chest, and other odd 
 signs, but mainly the disgusting behaviour of his pupil 
 at the dinner-table, taught Adrian to understand, though 
 the young gentleman was clever in excuses, that he had 
 somehow learnt there was another half to the divided 
 Apple of Creation, and had embarked upon the great 
 voyage of discovery of the difference between the two 
 halves. With his usual coolness Adrian debated whether 
 he might be in the observatory or the practical stage of 
 the voyage. For himself, as a man and a philosopher, 
 Adrian had no objection to its being either; and he had 
 only to consider which was temporarily most threatening 
 to the ridiculous System he had to support. Richard's 
 absence annoyed him. The youth was vivacious, and his 
 enthusiasm good fun; and besides, when he left table, 
 Adrian had to sit alone with Hippias and the Eighteenth 
 Century, from both of wdiom he had extract ed all the 
 amusement that could be got, and he saw his digestion 
 menaced by the society of two ruined stomachs, who bored 
 him just when he loved himself most. Poor Hippias was 
 now so reduced that he had profoundly to calculate 
 whether a particular dish, or an extra glass of wine, would 
 have a bitter effect on him and be felt through the re- 
 mainder of his years. He was in the habit of uttering 
 his calculations half aloud, wherein the prophetic doubts 
 of experience, and the succulent insinuations of appetite, 
 contended hotly. It was horrible to hear him, so let us 
 pardon Adrian for tempting him to a decision in favour 
 of the moment.
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 129 
 
 "Happy to take wine with you," Adrian would say, and 
 Hippias would regard the decanter with a pained forehead, 
 and put up the doctor. 
 
 "Drink, nephew Hippy, and think of the doctor to- 
 morrow!" the Eighteenth Century cheerily ruffles her cap 
 at him, and recommends her own practice. 
 
 "It's this literary work!" interjects Hippias, handling 
 his glass of remorse. "I don't know what else it can be. 
 You have no idea how anxious I feel. I have frightful 
 dreams. I'm perpetually anxious." 
 
 "No wonder," says Adrian, who enjoys the childish 
 simplicity to which an absorbed study of his sensational 
 existence has brought poor Hippias. "No wonder. Ten 
 years of Fairy Mythology! Could any one hope to sleep 
 in peace after that? As to your digestion, no one has a 
 digestion who is in the doctor's hands. They prescribe 
 from dogmas, and don't count on the system. They have 
 cut down from two bottles to two glasses. It's absurd. 
 You can't sleep, because your system is crying out for 
 what it's accustomed to." 
 
 Hippias sips his Madeira with a niggardly confidence, 
 but assures Adrian that he really should not like to 
 venture on a bottle now: it would be rank madness to 
 venture on a bottle now, he thinks. Last night only, after 
 partaking, under protest, of that rich French dish, or 
 was it the duck ? — Adrian advised him to throw the blame 
 on that vulgar bird. — Say the duck, then. Last night, he 
 was no sooner stretched in bed, than he seemed to be of 
 an enormous size: all his limbs — his nose, his mouth, his 
 toes — were elephantine! An elephant was a pigmy to 
 him. And his hugeousness seemed to increase the instant 
 he shut his eyes. He turned on this side; he turned on 
 that. He lay on his back ; he tried putting his face to the 
 pillow ; and he continued to swell. He wondered the room 
 could hold him — he thought he must burst it — and abso- 
 lutely lit a candle, and went to the looking-glass to see 
 whether he was bearable. 
 
 By this time Adrian and Richard were laughing uncon- 
 trollably. He had, however, a genial auditor in the Eigh- 
 teenth Century, who declared it to be a new disease, not 
 known in her day, and deserving investigation. She was 
 happy to compare sensations with him, but hers were not
 
 130 THE ORDEAL OF RICH AIM) FEVER EL 
 
 of the complex order, and a potion soon righted her. In 
 fact, her By8tem appeared to be a debatable ground for 
 aliment and medicine, on which the battle was fought, 
 and, when over, she was none the worse, as she joyfully 
 told Hippias. Never looked ploughman on prince, or 
 village belle mi Court Beauty, with half the envy poor 
 Nineteenth-century Hippias expended in his gaze on the 
 Kitrhteenth. He was too serious to note much the laughter 
 of the young men. 
 
 This "Tragedy of a Cooking-Apparatus," as Adrian des- 
 ignated the malady of Hippias, was repeated regularly 
 every evening. It was natural for any youth to escape as 
 quick as he could from such a table of stomachs. 
 
 Adrian bore with his conduct considerately, until a 
 letter from the baronet, describing the house and maternal 
 System of a Mrs. Caroline Grandison, and the rough 
 grain of hopefulness in her youngest daughter, spurred 
 him to think of his duties, and see what was going on. lie 
 gave Richard half-an-hour's start, and then put on his 
 hat to follow his own keen scent, leaving Hippias and the 
 Eighteenth Century to piquet. 
 
 In the lane near Belthorpe he met a maid of the farm 
 not unknown to him, one Molly Davenport by name, a 
 buxom lass, who, on seeing him, invoked her Good Gra- 
 cious, the generic maid's familiar, and was instructed by 
 reminiscences vivid, if ancient, to giggle. 
 
 "Are you looking for your young gentleman \ n Molly 
 presently asked. 
 
 Adrian glanced about the lane like a cool brigand, to 
 see if the coast was clear, and replied to her, "I am, miss. 
 I want you to tell me about him." 
 
 '"Dear!" said the buxom lass, "was you coming for me 
 to-night to know?" 
 
 Adrian rebuked her: for her bad grammar, apparently. 
 
 "'Cause I can't stop out long to-night," Molly ex- 
 plained, taking the rebuke to refer altogether to her bad 
 grammar. 
 
 "You may go in when you please, miss. Is that any 
 one coming? Come here in the shade." 
 
 "Now, get along!" said Miss Molly. 
 
 Adrian spoke with resolution. "Listen to me, Molly 
 Davenport!" He put a coin in her hand, which had a
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 131 
 
 medical effect in calming her to attention. "I want to 
 know whether you have seen him at all?" 
 
 "Who? Your young gentleman? I sh'd think I did. 
 I seen him to-night only. Ain't he growed handsome. 
 He's al'ays about Beltharp now. It ain't to fire no more 
 ricks. He's afire 'unself. Ain't you seen 'em together? 
 He's after the missis" 
 
 Adrian requested Miss Davenport to be respectful, and 
 confine herself to particulars. This buxom lass then told 
 him that her young missis and Adrian's young gentleman 
 were a pretty couple, and met one another every night. 
 The girl swore for their innocence. 
 
 "As for Miss Lucy, she haven't a bit of art in her, nor 
 have he." 
 
 "They're all nature, I suppose," said Adrian. "How 
 is it I don't see her at church ?" 
 
 "She's Catholic, or somethink," said Molly. "Her 
 feyther was, and a leftenant. She've a Cross in her bed- 
 room. She don't go to church. I see you there last 
 Sunday a-lookin' so solemn," and Molly stroked her hand 
 down her chin to give it length. 
 
 Adrian insisted on her keeping to facts. It was dark, 
 and in the dark he was indifferent to the striking con- 
 trasts suggested by the lass, but he wanted to hear facts, 
 and he again bribed her ,to impart nothing but facts. 
 Upon which she told him further, that her young lady 
 was an innocent artless creature who had been to school 
 upwards of three years with the nuns, and had a little 
 money of her own, and was beautiful enough to be a lord's 
 lady, and had been in love with Master Richard ever since 
 she was a little girl. Molly had got from a friend of hers 
 up at the Abbey, Mary Garner, the housemaid who 
 cleaned Master Richard's room, a bit of paper once with 
 the young gentleman's handwriting, and had given it to 
 her Miss Lucy, and Miss Lucy had given her a gold 
 sovereign for it — just for his handwriting! Miss Lucy 
 did not seem happy at the farm, because of that young 
 Tom, who was always leering at her, and to be sure she 
 was quite a lady, and could play, and sing, and dress with 
 the best. 
 
 "She looks like angels in her nightgown !" Molly wound 
 up.
 
 132 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FKVEREL 
 
 The next moment she ran up elose, and speaking for the 
 first time as if there were a distinction of position hetween 
 them, petitioned: ".Mr. Harley ! you won't go for doin' 
 any harm to 'em 'cause of what I said, will you now I 
 Do say you won't now, Mr. Harley! She is good, though 
 she's a Catholic. She was kind to me when I was ill. and 
 I wouldn't have her crossed — I'd rather be showed up my- 
 self, I would!" 
 
 The wise youth gave no positive promise to Molly, and 
 she had to read his consent in a relaxation of his austerity. 
 The noise of a lumbering foot plodding down the lane 
 caused her to be abruptly dismissed. Molly took to flight, 
 the lumbering foot accelerated its pace, and the pastoral 
 appeal to her flying skirts was heard — "Moll! yau theyre! 
 It be I — Bantam!" Rut the sprightly Silvia would not 
 stop to his wooing, and Adrian turned away laughing at 
 these Arcadians. 
 
 Adrian was a lazy dragon. All he did for the present 
 was to hint and tease. "It's the Inevitable!" he said, and 
 asked himself why he should seek to arrest it. He had no 
 faith in the System. Heavy Benson had. Benson of the 
 slow thick-lidded antediluvian eye and loose-crumpled 
 skin; Benson, the Saurian, the woman-hater; Benson was 
 wide awake. A sort of rivalry existed between the wise 
 youth and heavy Benson. The fidelity of the latter de- 
 pendant had moved the baronet to commit to him a portion 
 of the management of the Raynham estate, and this 
 Adrian did not like. No one who aspires to the hon- 
 ourable office of leading another by the nose can tolerate 
 a party in his ambition. Renson's surly instinct told him 
 he was in the wise youth's way, and he resolved to give 
 his master a striking proof of his superior faithfulness. 
 For some weeks the Saurian eye had been on the two 
 secret creatures. Heavy Renson saw letters come and 
 go in the day, and now the young gentleman was off and 
 out every night, and seemed to be on wings. Renson 
 knew whither he went, and the object he went for. It 
 was a woman — that was enough. The Saurian eye had 
 actually seen the sinful thing lure the hope of Raynham 
 into the shades. He composed several epistles of warning 
 to the baronet of the work that was going on ; but before 
 sending one he wished to record a little of their guilty
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 133 
 
 conversation; and for this purpose the faithful fellow 
 trotted over the dews to eavesdrop, and thereby aroused 
 the good fairy, in the person of Tom Bakewell, the sole 
 confidant of Richard's state. 
 
 Tom said to his young master, "Do you know what, 
 sir? You be watched!" 
 
 Richard, in a fury, bade him name the wretch, and Tom 
 hung his arms, and aped the respectable protrusion of the 
 hut If t s hpfifi 
 
 "It's he, is' it?" cried Richard. "He shall rue it, Tom. 
 If I find him near me when we're together he shall never 
 forget it." 
 
 "Don't hit too hard, sir," Tom suggested. "You hit 
 mortal hard when you're in earnest, you know." 
 
 Richard averred he would forgive anything but that, 
 and told Tom to be within hail to-morrow night — he 
 knew where. By the hour of the appointment it was out 
 of the lover's mind. 
 
 Lady Blandish dined that evening at Raynham, by 
 Adrian's pointed invitation. According to custom, Rich- 
 ard started up and off, with few excuses. The lady ex- 
 hibited no surprise. She and Adrian likewise strolled 
 forth to enjoy the air of the Summer night. They had 
 no intention of spying. Still they may have thought, by 
 meeting Richard and his inamorata, there was a chance 
 of laying a foundation of ridicule to sap the passion. 
 They may have thought so — they were on no spoken un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 "I have seen the little girl," said Lady Blandish. "She 
 is pretty — she would be telling if she were well set up. 
 She speaks well. How absurd it is of that class to educate 
 their women above their station ! The child is really too 
 good for a farmer. I noticed her before I knew of this; 
 she has enviable hair. I suppose she doesn't paint her 
 eyelids. Just the sort of person to take a young man. I 
 thought there was something wrong. I received, the day 
 before yesterday, an impassioned poem evidently not in- 
 tended for me. My hair was gold. My meeting him was 
 foretold. My eyes were homes of light fringed with 
 night. I sent it back, correcting the colours." 
 
 "Which was death to the rhymes," said Adrian. "I saw 
 her this morning. The boy hasn't bad taste. As you say,
 
 134 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 she is too good for a farmer. Such a spark would explode 
 any System. She slightly affected mine. The Huron is 
 stark mad about her." 
 
 "But we must positively write and tell his father," said 
 Lady Blandish. 
 
 The wise youth did not see why they should exaggerate 
 a trine. The lady said she would have an interview with 
 Richard, and then write, as it was her duty to do. Adrian 
 shrugged, and was for going into the scientific explanation 
 of Richard's conduct, in which the lady had to discourage 
 him. 
 
 "Poor boy!" she sighed. "I am really sorry for him. I 
 hope he will not feel it too strongly. They feel strongly, 
 father and son." 
 
 "And select wisely," Adrian added. 
 
 "That's another thing," said Lady Blandish. 
 
 Their talk was then of the dulness of neighbouring 
 county people, about whom, it seemed, there was little or 
 no scandal afloat : of the lady's loss of the season in town, 
 which she professed not to regret, though she complained 
 of her general weariness: of whether Mr. Morton of Poer 
 Hall would propose to Mrs. Doria, and of the probable 
 despair of the hapless curate of Lobourne; and other 
 gossip, partly in French. 
 
 They rounded the lake, and got upon the road through 
 the park to Lobourne. The moon had risen. The atmos- 
 phere was warm and pleasant. 
 
 "Quite a lover's night," said Lady Blandish. 
 
 "And I, who have none to love — pity me!" The wise 
 youth attempted a sigh. 
 
 "And never will have," said Lady Blandish, curtly. 
 "You buy your loves." 
 
 Adrian protested. However, he did not plead verbally 
 against the impeachment, though the lady's decisive in- 
 sight astonished him. He began to respect her, relishing 
 her exquisite contempt, and he reflected that widows could 
 be terrible creatures. 
 
 He had hoped to be a little sentimental with Lady 
 Blandish, knowing her romantic. This mixture of the 
 harshest common sense and an air of "/ know you men," 
 with romance and reflncd temperament, subdued the wise 
 youth more than a positive accusation supported by wit- 
 nesses would have done. He looked at the lady. Her face
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 135 
 
 was raised to the moon. She knew nothing — she had 
 simply spoken from the fulness of her human knowledge, 
 and had forgotten her words. Perhaps, after all, her 
 admiration, or whatever feeling it was, for the baronet, 
 was sincere, and really the longing for a virtuous man. 
 Perhaps she had tried the opposite set pretty much. 
 Adrian shrugged. Whenever the wise youth encountered 
 a mental difficulty he instinctively lifted his shoulders to 
 equal altitudes, to show that he had no doubt there was a 
 balance in the case — plenty to be said on both sides, which 
 was the same to him as a definite solution. 
 
 At their tryst in the wood, abutting on Raynham Park, 
 wrapped in themselves, piped to by tireless Love, Richard 
 and Lucy sat, toying with eternal moments. How they 
 seem as if they would never end ! What mere sparks they 
 are when they have died out ! And how in the distance 
 of time they revive, and extend, and glow, and make us 
 think them full the half, and the best of the fire, of our 
 lives ! 
 
 With the onward flow of intimacy, the two happy lovers 
 ceased to be so shy of common themes, and their speech 
 did not reject all as dross that was not pure gold of emo- 
 tion. 
 
 Lucy was very inquisitive about everything and every- 
 body at Raynham. Whoever had been about Richard since 
 his birth, she must know the history of, and he for a kiss 
 will do her bidding. 
 
 Thus goes the tender duet: 
 
 "You should know my cousin Austin, Lucy. — Darling I 
 Beloved !" 
 
 "My own! Richard!" 
 
 "You should know my cousin Austin. You shall know 
 him. He would take to you best of them all, and you to 
 him. He is in the tropics now, looking out a place — it's 
 a secret — for poor English working-men to emigrate to 
 and found a colony in that part of the world: — my white 
 angel !" 
 
 "Dear love!" 
 
 "He is such a noble fellow! Nobody here understands 
 him but me. Isn't it strange? Since I met you I love 
 him better! That's because I love all that's good and 
 noble better now — Beautiful! I love — I love you!" 
 
 "My Richard!"
 
 136 THE OKDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "What do you think I've determined, Luey? If my 
 
 father hut no! my father does love me. — No! lie will 
 
 not; and we will he happy together here. And I will win 
 my way with you. And whatever I win will be yours; 
 for it will be owing to you. I feel as if I had no strength 
 but yours — none! and you make me — O Lucy!" 
 
 II is voice ebbs. Presently Lucy murmurs — ■ 
 
 "Your father, Richard." 
 
 "Yes, my father?" 
 
 "Dearest Richard! I feel so afraid of him." 
 
 "He loves me, and will love you, Lucy." 
 
 "But I am so poor and humble, Richard." 
 
 "No one I have ever seen is like you, Lucy." 
 
 "You think so, because you" 
 
 "What ?" 
 
 "Love me," comes the blushing whisper, and the duet 
 gives place to dumb variations, performed equally in con- 
 cert. 
 
 It is resumed. 
 
 "You are fond of the knights, Lucy. Austin is as brave 
 as any of them. — My own bride! Oh, how I adore you! 
 When you are gone, I could fall upon the grass you tread 
 upon, and kiss it. My breast feels empty of my heart — 
 Luey! if we lived in those days, I should have been a 
 knight, and have won honour and glory for you. Oh! 
 one can do nothing now. My lady-love! My lady-love! — 
 A tear? — Lucy?" 
 
 "Dearest! Ah, Richard! I am not a lady." 
 
 "Who dares say that? Not a lady — the angel I love!" 
 
 "Think, Richard, who I am." 
 
 "My beautiful ! I think that God made you, and has 
 given you to me." 
 
 Her eyes fill with tears, and, as she lifts them heaven- 
 ward to thank her God, the light of heaven strikes en 
 them, and she is so radiant in her pure beauty that the 
 limbs of the young man tremble. 
 
 "Lucy! O heavenly spirit! Lucy!" 
 
 Tenderly her lips part — "I do not weep for sorrow." 
 
 The big bright drops lighten, and roll down, imaged in 
 his soul. 
 
 They lean together — shadows of ineffable tenderness 
 playing on their thrilled cheeks and brows.
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 137 
 
 He lifts her hand, and presses his mouth to it. She has 
 seen little of mankind, but her soul tells her this one is 
 different from others, and at the thought, in her great 
 joy, tears must come fast, or her heart will break — tears 
 of boundless thanksgiving. And he, gazing on those soft, 
 ray-illumined, dark-edged eyes, and the grace of her loose 
 falling tresses, feels a scarce-sufferable holy fire streaming 
 through his members. 
 
 It is long ere they speak in open tones. 
 
 "0 happy day when we met!" 
 
 What says the voice of one, the soul of the other echoes. 
 
 "O glorious heaven looking down on us !" 
 
 Their souls are joined, are made one for evermore be- 
 neath that bending benediction. 
 
 "O eternity of bliss!" 
 
 Then the diviner mood passes, and they drop to earth. 
 
 "Lucy! come with me to-night, and look at the place 
 where you are some day to live. Come, and I will row 
 you on the lake. You remember what you said in your 
 letter that you dreamt? — that we were floating over the 
 shadow of the Abbey to the nuns at work by torchlight 
 felling the cypress, and they handed us each a sprig. Why, 
 darling, it was the best omen in the world, their felling 
 the old trees. And you write such lovely letters. So pure 
 and sweet they are. I love the nuns for having taught 
 you." 
 
 "Ah, Richard! See! we forget! Ah!" she lifts up her 
 face pleadingly, as to plead against herself, "even if your 
 father forgives my birth, he will not my religion. And, 
 dearest, though I would die for you I cannot change it. It 
 would seem that I was denying God; and — oh! it would 
 make me ashamed of my love." 
 
 "Fear nothing!" He winds her about with his arm. 
 "Come ! He will love us both, and love you the more for 
 being faithful to your father's creed. You don't know 
 him, Lucy. He seems harsh and stern — he is full of 
 kindness and love. He isn't at all a bigot. And besides, 
 when he hears what the nuns have done for you, won't 
 he thank them, as I do ? And — oh ! I must speak to him 
 soon, and you must be prepared to see him soon, for I 
 cannot bear your remaining at Belthorpe, like a jewel in 
 a sty. Mind ! I'm not saying a word against your uncle.
 
 138 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 I declare I love everybody and everything that sees you 
 and touches you. Stay! it is a wonder how you could 
 have grown there. But you were not born there, and 
 your father had good blood. Dcsbo rough! — there was a 
 Colonel Desborough — never mind! Come!" 
 
 She dreads to. She begs not to. She is drawn away. 
 
 The woods are silent, and then — 
 
 ''What think you of that for a pretty pastoral?" says a 
 very ditferent voice. 
 
 Adrian reclined against a pine overlooking the fern- 
 covert. Lady Blandish was recumbent upon the brown 
 pine-droppings, gazing through a vista of the lower green- 
 wood which opened out upon the moon-lighted valley, her 
 hands clasped round one knee, her features almost stern 
 in their set hard expression. 
 
 They had heard, by involuntarily overhearing about as 
 much as may be heard in such positions, a luminous word 
 or two. 
 
 The lady did not answer. A movement among the ferns 
 attracted Adrian, and he stepped down the decline across 
 the pine-roots to behold heavy Benson below, shaking fern- 
 seed and spidery substances off his crumpled skin. 
 
 "Is that you, Mr. Hadrian ?" called Benson, starting, 
 as he puffed, and exercised his handkerchief. 
 
 "Is it you, Benson, who have had the audacity to spy 
 upon these Mysteries?" Adrian called back, and coming 
 close to him, added, "You look as if you had just been 
 well thrashed." 
 
 "Isn't it dreadful, sir?" snuffled Benson. "And his 
 father in ignorance, Mr. Hadrian !" 
 
 "He shall know, Benson ! He shall know how you have 
 endangered your valuable skin in his service. If Mr. Rich- 
 ard had found you there just now I wouldn't answer for 
 the consequences." 
 
 "Ha!" Benson spitefully retorted. "This won't go on, 
 Mr. Hadrian. It shan't, sir. It will be put a stop to 
 to-morrow, sir. I call it corruption of a young gentleman 
 like him, and harlotry, sir, I call it. I'd have every jade 
 flogged that made a young innocent gentleman go on 
 like that, sir." 
 
 "Then why didn't you stop it yourself, Benson? Ah, I 
 see! you waited — what? Tbis is not the first time you
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 139 
 
 have been attendant on Apollo and Miss Dryope? You 
 have written to headquarters?" 
 
 'T did my duty, Mr. Hadrian." 
 
 The wise youth returned to Lady Blandish, and in- 
 formed her of Benson's zeal. The lady's eyes flashed. 
 "I hope Richard will treat him as he deserves," she said. 
 
 "Shall we home?" Adrian inquired. 
 
 "Do me a favour," the lady replied. "Get my carriage 
 sent round to meet me at the park-gates." 
 
 "Won't you?"— 
 
 "I want to be alone." 
 
 Adrian bowed and left her. She was still sitting with 
 her hands clasped round one knee, gazing towards the dim 
 ray-strewn valley. 
 
 "An odd creature!" muttered the wise youth. "She's 
 as odd as any of them. She ought to be a Feverel. I 
 suppose she's graduating for it. Hang that confounded 
 old ass of a Benson ! He has had the impudence to steal 
 a march on me!" 
 
 The shadow of the cypress was lessening on the lake. 
 The moon was climbing high. As Richard rowed the boat, 
 Lucy sang to him softly. She sang first a fresh little 
 French song, reminding him of a day when she had been 
 asked to sing to him before, and he did not care to hear. 
 "Did I live?" he thinks. Then she sang to him a bit of 
 one of those majestic old Gregorian chants, that, wherever 
 you may hear them, seem to build up cathedral walls about 
 you. The young man dropped the sculls. The strange 
 solemn notes gave a religious tone to his love, and wafted 
 him into the knightly ages and the reverential heart of 
 chivalry. 
 
 Hanging between two heavens on the lake: floating to 
 her voice: the moon stepping over and through white 
 shoals of soft high clouds above and below: floating to her 
 voice — no other breath abroad! His soul went out of his 
 body as he listened. 
 
 They must part. He rows her gently shoreward. 
 
 "I never was so happy as to-night," she murmurs. 
 
 "Look, my Lucy. The lights of the old place are on 
 ihe lake. Look where you are to live." 
 
 'Which is your room, Richard?" 
 
 He points it out to her.
 
 140 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "O Richard I thai I were one of the women who wait on 
 you! I should ask nothing more. How happy she must 
 be!" 
 
 "My darling angel-love. You shall be happy; but all 
 shall wait on you, and I foremost, Lucy." 
 
 "Dearest! may 1 hope for a letter?" 
 
 "By eleven to-morrow. And I?" 
 
 "Oh ! you will have mine, Richard." 
 
 "Tom shall wait for it. A long one, mind! Did you 
 like my last song?" 
 
 She puts her hand quietly against her bosom, and he 
 knows where it rests. O lovel O heaven! 
 
 They are aroused by the harsh grating of the bow of 
 the boat against the shingle. He jumps out, and lifts her 
 ashore. 
 
 "See!" she says, as the blush of his embrace subsides — 
 "See!" and prettily she mimics awe and feels it a little, 
 "the cypress does point towards us. O Richard! it does!" 
 
 And he, looking at her rather than at the cypress, de- 
 lighting in her arch grave ways — 
 
 "Why, there's hardly any shadow at all, Lucy. She 
 mustn't dream, my darling! or dream only of me." 
 
 "Dearest! but I do." 
 
 "To-morrow, Lucy! The letter in the morning, and 
 you at night. O happy to-morrow!" 
 
 "You will be sure to be there, Richard?" 
 
 "If I am not dead, Lucy." 
 
 "O Richard! pray, pray do not speak of that. I shall 
 not survive you." 
 
 "Let us pray, Lucy, to die together, when we are to die. 
 Death or life, with you! Who is it yonder? I see some 
 one — is it Tom? It's Adrian!" 
 
 "Is it Mr. Harley ?" The fair girl shivered. 
 
 "How dares he come here!" cried Richard. 
 
 The figure of Adrian, instead of advancing, discreetly 
 circled the lake. They were stealing away when he called. 
 His call was repeated. Lucy entreated Richard to go to 
 him; but the young man preferred to summon his attend- 
 ant, Tom, from within hail, and send him to know what 
 was wanted. 
 
 "Will he have seen me? Will he have known me?" 
 whispered Lucy, tremulously.
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 141 
 
 "And if he does, love?" said Richard. 
 
 "Oh ! if he does, dearest — I don't know, but I feel such 
 a presentiment. You have not spoken of him to-night, 
 Richard. Is he good ?" 
 
 "Good?" Richard clutched her hand for the innocent 
 maiden phrase. "He's very fond of eating; that's all I 
 know of Adrian." 
 
 Her hand was at his lips when Tom returned. 
 
 "Well, Tom?" 
 
 "Mr. Adrian wishes particular to speak to you, sir," 
 said Tom. 
 
 "Do go to him, dearest ! Do go !" Lucy begs him. 
 
 "Oh, how I hate Adrian!" The young man grinds his 
 teeth. 
 
 "Do go!" Lucy urges him. "Tom— good Tom — will 
 see me home. To-morrow, dear love! To-morrow!" 
 
 "You wish to part from me?" 
 
 "Oh, unkind ! but you must not come with me now. It 
 mav be news of importance, dearest. Think, Richard !" 
 
 "Tom! go back!" 
 
 At the imperious command the well-drilled Tom 
 strides off a dozen paces, and sees nothing. Then the 
 precious charge is confided to him. A heart is cut in 
 twain. 
 
 Richard made his way to Adrian. 'What is it you want 
 with me, Adrian?" 
 
 "Are we seconds, or principals, O fiery one?" was 
 Adrian's answer. "I want nothing with you, except to 
 know whether you have seen Benson." 
 
 "Where should I see Benson ? What do I know of Ben- 
 son's doings?" 
 
 "Of course not — such a secret old fist as he is ! I want 
 some one to tell him to order Lady Blandish's carriage to 
 be sent round to the park-gates. I thought he might be 
 round your way over there — I came upon him accidentally 
 just now in Abbey-wood. What's the matter, boy?" 
 
 "You saw him there?" 
 
 "Hunting Diana, I suppose. He thinks she's not so 
 chaste as they say," continued Adrian. "Are you going 
 to knock down that tree?" 
 
 Richard had turned to the cypress, and was tugging at 
 the tough wood. He left it and went to an ash.
 
 142 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ''You'll spoil that weeper," Adrian cried. "Down she 
 comes! But good-night, Ricky. If you see Benson mind 
 you tell him." 
 
 Doomed Benson following his burly shadow hove in 
 sight on the white road while Adrian spoke. The wise 
 youth chuckled and strolled round the lake, glancing over 
 his shoulder every now and than. 
 
 It was not long before he heard a bellow for help — the 
 roar of a- dragon in his. throes. Adrian placidly sat down 
 on the grass, and fixed his eyes on the water. There, as 
 the- roar was being repeated amid horrid resounding 
 echoes, the wise youth mused in this wise — 
 
 " 'The Fates are Jews with us when they delay a pun- 
 ishment,' says Tfte Pilgrim's Scrip, or words to that effect. 
 The heavens evidently love Benson, seeing that he gets 
 his punishment on the spot. Master Ricky is a peppery 
 young man. Ho gets it from the apt Gruffudh. I rather 
 believe in race. What a noise that old ruffian makes! 
 He'll require poulticing with The Pilgrim's Scrip. We 
 shall have a message to-morrow, and a hubbub, and per- 
 haps all go to town, which won't be bad for one who's 
 been a prey to all the desires born of dulness. Benson 
 howls: there's life in the old dog yet! He bays the moon. 
 Look at her. She doesn't care. It's the same to her 
 whether we coo like turtle-doves or roar like twenty lions. 
 How complacent she looks! And yet she has just as much 
 sympathy for Benson as for Cupid. She would smile on 
 if both were being birched. Was that a raven or Benson ? 
 He howls no more. It sounds guttural: frog-like — some- 
 thing between the brek-kek-kek and the hoarse raven's 
 croak. The fellow'll be killing him. It's time to go to 
 the rescue. A deliverer gets more honour by coming in 
 at the last gasp than if he forestalled catastrophe. — Ho, 
 there, what's the matter?" 
 
 So saying, the wise youth rose, and leisurely trotted to 
 the scene of battle, where stood St. George puffing over 
 the prostrate Dragon. 
 
 "Holloa, Ricky! is it you?" said Adrian. "What's 
 this? Whom have we here? — Benson, as I live!" 
 
 •Make this beast get up," Richard returned, breathing 
 hard, and shaking his great ash-branch. 
 
 "He seems incapable, my dear boy. What have you
 
 TREATMENT OF A DRAGON 143 
 
 been up to? — Benson! Benson! — I say, Ricky, this looks 
 bad." 
 
 "He's shamming!" Richard clamoured like a savage. 
 "Spy upon me, will he? I tell you, he's shamming. He 
 hasn't had half enough. Nothing's too bad for a spy. 
 Let him get up !" 
 
 "Insatiate youth! do throw away that enormous 
 weapon." 
 
 "He has written to my father," Richard shouted. "The 
 miserable spy ! Let him get up !" 
 
 "Ooogh! I won't!" huskily groaned Benson. "Mr. 
 Hadrian, you're a witness he's — my back!" Cav- 
 ernous noises took up the tale of his maltreatment. 
 
 "I daresay you love your back better than any part of 
 your body now," Adrian muttered. "Come, Benson! be a 
 man. Mr. Richard has thrown away the stick. Come, and 
 get off home, and let's see the extent of the damage." 
 
 "Ooogh! he's a devil! Mr. Hadrian, sir, he's a devil!" 
 groaned Benson, turning half over in the road to ease his 
 aches. 
 
 Adrian caught hold of Benson's collar and lifted him 
 to a sitting posture. He then had a glimpse of what his 
 hopeful pupil's hand could do in wrath. The wretched 
 butler's coat was slit and welted; his hat knocked in; his 
 flabby spirit so broken that he started and trembled if his 
 pitiless executioner stirred a foot. Richard stood over 
 him, grasping his great stick; no dawn of mercy for 
 Benson in any corner of his features. 
 
 Benson screwed his neck round to look up at him, and 
 immediately gasped, "I won't get up! I won't! He's 
 ready to murder me again! — Mr. Hadrian! if you stand 
 by and see it, you're liable to the law, sir — I won't get up 
 while he's near." No persuasion could induce Benson to 
 try his legs while his executioner stood by. 
 
 Adrian took Richard aside: "You've almost killed the 
 poor devil, Ricky. You must be satisfied with that. Look 
 at his face." 
 
 "The coward bobbed while I struck," said Richard. "I 
 marked his back. He ducked. I told him he was getting 
 it worse." 
 
 At so civilized piece of savagery, Adrian opened his 
 mouth wide.
 
 144 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Did you really? I admire that. You told him he wa9 
 getting it worse?" 
 
 Adrian opened his mouth again to shake another roll 
 of laughter <>ut. 
 
 "Come," he said, "Excalibur has done his work. Pitch 
 him into the lake. And see — here comes the Blandish. 
 You can't bo at it again before a woman. Go and meet 
 her, and tell her the noise was an ox being slaughtered. 
 Or say Argus." 
 
 With a whirr that made all Benson's bruises moan and 
 quiver, the great ash-branch shot aloft, and Richard 
 swung off *o intercept Lady Blandish. 
 
 Adrian got Benson on his feet. The heavy butler was 
 disposed to summon all the commiseration he could feel 
 for his bruised flesh. Every half -step he attempted was 
 like a dislocation. His groans and grunts were fright- 
 ful. 
 
 "How much did that hat cost, Benson?" said Adrian, 
 as he put it on his head. 
 
 "A five-and-twenty shilling beaver, Mr. Hadrian!" 
 Benson caressed its injuries. 
 
 "The cheapest policy of insurance I remember to have 
 heard of!" said Adrian. 
 
 Benson staggered, moaning at intervals to his cruel 
 comforter — 
 
 "He's a devil, Mr. Hadrian ! He's a devil, sir, I do 
 believe, sir. Ooogh ! he's a devil ! — I can't move, Mr. 
 Hadrian. I must be fetched. And Dr. Clifford must be 
 sent for, sir. I shall never be fit for work again. I 
 haven't a sound bone in my body, Mr. Hadrian." 
 
 "You see, Benson, this comes of your declaring war 
 upon Venus. I hope the maids will nurse you properly. 
 Let me see: you are friends with the housekeeper, aren't 
 you ? All depends upon that." 
 
 "I'm only a faithful servant, Mr. Hadrian," the miser- 
 able butler snarled. 
 
 "Then you've got no friend but your bed. Get to it as 
 quick as possible, Benson." 
 
 "I can't move." Benson made a resolute halt. "I must 
 be fetched," he whinnied. "It's a shame to ask me to 
 move, Mr. Hadrian." 
 
 "You will admit that you are heavy, Benson," said
 
 RICHARD HEARS A SERMON 145 
 
 Adrian, "so I can't carry you. However, I see Mr. Rich- 
 ard is very kindly returning to help me." 
 
 At these words heavy Benson instantly found his legs, 
 and shambled on. 
 
 Lady Blandish met Richard in dismay. 
 
 "I have been horribly frightened," she said. "Tell me, 
 what was the meaning of those cries I heard?" 
 
 "Only some one doing justice on a spy," said Richard, 
 and the lady smiled, and looked on him fondly, and put 
 her hand through his hair. 
 
 "Was that all ? I should have done it myself if I had 
 been a man. Kiss me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 RICHARD IS SUMMONED TO TOWN TO HEAR 
 A SERMON 
 
 By twelve o'clock at noon next day the inhabitants of 
 Raynham Abbey knew that Berry, the baronet's man, had 
 arrived post-haste from town, with orders to conduct Mr. 
 Richard thither, and that Mr. Richard had refused to go, 
 had sworn he would not, defied his father, and despatched 
 Berry to the Shades. Berry was all that Benson was not. 
 Whereas Benson hated woman, Berry admired her warmly. 
 Second to his own stately person, woman occupied his 
 reflections, and commanded his homage. Berry was of 
 majestic port, and used dictionary words. Among the 
 maids of Raynham his conscious calves produced all the 
 discord and the frenzy those adornments seem destined to 
 create in tender bosoms. He had, moreover, the reputa- 
 tion of having suffered for the sex; which assisted his 
 object in inducing the sex to suffer for him. What with 
 his calves, and his dictionary words, and the attractive 
 halo of the mysterious vindictiveness of Venus surround- 
 ing him, this Adonis of the lower household was a mighty 
 man below, and he moved as one. 
 
 On hearing the tumult that followed Berry's arrival, 
 Adrian sent for him, and was informed of the nature of 
 his mission, and its result.
 
 146 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "You should come to mo first," said Adrian. "I should 
 have imagined you were shrewd enough for that, Berry?" 
 
 "Pardon mo, Mr. Adrian," Berry doubled his elbow to 
 explain. "Pardon me, sir. Acting recipient of special 
 injunctions I was not a free agont." 
 
 "Go to Mr. Richard again. Berry. There will be a little 
 confusion if he holds back. Perhaps you had better throw 
 out a hint or so of apoplexy. A slight hint will do. And 
 here — Berry ! when you return to town, you had better not 
 mention anything — to quote Johnson — of Benson's spifli- 
 cation." 
 
 "Certainly not, sir." 
 
 The wise youth's hint had the desired effect on Richard. 
 
 He dashed off a hasty letter by Tom to Belthorpe, and, 
 mounting his horse, galloped to the Bellingham station. 
 
 Sir Austin was sitting down to a quiet early dinner at 
 his hotel, when the Hope of Raynham burst into his room. 
 
 The baronet was not angry with his son. On the con- 
 trary, for he was singularly just and self-accusing while 
 pride was not up in arms, ho had been thinking all day 
 after the receipt of Benson's letter that he was deficient in 
 cordiality, and did not, by reason of his excessive anxiety, 
 make himself sufficiently his son's companion: was not 
 enough, as he strove to be, mother and father to him; pre- 
 ceptor and friend; previsor and associate. He had not to 
 ask his conscience where he had lately been to blame to- 
 wards the System. He had slunk away from Raynham in 
 the very crisis of the Magnetic Age, and this young woman 
 of the parish (as Benson had termed sweet Lucy in his 
 letter) was the consequence. 
 
 Yesl pride and sensitiveness were his chief foes, and 
 he would trample on them. To begin, he embraced his 
 son: hard upon an Englishman at any time — doubly so 
 to one so shamefaced at emotion in cool blood, as it were. 
 It gave him a strange pleasure, nevertheless. And the 
 youth seemed to answer to it; he was excited. Was his 
 love, then, beginning to correspond with his father's as 
 in those intimate days before the Blossoming Season? 
 
 But when Richard, inarticulate at first in his haste, 
 cried out, "My dear, dear father! You are safe! I feared 
 
 You are better, sir? Thank God!" Sir Austin stood 
 
 away from him.
 
 RICHARD HEARS A SERMON 147 
 
 "Safe?" he said. "What has alarmed you?" 
 
 Instead of replying, Richard dropped into a chair, and 
 seized his hand and kissed it. 
 
 Sir Austin took a seat, and waited for his son to ex- 
 plain. 
 
 "Those doctors are such fools!" Richard broke out. "I 
 was sure they were wrong. They don't know headache 
 from apoplexy. It's worth the ride, sir, to see you. You 
 left Raynham so suddenly. — But you are well ! It was not 
 an attack of real apoplexy?" 
 
 His father's brows contorted, and he said, No, it was 
 not. Richard pursued : 
 
 "If you were ill, I couldn't come too soon, though, if 
 coroners' inquests sat on horses, those doctors would be 
 found guilty of mare-slaughter. Cassandra'll be knocked 
 up. I was too early for the train at Bellingham, and I 
 wouldn't wait. She did the distance in four hours and 
 three-quarters. Pretty good, sir, wasn't it?" 
 
 "It has given you appetite for dinner, I hope," said the 
 baronet, not so well pleased to find that it was not 
 simple obedience that had brought the youth to him in 
 such haste. 
 
 "I'm ready," replied Richard. "I shall be in time to 
 return by the last train to-night. I will leave Cassandra 
 in your charge for a rest." 
 
 His father quietly helped him to soup, which he com- 
 menced gobbling with an eagerness that might pass for 
 appetite. 
 
 "All well at Raynham?" said the baronet. 
 
 "Quite, sir." 
 
 "Nothing new?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir." 
 
 "The same as when I left ?" 
 
 "No change whatever!" 
 
 "I shall be glad to get back to the old place," said the 
 baronet. "My stay in town has certainly been profitable. 
 I have made some pleasant acquaintances who may prob- 
 ably favour us with a visit there in the late autumn — 
 people you may be pleased to know. They are very anx- 
 ious to see Raynham." 
 
 "I love the old place," cried Richard. "I never wish to 
 leave it."
 
 148 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Why, boy, before I left you were constantly begging to 
 9ee town." 
 
 ••Was I, sir? 1 1 ■ -. <»dd! Well! I don'l want to remain 
 here. I've seen enough of it." 
 
 "How did you find your way to me?" 
 Kir-hard laughed, and related his bewilderment at the 
 miles of brick, and the noise, and the troops of people, 
 concluding, "There's no place like home!" 
 
 The baronet watched his symptomatic brilliant eyes, 
 and favoured him with a double-dealing sentence — 
 
 "To anchor the heart by any object ere we have half 
 traversed the world, is youth's foolishness, my son. Rev- 
 erence time! A better maxim that than your Horatian." 
 "He knows all!" thought Richard, and instantly drew 
 away leagues from his father, and threw up fortifications 
 round his love and himself. 
 
 Dinner over, Richard looked hurriedly at his watch, 
 and said, with much briskness, "I shall just be in time, 
 sir, if we walk. Will you come with me to the station?" 
 The baronet did not answer. 
 
 Richard was going to repeat the question, but found his 
 father's eyes fixed on him so meaningly that he wavered, 
 and played with his empty glass. 
 
 "I think we will have a little more claret," said the 
 baronet. 
 
 Claret was brought, and they were left alone. 
 The baronet then drew within arm's-reach of his son, 
 and began : 
 
 "I am not aware what you may have thought of me, 
 Richard, during the year9 we have lived together; and 
 indeed I have never been in a hurry to be known to you; 
 and, if I had died before my work was done, I should not 
 have complained at losing half my reward, in hearing you 
 thank me. Perhaps, as it is, I never may. Everything, 
 save selfishness, has its recompense. I shall be content if 
 you prosper." 
 
 He fetched a breath and continued : "You had in your 
 infancy a great loss." Father and son coloured simul- 
 taneously. "To make that good to you I chose to isolate 
 myself from the world, and devote myself entirely to your 
 welfare; and I think it is not vanity that tells me now 
 that the son I have reared is one of the most hopeful of
 
 RICHARD HEARS A SERMON 149 
 
 God's creatures. But for that very reason you are open 
 to be tempted the most, and to sink the deepest. It was 
 the first of the angels who made the road to hell." 
 
 He pausedfagain. Richard fingered at his watch. 
 
 "In our House, my son, there is peculiar blood. We go 
 to wreck very easily. It sounds like superstition ; I cannot 
 but think we are tried as most men are not. I see it in us 
 all. And you, my son, are compounded of two races. 
 Your passions are violent. You have had a taste of 
 revenge. You have seen, in a small way, that the pound 
 of flesh draws rivers of blood. But there is now in you 
 another power. You are mounting to the table-land of 
 life, where mimic battles are changed to real ones. And 
 you come upon it laden equally with force to create and 
 to destroy." He deliberated to announce the intelligence, 
 with deep meaning: "There are women in the world, my 
 son !" 
 
 The young man's heart galloped back to Raynham. 
 
 "It is when you encounter them that you are thoroughly 
 on trial. It is when you know them that life is either a 
 mockery to you, or, as some find it, a gift of blessedness. 
 They are our ordeal. Love of any human object is the 
 soul's ordeal; and they are ours, loving them, or not." 
 
 The young man heard the whistle of the train. He 
 saw the moon-lighted wood, and the vision of his beloved. 
 He could barely hold himself down and listen. 
 
 "I believe," the baronet spoke with little of the cheer- 
 fulness of belief, "good women exist." 
 
 Oh, if he knew Lucy! 
 
 "But," and he gazed on Richard intently, "it is given 
 to very few to meet them on the threshold — I may say, to 
 none. We find them after hard buffeting, and usually, 
 when we find the one fitted for us, our madness has mis- 
 shaped our destiny, our lot is cast. For women are not the 
 end, but the means, of life. In youth we think them the 
 former, and thousands, who have not even the excuse of 
 youth, select a mate — or worse — with that sole view. I 
 believe women punish us for so perverting their uses. 
 They punish Society." 
 
 The baronet put his hand to his brow as his mind 
 travelled into consequences. 
 
 "Our most diligent pupil learns not so much as an
 
 150 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 earnest teacher," says The Pilgrim's Scrip; and Sir 
 Austin, in schooling himself to speak with moderation of 
 women, was beginning to get a glimpse of their side of 
 the case. 
 
 Cold Blood now touched on love to Hot Blood. 
 
 Cold Blood said, "It is a passion coming in the order 
 of nature, the ripe fruit of our animal being." 
 
 Hot Blood felt: "It is a divinity! All that is worth 
 living for in the world." 
 
 Cold Blood said: "It is a fever which tests our strength, 
 and too often leads to perdition." 
 
 Hot Blood felt: "Lead whither it will, I follow it." 
 
 Cold Blood said: "It is a name men and women are 
 much in the habit of employing to sanctify their ap- 
 petites." 
 
 Hot Blood felt: "It is worship; religion; life! 
 
 And so the two parallel lines ran on. 
 
 The baronet became more personal : 
 
 "You know my love for you, my son. The extent of it 
 you cannot know ; but you must know that it is something 
 very deep, and — I do not wish to speak of it — but a father 
 must sometimes petition for gratitude, since the only true 
 expression of it is his son's moral good. If you care for 
 my love, or love me in return, aid me with all your en- 
 ergies to keep you what I have made you, and guard you 
 from the snares besetting you. It was in my hands once. 
 It is ceasing to be so. Remember, my son, what my love 
 is. It is different, I fear, with most fathers: but I am 
 bound up in your welfare : what you do affects me vitally. 
 You will take no step that is not intimate with my hap- 
 piness, or my misery. And I have had great disappoint- 
 ments, my son." 
 
 So far it was well. Richard loved his father, and even 
 in his frenzied state he could not without emotion hear 
 him thus speak. 
 
 Unhappily, the baronet, who by some fatality never 
 could see when he was winning the battle, thought proper 
 in his wisdom to water the dryness of his sermon with a 
 little jocoseness, on the subject of young men fancying 
 themselves in love, and, when they were raw and green, 
 absolutely wanting to be — that most awful thing, which 
 the wisest and strongest of men undertake in hesitation
 
 EICHARD HEARS A SERMON 151 
 
 and after self-mortification and penance — married! He 
 sketched the Foolish Young Fellow — the object of general 
 ridicule and covert contempt. He sketched the Woman — 
 the strange thing made in our image, and with all our 
 faculties — passing to the rule of one who in taking her 
 proved that he could not rule himself, and had no knowl- 
 edge of her save as a choice morsel which he would burn 
 the whole world, and himself in the bargain, to possess. 
 He harped upon the Foolish Young Fellow, till the foolish 
 young fellow felt his skin tingle and was half-suffocated 
 with shame and rage. 
 
 After this, the baronet might be as wise as he pleased: 
 he had quite undone his work. He might analyze Love 
 and anatomize Woman. He might accord to her her due 
 position, and paint her fair: he might be shrewd, jocose, 
 gentle, pathetic, wonderfully wise: he spoke to deaf ears. 
 
 Closing his sermon with the question, softly uttered: 
 "Have you anything to tell me, Richard ?" and hoping for 
 a confession, and a thorough re-establishment of confi- 
 dence, the callous answer struck him cold: "I have not." 
 
 The baronet relapsed in his chair, and made diagrams 
 of his fingers. 
 
 Richard turned his back on further dialogue by going 
 to the window. In the section of sky over the street 
 twinkled two or three stars; shining faintly, feeling the 
 moon. The moon was rising: the woods were lifting up 
 to her : his star of the woods would be there. A bed of 
 moss set about flowers in a basket under him breathed 
 to his nostril of the woodland keenly, and filled him with 
 delirious longing. 
 
 A succession of hard sighs brought his father's hand on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "You have nothing you could say to me, my son ? Tell 
 me, Richard! Remember, there is no home for the soul 
 where dwells a shadow of untruth !" 
 
 "Nothing at all, sir," the young man replied, meeting 
 him with the full orbs of his eyes. 
 
 The baronet withdrew his hand, and paced the room. 
 
 At last it grew impossible for Richard to control his 
 impatience, and he said : "Do you intend me to stay here, 
 sir? Am I not to return to Raynham at all to-night?" 
 
 His father was again falsely jocular:
 
 152 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "What? and catch the train after giving it ten minutes' 
 start <" 
 
 "Cassandra will take me," said the young man earnestly. 
 "I needn't ride her hard, sir. Or perhaps you would lend 
 me your Winkelried! I should be down with him in little 
 better than three hours." 
 
 "Even then, you know, the park-gates would be locked." 
 
 "Well, I could stable him in the village. Dowling knows 
 the horse, and would treat him properly. May I have 
 him, sir?" 
 
 The cloud cleared off Richard's face as he asked. At 
 least, if he missed his love that night ho would be near 
 her, breathing the same air, marking w-hat star was above 
 her bedchamber, hearing the hushed night-talk of the 
 trees about her dwelling: looking on the distances that 
 were like hope half-fulfilled and a bodily presence bright 
 as Hesper, since he knew her. There were two swallows 
 under the eaves shadowing Lucy's chamber-windows: two 
 swallows, mates in one nest, blissful birds, who twittered 
 and cheep-cheeped to the sole-lying beauty in her bed. 
 Around these birds the lover's heart revolved, he knew 
 not why. He associated them with all his close-veiled 
 dreams of happiness. Seldom a morning passed when he 
 did not watch them leave the nest on their breakfast- 
 flight, busy in the happy stillness of dawn. It seemed to 
 him now that if he could be at Raynham to see them in 
 to-morrow's dawn he would be compensated for his incal- 
 culable loss of to-night: he would forgive and love his 
 father, London, the life, the world. Just to see those 
 purple backs and white breasts flash out into the quiet 
 morning air! He wanted no more. 
 
 The baronet's trifling had placed this enormous boon 
 within the young man's visionary grasp. 
 
 He still went on trying the boy's temper. 
 
 "You know there would be nobody ready for you at 
 Raynham. It is unfair to disturb the maids." 
 
 Richard overrode every objection. 
 
 "Well, then, my son," said the baronet, preserving his 
 half-jocular air, "I must tell you that it is my wish to 
 have you in town." 
 
 "Then you have not been ill at all, sir!" cried Richard, 
 as in his despair he seized the whole plot.
 
 THE APPROACHES OF FEVER 153 
 
 "I have been as well as you could, have desired me to 
 be," said his father. 
 
 'Why did they lie to me?" the young man wrathfully 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "I think, Richard, you can best answer that," rejoined 
 Sir Austin, kindly severe. 
 
 Dread of being signalized as the Foolish Young Fellow 
 prevented Richard from expostulating further. Sir Austin 
 saw him grinding his passion into powder for future ex- 
 plosion, and thought it best to leave him for awhile. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 INDICATES THE APPROACHES OF FEVER 
 
 For three weeks Richard had to remain in town and 
 endure the teachings of the System in a new atmosphere. 
 He had to sit and listen to men of science who came to 
 renew their intimacy with his father, and whom of all men 
 his father wished him to respect and study; practically 
 scientific men being, in the baronet's estimation, the only 
 minds thoroughly mated and enviable. He had to endure 
 an introduction to the Grandisons, and meet the eyes of 
 his kind, haunted as he was by the Foolish Young Fellow. 
 The idea that he might by any chance be identified with 
 him held the poor youth in silent subjection. And it was 
 horrible. For it was a continued outrage on the fair 
 image he had in his heart. The notion of the world laugh- 
 ing at him because he loved sweet Lucy stung him to 
 momentary frenzies, and developed premature misanthropy 
 in his spirit. Also the System desired to show him 
 whither young women of the parish lead us, and he was 
 dragged about at night-time to see the sons and daughters 
 of darkness, after the fashion prescribed to Mr. Thomp- 
 son; how they danced and ogled down the high road to 
 perdition. But from this sight possibly the teacher learnt 
 more than his pupil, since we find him seriously asking 
 his meditative hours, in the Note-book: 'Wherefore Wild 
 Oats are only of one gender?" a question certainly not 
 suggested to him at Raynham ; and again — "Whether men
 
 134 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 might not be attaching too rigid an importance?" . . . 
 to a subject with a dotted tail apparently, for he gives 
 it no other in the Note-book. But, as I apprehend, he 
 had come to plead in behalf of women here, and had 
 deduced something from positive observation. To Richard 
 the scenes he witnessed were strange wild pictures, likely 
 if anything to have increased his misanthropy, but for 
 his love. 
 
 Certain sweet little notes from Lucy sustained the lover 
 during the first two weeks of exile. They ceased ; and now 
 Richard fell into such despondency that his father in 
 alarm had to take measures to hasten their return to 
 Raynham. At the close of the third week Berry laid a 
 pair of letters, bearing the Raynham post-mark, on the 
 breakfast-table, and, after reading one attentively, the 
 baronet asked his son if he was inclined to quit the 
 metropolis. 
 
 "For Raynham, sir?" cried Richard, and relapsed, say- 
 ing, "As you will!" aware that he had given a glimpse 
 of the Foolish Young Fellow. 
 
 Berry accordingly received orders to make arrangements 
 for their instant return to Raynham. 
 
 The letter Sir Austin lifted his head from to bespeak 
 his son's wishes was a composition of the wise youth 
 Adrian's, and ran thus: 
 
 "Benson is doggedly recovering. He requires great in- 
 demnities. Happy when a faithful fool is the main suf- 
 ferer in a household! I quite agree with you that our 
 faithful fool is the best servant of great schemes. Benson 
 is now a piece of history. I tell him that this is indemnity 
 enough, and that the sweet Muse usually insists upon 
 gentlemen being half-flayed before she will condescend to 
 notice them; but Benson, I regret to say, rejects the com- 
 fort so fine a reflection should offer, and had rather keep 
 his skin and live opaque. Heroism seems partly a matter 
 of training. Faithful folly is Benson's nature: the rest 
 has been thrust upon him. 
 
 "The young person has resigned the neighbourhood. I 
 had an interview with the fair Papist myself, and also 
 with the man Blaize. They were both sensible, though 
 one swore and the other sighed. She is pretty. I hope
 
 THE APPKOACHES OF FEVER 155 
 
 she does not paint. I can affirm that her legs are strong, 
 for she walks to Bellingham twice a week to take her 
 Scarlet bath, when, having confessed and been made clean 
 by the Romish unction, she walks back the brisker, of 
 which my Protestant muscular system is yet aware. It 
 was on the road to Bellingham I engaged her. She is 
 well in the matter of hair. Madam Godiva might chal- 
 lenge her, it would be a fair match. Has it never struck 
 you that Woman is nearer the vegetable than Man? — Mr. 
 Blaize intends her for his son — a junction that every lover 
 of fairy mythology must desire to see consummated. 
 Young Tom is heir to all the agremens of the Beast. The 
 maids of Lobourne say (I hear) that he is a very Proculus 
 among them. Possibly the envious men say it for the 
 maids. Beauty does not speak bad grammar — and alto- 
 gether she is better out of the way." 
 
 The other letter was from Lady Blandish, a lady's letter, 
 and said: 
 
 "I have fulfilled your commission to the best of my 
 ability, and heartily sad it has made me. She is indeed 
 very much above her station — pity that it is so! She is 
 almost beautiful — quite beautiful at times, and not in any 
 way what you have been led to fancy. The poor child 
 had no story to tell. I have again seen her, and talked 
 with her for an hour as kindly as I could. I could gather 
 nothing more than we know. It is just a woman's history 
 as it invariably commences. Richard is the god of her 
 idolatry. She will renounce him, and sacrifice herself for 
 his sake. Are we so bad? She asked me what she was 
 to do. She would do whatever was imposed upon her — 
 all but pretend to love another, and that she never would, 
 and, I believe, never will. You know I am sentimental, 
 and I confess we dropped a few tears together. Her uncle 
 has sent her for the Winter to the institution where it 
 appears she was educated, and where they are very fond 
 of her and want to keep her, which it would be a good 
 thing if they were to do. The man is a good sort of man. 
 She was entrusted to him by her father, and he never 
 interferes with her religion, and is very scrupulous about 
 all that pertains to it, though, as he says, he is a Christian
 
 15G THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 himself. Tn the Spring (but the poor child does not 
 know this) she is to come back, and be married to his 
 lout of a son. I am determined to prevent that. May I 
 not reckon on your promise to aid me? When you see 
 her, I am sure vim will. It would be sacrilege to look 
 on and permit such a thing. You know, they are cousins. 
 She asked me, where in the world there was one like 
 Richard? What could I answer? They were your own 
 words, and spoken with a depth of conviction! I hope 
 he is really calm. I shudder to think of him when he 
 comes, and discovers what I have been doing. I hope I 
 have been really doing right ! A good deed, you say, 
 never dies; but we cannot always know — I must rely on 
 you. Yes, it is, I should think, easy to suffer martyrdom 
 when one is sure of one's cause! but then one must be 
 sure of it. I have done nothing lately but to repeat to 
 myself that saying of yours, Xo. 54, C. 7, P.S. ; and it 
 has consoled me, I cannot say why, except that all wisdom 
 consoles, whether it applies directly or not: 
 
 "'For this reason so many fall from God, who have at- 
 tained to Him; that they cling to Him with their Weak- 
 ness, not with their Strength.' 
 
 "I like to know of what you are thinking when you 
 composed this or that saying — what suggested it. May 
 not one be admitted to inspect the machinery of wisdom? 
 I feel curious to know how thoughts — real thoughts — are 
 born. Not that I hope to win the secret. Here is the 
 beginning of one (but we poor women can never put to- 
 gether even two of the three ideas which you say go to 
 form a thought) : 'When a wise man makes a false step, 
 will he not go farther than a fool?' It has just flitted 
 through me. 
 
 "I cannot get on with Gibbon, so wait your return to 
 recommence the readings. I dislike the sneering essence 
 of his writings. I keep referring to his face, until the 
 dislike seems to become personal. How different it is 
 with Wordsworth ! And yet I cannot escape from the 
 thought that ho is always solemnly thinking of himself 
 (but I do reverence him). But this is curious; Byron 
 was a greater egoist, and yet I do not feel the same with
 
 THE APPROACHES OF FEVER 157 
 
 him. He reminds me of a beast of the desert, savage and 
 beautiful ; and the former is what one would imagine 
 a superior donkey reclaimed from the heathen to be — a 
 very superior donkey, I mean, with great power of speech 
 and great natural complacency, and whose stubbornness 
 you must admire as part of his mission. The worst is 
 that no one will imagine anything sublime in a superior 
 donkey, so my simile is unfair and false. Is it not 
 strange? I love Wordsworth best, and yet Byron has the 
 greater power over me. How is that ?" 
 
 ("Because," Sir Austin wrote beside the query in pencil, 
 "women are cowards, and succumb to Irony and Passion, 
 rather than yield their hearts to Excellence and Nature's 
 Inspiration.") 
 
 The letter pursued: 
 
 "I have finished Boiardo and have taken up Berni. The 
 latter offends me. I suppose we women do not really care 
 for humour. You are right in saying we have none our- 
 selves, and 'cackle' instead of laugh. It is true (of me, 
 at least) that 'Falstaff is only to us an incorrigible fat 
 man.' I want to know what he illustrates. And Don 
 Quixote — what end can be served in making a noble mind 
 ridiculous? — I hear you say — practical! So it is. We 
 are very narrow, I know. But we like wit — practical 
 again ! Or in your words (when I really think they gener- 
 ally come to my aid — perhaps it is that it is often all 
 your thought); we 'prefer the rapier thrust, to the broad 
 embrace, of Intelligence.' " 
 
 He trifled with the letter for some time, re-reading 
 chosen passages as he walked about the room, and con- 
 sidering he scarce knew what. There are ideas language 
 is too gross for, and shape too arbitrary, which come to 
 us and have a definite influence upon us, and yet we 
 cannot fasten on the filmy things and make them visible 
 and distinct to ourselves, much less to others. Why did 
 he twice throw a look into the glass in the act of passing 
 it? He stood for a moment with head erect facing it. 
 His eyes for the nonce seemed little to peruse his outer 
 features ; the grey gathered brows, and the wrinkles much
 
 158 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ;iction of them had traced over the circles half up his 
 high straight forehead; the iron-grey hair that rose over 
 his forehead and fell away in the fashion of Richard's 
 plume. His general appearance showed the tints of years; 
 but none of their weight, and nothing of the dignity of 
 his youth, was gone. It was so far satisfactory, but 
 his eyes were wide, as one who looks at his essential self 
 through the mask we wear. Perhaps he was speculating 
 as he looked on the sort of aspect he presented to the 
 lady's discriminative regard. Of her feelings he had not 
 a suspicion. But he knew with what extraordinary lu- 
 cidity women can, when it pleases them, and when their 
 feelings are not quite boiling under the noonday sun, 
 seize all the sides of a character, and put their fingers 
 on its weak point. He was cognizant of the total absence 
 of the humorous in himself (the want that most shut 
 him out from his fellows), and perhaps the clear- 
 thoughted, intensely self-examining gentleman filmily con- 
 ceived, Me also, in common with the poet, she gazes on 
 as one of the superior — grey beasts! 
 
 He may have so conceived the case; he was capable of 
 that great-mindedness, and could snatch at times very 
 luminous glances at the broad reflector which the world 
 of fact lying outside our narrow compass holds up for us 
 to see ourselves in when we will. Unhappily, the faculty 
 of laughter, which is due to this gift, was denied him; 
 and having seen, he, like the companion of friend Balaam, 
 could go no farther. For a good wind of laughter had 
 relieved him of much of the blight of self-deception, and 
 oddness, and extravagance; had given a healthier view 
 of our atmosphere of life; but he had it not. 
 
 Journeying back to Bellingham in the train, with the 
 heated brain and brilliant eye of his son beside him, Sir 
 Austin tried hard to feel infallible, as a man with a 
 System should feel ; and because he could not do so, after 
 much mental conflict, he descended to entertain a personal 
 antagonism to the young woman who had stepped in be- 
 tween his experiment and success. He did not think 
 kindly of her. Lady Blandish's encomiums of her be- 
 haviour and her beauty annoyed him. Forgetful that he 
 had in a meanuro. forfeited his rights to it. he took the 
 common ground of fathers, and demanded, "Why he was
 
 THE APPROACHES OF FEVER 159 
 
 not justified in doing all that lay in his power to prevent 
 his son from casting himself away upon the first creature 
 with a pretty face he encountered?" Deliberating thus, 
 he lost the tenderness he should have had for his experi- 
 mentr— the living, burning youth at his elbow, and his 
 excessive love for him took a rigorous tone. It appeared 
 to him politic, reasonable, and just, that the uncle of 
 this young woman, who had so long nursed the prudent 
 scheme of marrying her to his son, should not only not 
 be thwarted in his object but encouraged and even as- 
 sisted. At least, not thwarted. Sir Austin had no glass 
 before him while these ideas hardened in his mind, and 
 he had rather forgotten the letter of Lady Blandish. 
 
 Father and son were alone in the railway carriage. 
 Both were too preoccupied to speak. As they neared 
 Bellingham, the dark was filling the hollows of the 
 country. Over the pine-hills beyond the station a last 
 rosy streak lingered across a green sky. Richard eyed 
 it while they flew along. It caught him forward: it 
 seemed full of the spirit of his love, and brought tears 
 of mournful longing to his eyelids. The sad beauty of 
 that one spot in the heavens seemed to call out to his 
 soul to swear to his Lucy's truth to him: was like the 
 sorrowful visage of his fleur-de-luce, as he called her, 
 appealing to him for faith. That tremulous tender way 
 she had of half-closing and catching light on the nether- 
 lids, when sometimes she looked up in her lover's face — 
 a look so mystic-sweet that it had grown to be the foun- 
 tain of his dreams : he saw it yonder, and his blood thrilled. 
 Know you those wand-like touches of I know not what, 
 before which our grosser being melts, and we, much as we 
 hope to be in the Awaking, stand etherealized, trembling 
 with new joy? They come but rarely; rarely even in love, 
 when we fondly think them revelations. Mere sensations 
 they are, doubtless : and we rank for them no higher in the 
 spiritual scale than so many translucent glorious polypi 
 that quiver on the shores, the hues of heaven running 
 through them. Yet in the harvest of our days it is 
 something for the animal to have had such mere fleshly 
 polypian experiences to look back upon, and they give him 
 an horizon — pale seas of luring splendour. One who has 
 had them (when they do not bound him) may find the
 
 l<;i> THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Isles of Bliss sooner than another. Sensual faith in the 
 upper glories is something. "Let us remember," says The 
 Pilgrim's Suui\ ''that Nature, though heathenish, reaches 
 at her best to the footstool of the Highest. She is not 
 all dust, but a living portion of the spheres. In aspira- 
 tion it is our error to despise her, forgetting that through 
 Nature only can we ascend. Cherished, trained, and 
 purified, sho is then partly worthy the divine mate who 
 is to make her wholly so. St. Simeon saw the Hog in 
 Nature, and took Nature for the Hog." 
 
 It was one of these strange bodily exaltations which 
 thrilled the young man, he knew not how it was, for sad- 
 ness and his forebodings vanished. The soft wand touched 
 him. At that moment, had Sir Austin spoken openly, 
 Richard might have fallen upon his heart. He could not. 
 He chose to feel injured on the common ground of fathers, 
 and to pursue his System by plotting. Lady Blandish 
 had revived his jealousy of the creature who menaced it, 
 and jealousy of a System is unreflecting and vindictive 
 as jealousy of woman. 
 
 Heath-roots and pines breathed sharp in the cool 
 autumn evening about the Bellingham station. Richard 
 stood a moment as he stepped from the train, and drew 
 the country air into his lungs with large heaves of the 
 chest. Leaving his father to the felicitations of the sta- 
 tion-master, he went into the Lobourne road to look for 
 his faithful Tom, who had received private orders through 
 Berry to be in attendance with his young master's mare, 
 Cassandra, and was lurking in a plantation of firs un- 
 enclosed on the borders of the road, where Richard, 
 knowing his retainer's zest for conspiracy too well to 
 seek him anywhere but in the part most favoured with 
 shelter and concealment, found him furtively whiffing 
 tobacco. 
 
 '"What news, Tom? Is there an illness?" 
 
 Tom sent his undress cap on one side to scratch at 
 dilemma, an old agricultural habit to which he was still 
 a slave in moments of abstract thought or sudden diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 "No, I don't want the rake, Mr. Richard." he whinnied 
 with a false grin, as he beheld his master's eye vacantly 
 following the action.
 
 THE APPEOACHES OF FEVER 161 
 
 "Speak out!" he was commanded. "I haven't had a 
 letter for a week!" 
 
 Richard learnt the news. He took it with surprising 
 outward calm, only getting a little closer to Cassandra's 
 neck, and looking very hard at Tom without seeing a 
 speck of him, which had the effect on Tom of making him 
 sincerely wish his master would punch his head at once 
 rather than fix him in that owl-like way. 
 
 "Go on!" said Richard, huskily. "Yes? She's gone! 
 Well?" 
 
 Tom was brought to understand he must make the most 
 of trifles, and recited how he had heard from a female 
 domestic at Belthorpe of the name of Davenport, formerly 
 known to him, that the young lady never slept a wink 
 from the hour she knew she was going, but sat up in her 
 bed till morning crying most pitifully, though she never 
 complained. Hereat the tears unconsciously streamed 
 down Richard's cheeks. Tom said he had tried to see 
 her, but Mr. Adrian kept him at work, ciphering at a ter- 
 rible sum — that and nothing else all day! saying, it was 
 to please his young master on his return. "Likewise 
 something in Lat'n," added Tom. "Nom'tive Mouser! — 
 'nough to make ye mad, sir!" he exclaimed with pathos. 
 The wretch had been put to acquire a Latin declension. 
 
 Tom saw her on the morning she went away, he said : 
 she was very sorrowful-looking, and nodded kindly to him 
 as she passed in the fly along with young Tom Blaize. 
 "She have got uncommon kind eyes, sir," said Tom, 
 "and cryin' don't spoil them." For which his hand was 
 wrenched. 
 
 Tom had no more to tell, save that, in rounding the 
 road, the young lady had hung out her hand, and seemed 
 to move it forward and back, as much as to say, Good- 
 bye, Tom! "And though she couldn't see me," said Tom, 
 "I took off my hat. I did take it so kind of her to think 
 of a chap like me." He was at high-pressure sentiment — 
 what with his education for a hero and his master's love- 
 stricken state. 
 
 "You saw no more of her, Tom?" 
 
 "No, sir. That was the last !" 
 
 "That was the last you saw of her, Tom?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I saw nothin' more."
 
 L62 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FKVKRKL 
 
 "And so she went out of sight!" 
 
 "Clean gone, that she were, sir." 
 
 'Why did tiny take her away? what have they done 
 with her? where have they taken her to?" 
 
 These red-hot questionings were addressed to the uni- 
 versal heaven rather than to Tom. 
 
 "Why didn't she write?" they were resumed. "Why did 
 she leave? She's mine. She belongs to me! Who dared 
 
 take her away? Why did she leave without writing? 
 
 Tom!" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the well-drilled recruit, dressing himself 
 up to the word of command. He expected a variation of 
 the theme from the change of tone with which his name 
 had been pronounced, but it was again, "Where have they 
 taken her to?" and this was even more perplexing to Tom 
 than his hard sum in arithmetic had been. He could 
 only draw down the corners of his mouth hard, and glance 
 up queerly. 
 
 "She had been crying — you saw that, Tom?" 
 
 "No mistake about that, Mr. Richard. Cryin' all night 
 and all day, I sh'd say." 
 
 "And she was crying when you saw her?" 
 
 "She look'd as if she'd just done for a moment, sir." 
 
 "But her face was white?" 
 
 "White as a sheet." 
 
 Richard paused to discover whether his instinct had 
 caught a new view from these facts. He was in a cage, 
 always knocking against the same bars, fly as he might. 
 Her tears were the stars in his black night. He clung to 
 them as golden orbs. Inexplicable as they were, they were 
 at least pledges of love. 
 
 The hues of sunset had left the West. No light was 
 there but the steadfast pale eye of twilight. Thither he 
 was drawn. He mounted Cassandra, saying: "Tell them 
 something, Tom. I shan't be home to dinner," and rode 
 off toward the forsaken home of light over Relthorpe, 
 wherein he saw the wan hand of his Lucy, waving fare- 
 well, receding as he advanced. His jewel was stolen, — he 
 must gaze upon the empty box.
 
 CKISIS IX THE APPLE-DISEASE 163 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII 
 CRISIS IN THE APPLE-DISEASE 
 
 Night had come on as Richard entered the old elm- 
 shaded, grass-bordered lane leading down from Raynham 
 to Belthorpe. The pale eye of twilight was shut. The 
 wind had tossed up the bank of Western cloud, which was 
 now flying broad and unlighted across the sky, broad and 
 balmy — the charioted South-west at full charge behind his 
 panting coursers. As he neared the farm his heart flut- 
 tered and leapt up. He was sure she must be there. 
 She must have returned. Why should she have left for 
 good without writing? He caught suspicion by the 
 throat, making it voiceless, if it lived : he silenced reason. 
 Her not writing was now a proof that she had returned. 
 He listened to nothing but his imperious passion, and 
 murmured sweet words for her, as if she were by: tender 
 cherishing epithets of love in the nest. She was there — 
 she moved somewhere about like a silver flame in the dear 
 old house, doing her sweet household duties. His blood 
 began to sing: O happy those within, to see her, and be 
 about her! By some extraordinary process he contrived 
 to cast a sort of glory round the burly person of Farmer 
 Blaize himself. And oh! to have companionship with a 
 seraph one must know a seraph's bliss, and was not young 
 Tom to be envied? The smell of late clematis brought 
 on the wind enwrapped him, and went to his brain, and 
 threw a light over the old red-brick house, for he remem- 
 bered where it grew, and the winter rose-tree, and the 
 jessamine, and the passion-flower: the garden in front 
 with the standard roses tended by her hands; the long 
 wall to the left striped by the branches of the cherry, the 
 peep of a further green garden through the wall, and then 
 the orchard, and the fields beyond — the happy circle of her 
 dwelling! it flashed before his eyes while he looked on the 
 darkness. And yet it was the reverse of hope which 
 kindled this light and inspired the momentary calm he 
 experienced : it was despair exaggerating delusion, wilfully 
 building up on a groundless basis. "For the tenacity of 
 true passion is terrible," says The Pilgrim's Scrip: "it
 
 164 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 will stand against the hosts of heaven, God's great array 
 
 of Facts, rather than surrender its aim, and must be 
 crushed before it will succumb — sent to the lowest pit!" 
 He knew she was not there; she was gone. But the 
 power of a will strained to madness fought at it, kept 
 it down, conjured forth her ghost, and would have it as 
 he dietated. Poor youth! the great array of facts was 
 in due order of march. 
 
 He had breathed her name many times, and once over- 
 loud ; almost a cry for her escaped him. He had not 
 noticed the opening of a door and the noise of a foot 
 along the gravel walk. He was leaning over Cassandra's 
 uneasy neck watching the one window intently, when a 
 voice addressed him out of the darkness. 
 
 "Be that you, young gentleman ? — Mr. Fev'rel ?" 
 Richard's trance was broken. "Mr. Blaize!" he said, 
 recognizing the farmer's voice. 
 
 "Good even'n t'you, sir," returned the farmer. "I knew 
 the mare though I didn't know you. Rather bluff to- 
 night it be. Will ye step in, Mr. Fev'rel? it's beginnin' 
 to spit — going to be a wildish night, I reckon." 
 
 Richard dismounted. The farmer called one of his men 
 to hold the mare, and ushered the young man in. Once 
 there, Richard's conjurations ceased. There was a dead- 
 ness about the rooms and passages that told of her ab- 
 sence. The walls he touched — these were the vacant shells 
 of her. He had never been in the house since he knew 
 her, and now what strange sweetness, and what pangs! 
 
 Young Tom Blaize was in the parlour, squared over the 
 table in open-mouthed examination of an ancient, book of 
 the fashions for a summer month which had elapsed dur- 
 ing his mother's minority. Young Tom w r as respectfully 
 studying the aspects of the radiant beauties of the polite 
 work. He also was a thrall of woman, newly enrolled, 
 and full of wonder. 
 
 "What, Tom!" the farmer sang out as soon as he had 
 opened the door; "there ye be! at yer Folly agin, are ye? 
 What good'll them fashens do to you, I'd like t'know ? 
 Come, shut up, and go and see to Mr. Fev'rel's mare. He's 
 al'ays at that ther' Folly now. I say there never were a 
 better name for a book than that ther' Folly ! Talk about 
 attitudes!"
 
 CRISIS IN THE APPLE-DISEASE 165 
 
 The farmer laughed his fat sides into a chair, and 
 motioned his visitor to do likewise. 
 
 "It's a comfort they're most on 'em females," he pur- 
 sued, sounding a thwack on his knee as he settled himself 
 agreeably in his seat. "It don't matter much what they 
 does, except pinchin' in — waspin' it — at the waist. Give 
 me nature, I say — woman as she's made ! eh, young gentle- 
 man?" 
 
 "You seem very lonely here," said Richard, glancing 
 round, and at the ceiling. 
 
 "Lonely?" quoth the farmer. "Well, for the matter o' 
 that, we be! — jest now, so't happens; I've got my pipe, 
 and Tom've got his Folly. He's on one side the table, 
 and I'm on t'other. He gaapes, and I gazes. We are a 
 bit lonesome. But there — it's for the best!" 
 
 Richard resumed, "I hardly expected to see you to- 
 night, Mr. Blaize." 
 
 "Y'acted like a man in coming, young gentleman, and 
 I does ye honour for it !" said Farmer Blaize with 
 sudden energy and directness. 
 
 The thing implied by the farmer's words caused Richard 
 to take a quick breath. They looked at each other, and 
 looked away, the farmer thrumming on the arm of his 
 chair. 
 
 Above the mantel-piece, surrounded by tarnished indif- 
 ferent miniatures of high-collared, well-to-do yeomen of 
 the anterior generation, trying their best not to grin, and 
 high-waisted old ladies smiling an encouraging smile 
 through plentiful cap-puckers, there hung a passably ex- 
 ecuted half-figure of a naval officer in uniform, grasping 
 a telescope under his left arm, who stood forth clearly 
 as not of their kith and kin. His eyes were blue, his 
 hair light, his bearing that of a man who knows how 
 to carry his head and shoulders. The artist, while giving 
 him an epaulette to indicate his rank, had also recorded 
 the juvenility which a lieutenant in the naval service 
 can retain after arriving at that position, by painting 
 him with smooth cheeks and fresh ruddy lips. To this 
 portrait Richard's eyes were directed. Farmer Blaize 
 observed it, and said — 
 
 "Her father, sir!" 
 
 Richard moderated his voice to praise the likeness.
 
 1GG THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Yes," said the farmer, "pretty well. Next best to 
 bavin' her, though it's a long way ulT that!" 
 
 "An old family, Mr. Blaize — is it not?" Richard asked 
 
 in as careless a tone as he could assume. 
 
 "Gentlefolks — what's left of 'em," replied the farmer 
 with an equally affected indifference. 
 
 "And that's her father?" said Richard, growing bolder 
 to speak of her. 
 
 "That's her father, young gentleman!" 
 
 "Mr. Blaize," Richard turned to face him, and burst 
 out, "where is she?" 
 
 "Gone, sir! packed off! — Can't have her here now." 
 The farmer thrummed a step brisker, and eyed the young 
 man's wild face resolutely. 
 
 "Mr. Blaize," Richard leaned forward to get closer to 
 him. lie was stunned, and hardly aware of what he was 
 saving or doing: "Where has she gone? Why did sin- 
 leave?" 
 
 "You needn't to ask, sir — ye know," said the farmer, 
 with a side shot of his head. 
 
 "But she did not — it was not her wish to go?" 
 
 "No! I think she likes the place. Mayhap she likes't 
 too well!" 
 
 "Why did you send her away to make her unhappy, 
 Mr. Blaize?" 
 
 The farmer bluntly denied it was he was the party who 
 made her unhappy. "Nobody can't accuse me. Tell ye 
 what, sir. I wunt have the busybodies set to work about 
 her, and there's all the matter. So let you and I come to 
 an understand in'." 
 
 A blind inclination to take offence made Richard sit 
 upright. He forgot it the next minute, and said humbly : 
 "Am I the cause of her going?" 
 
 "Well!" returned the farmer, "to speak straight — ye 
 be!" 
 
 "What can I do, Mr. Blaize, that she may come back 
 again ?" the young hypocrite asked. 
 
 "Now," said the fanner, "you're coming to business. 
 Glad to hear ye talk in that sensible way, Mr. Fev'rel. 
 You may guess I wants her bad enough. The house ain't 
 itself now she's away, and I ain't myself. Well, sir! 
 This ye can do. If you gives me your promise not to
 
 CKISIS IN THE APPLE-DISEASE 167 
 
 meddle with her at all — I can't mak' out how you come 
 to be acquainted ; not to try to get her to be meetin' you — 
 and if you'd a seen her when she left, you would — when 
 did ye meet? — last grass, wasn't it? — your word as a 
 gentleman not to be writing letters, and spyin' after her — 
 I'll have her back at once. Back she shall come!" 
 
 "Give her up!" cried Kichard. 
 
 "Ay, that's it!" said the farmer. "Give her up." 
 
 The young man checked the annihilation of time that 
 was on his mouth. 
 
 "You sent her away to protect her from me, then?" he 
 said savagely. 
 
 "That's not quite it, but that'll do," rejoined the farmer. 
 
 "Do you think I shall harm her, sir?" 
 
 "People seem to think she'll harm you, young gentle- 
 man," the farmer said with some irony. 
 
 "Harm me — she? What people?" 
 
 "People pretty intimate with you, sir." 
 
 "What people? Who spoke of us?" Eichard began to 
 scent a plot, and would not be balked. 
 
 'Well, sir, look here," said the farmer. "It ain't no 
 secret, and if it be, I don't see why I'm to keep it. It 
 appears your education's peculiar!" The farmer drawled 
 out the word as if he were describing the figure of a snake. 
 "You ain't to be as other young gentlemen. All the 
 better! You're a fine bold young gentleman, and your 
 father's a right to be proud of ye. Well, sir — I'm sure 
 I thank him for't — he comes to hear of you and Luce, and 
 of course he don't want nothin' o' that — more do LI 
 meets him there! What's more I won't have nothin' 
 of it. She be my gal. She were left to my protection. 
 And she's a lady, sir. Let me tell ye, ye won't find many 
 on 'em so well looked to as she be — my Luce! Well, Mr. 
 Fev'rel, it's you, or it's her — one of ye must be out o' 
 the way. So we're told. And Luce — I do believe she's 
 just as anxious about yer education as yer father — she 
 says she'll go, and wouldn't write, and'd break it off for 
 the sake o' your education. And she've kep' her word, 
 haven't she? — She's a true'n. What she says she'll do! — 
 True blue she be, my Luce! So now, sir, you do the 
 same, and I'll thank ye." 
 
 Any one who has tossed a sheet of paper into the fire,
 
 1G8 TIIE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FKVKIM I. 
 
 and seen it gradually brown with heat, and strike to 
 flame, may conceive the mind of the lover as he listened 
 to this speech. 
 
 His anger did no1 evaporate in words, but condensed 
 and sank deep. "Mr. Blaize," he said, "this is very kind 
 of the people you allude to, but I am of an ape now to 
 think and act for myself — I love her, sir!" Hifl whole 
 countenance changed, and the muscles of bis face quivered. 
 
 "Well!'' said the farmer, appeasingly, "we all do at your 
 age — somebody or other. It's natural I" 
 
 "I love her!" the young man thundered afresh, too 
 much possessed by his passion to have a sense of shame 
 in the confession. "Farmer!'' his voice fell to supplica- 
 tion, "will you bring her back?" 
 
 Farmer Blaize made a queer face. He asked — what 
 for? and where was the promise required! 1 — But was not 
 the lover's argument conclusive? He said he loved her! 
 and he could not see why her uncle should not in con- 
 sequence immediately send for her, that they might be 
 together. All very well, quoth the fanner, but what's 
 to come of it? — What was to come of it? Why, love, and 
 more love! And a bit too much! the farmer added grimly. 
 
 "Then you refuse me, farmer," said Richard. "I must 
 look to you for keeping her away from me, not to — to — 
 these people. You will not have her back, though I tell 
 you I love her better than my life?" 
 
 Farmer Blaize now had to answer him plainly, he had a 
 reason and an objection of his own. And it was, that her 
 character was at stake, and God knew whether she herself 
 might not be in danger. He spoke with a kindly candour, 
 not without dignity. He complimented Richard person- 
 ally, but young people were young people; baronets' sons 
 were not in the habit of marrying farmers' nieces. 
 
 At first the son of a System did not comprehend him. 
 When he did, he said: "Farmer! if I give you my word of 
 honour, as I hope for heaven, to marry her when I am 
 of age, will you have her back?" 
 
 He was so fervid that, to quiet him. the farmer only 
 shook his head doubtfully at the bars of the grate, and let 
 his chest fall slowly. Richard caught what seemed to him 
 a glimpse of encouragement in these signs, and observed: 
 "It's not because you object to me, Mr. Blaize?"
 
 CRISIS IN THE APPLE-DISEASE 169 
 
 The farmer signified it was not that. 
 
 'Tt's because my father is against me," Richard went 
 on, and undertook to show that love was so sacred a matter 
 that no father could entirely and for ever resist his son's 
 inclinations. Argument being a cool field where the 
 farmer could meet and match him, the young man got 
 on the tramroad of his passion, and went ahead. He 
 drew pictures of Lucy, of her truth, and his own. He 
 took leaps from life to death, from death to life, mixing 
 imprecations and prayers in a torrent. Perhaps he did 
 move the stolid old Englishman a little, he was so vehe- 
 ment, and made so visible a sacrifice of his pride. 
 
 Farmer Blaize tried to pacify him, but it was useless. 
 His jewel he must have. 
 
 The farmer stretched out his hand for the pipe that 
 allayeth botheration. "May smoke heer now," he said. 
 "Not when — somebody's present. Smoke in the kitchen 
 then. Don't mind smell?" 
 
 Richard nodded, and watched the operations while the 
 farmer filled, and lighted, and began to puff, as if his 
 late hung on them. 
 
 "Who'd a' thought, when you sat over there once, of 
 its comin' to this?" ejaculated the farmer, drawing ease 
 and reflection from tobacco. "You didn't think much of 
 her that day, young gentleman ! I introduced ye. Well ! 
 things comes about. Can't you wait till she returns in 
 due course, now?" 
 
 This suggestion, the work of the pipe, did but bring on 
 him another torrent. 
 
 "It's queer," said the farmer, putting the mouth of the 
 pipe to his wrinkled-up temples. 
 
 Richard waited for him, and then he laid down the pipe 
 altogether, as no aid in perplexity, and said, after leaning 
 his arm on the table and staring at Richard an instant: 
 
 "Look, young gentleman ! My word's gone. I've spoke 
 it. I've given 'em the 'surance she shan't be back till the 
 Spring, and then I'll have her, and then — well ! I do 
 hope, for more reasons than one, ye'll both be wiser — 
 I've got my own notions about her. But I an't the 
 man to force a gal to marry 'gainst her inclines. De- 
 pend upon it I'm not your enemy, Mr. Fev'rel. You're 
 jest the one to mak' a young gal proud. So wait, — and
 
 170 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 see. That's my 'dvice. Jest tak' and wait. I've no more 
 to say." 
 
 Richard's impetuosity had made him really afraid of 
 speaking his notions concerning the projected felicity of 
 young Tom. if indeed they were serious. 
 
 The fanner repeated that lie had no more to say; 
 and Richard, with "Wait till the Spring! Wait till the 
 Spring!"' dinning despair in his ears, stood up to depart. 
 Farmer Blaize shook his slack hand in a friendly way, 
 and called out at the door for young Tom, who, dreading 
 allusions to his Folly, did not appear. A maid rushed 
 by Richard in the passage, and slipped something into 
 his grasp, which fixed on it without further consciousness 
 than that of touch. The mare was led forth by the Ban- 
 tam. A light rain was falling down strong warm trusts, 
 and the trees were noisy in the night. Fanner Blaize 
 requested Richard at the gate to give him his hand, and 
 say all was well. He liked the young man for his earnest- 
 ness and honest outspeaking. Richard could not say all 
 was well, but he gave his hand, and knitted it to the 
 farmer's in a sharp squeeze, when he got upon Cassandra, 
 and rode into the tumult. 
 
 A calm, clear dawn succeeded the roaring West, and 
 threw its glowing grey image on the waters of the Abbey- 
 lake. Before sunrise Tom Bakewell was abroad, and 
 met the missing youth, his master, jogging Cassandra 
 leisurely along the Lobourne park-road, a sorry couple 
 to look at. Cassandra's flanks were caked with mud, her 
 head drooped: all that was in her had been taken out 
 by that wild night. On what heaths and heavy fallows 
 had she not spent her noble strength, recklessly fretting 
 through the darkness! 
 
 "Take the mare," said Richard, dismounting and pat- 
 ting her between the eyes. "She's done up, poor old 
 girl! Look to her, Tom, and then come to me in my 
 room." 
 
 Tom asked no questions. 
 
 Throe days would bring the anniversary of Richard's 
 birth, and though Tom was (dose, the condition of the 
 mare, and the young gentleman's strange freak in riding 
 her out all night becoming known, prepared everybody 
 at Raynhain for the usual bad-luck birthday, the prophets
 
 CEISIS m THE APPLE-DISEASE 171 
 
 of which were full of sad gratification. Sir Austin had 
 an unpleasant office to require of his son ; no other than 
 that of humbly begging Benson's pardon, and washing 
 out the undue blood he had spilt in taking his Pound of 
 Flesh. Heavy Benson was told to anticipate the demand 
 for pardon, and practised in his mind the most melancholy 
 Christian deportment he could assume on the occasion. 
 But while his son was in this state, Sir Austin considered 
 that he would hardly be brought to see the virtues of the 
 act, and did not make the requisition of him, and heavy 
 Benson remained drawn up solemnly expectant at door- 
 ways, and at the foot of the staircase, a Saurian Carya- 
 tid, wherever he could get a step in advance of the 
 young man, while Richard heedlessly passed him, as he 
 passed everybody else, his head bent to the ground, and 
 his legs bearing him like random instruments of whose 
 service he was unconscious. It was a shock to Benson's 
 implicit belief in his patron; and he was not consoled by 
 the philosophic explanation, "That Good in a strong many- 
 compounded nature is of slower growth than any other 
 mortal thing, and must not be forced." Damnatory doc- 
 trines best pleased Benson. He was ready to pardon, 
 as a Christian should, but he did want his enemy before 
 him on his knees. And now, though the Saurian Eye 
 saw more than all the other eyes in the house, and saw- 
 that there was matter in hand between Tom and his 
 master to breed exceeding discomposure to the System, 
 Benson, as he had not received his indemnity, and did 
 not wish to encounter fresh perils for nothing, held his 
 peace. 
 
 Sir Austin partly divined what was going on in the 
 breast of his son, without conceiving the depths of dis- 
 trust his son cherished or quite measuring the intensity 
 of the passion that consumed him. He was very kind and 
 tender with him. Like a cunning physician who has, 
 nevertheless, overlooked the change in the disease super- 
 induced by one false dose, he meditated his prescriptions 
 carefully and confidently, sure that he knew the case, and 
 was a match for it. He decreed that Richard's erratic 
 behaviour should pass unnoticed. Two days_ before the 
 birthday, he asked him whether he would object to hav- 
 ing company? To which Richard said: "Have whom
 
 172 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 you will, sir." 'Flic preparation fur festivity commenced 
 accordingly. 
 
 On the birthday eve he dined with the rest. Lady 
 Blandish was I here, and sat penitently at his right. 
 Hippias prognosticated certain indigestion for himself on 
 the morrow. The Eighteenth Century wondered whether 
 she should live to see another birthday. Adrian drank 
 the two-years' distant term of his tutorship, and Algernon 
 went over the list of the Lobourno men who would cope 
 with Bursley on the morrow. Sir Austin gave ear and 
 a word to all, keeping his mental eye for his son. To 
 please Lady Blandish also, Adrian ventured to make 
 trifling jokes about London's Mrs. Grandison; jokes deli- 
 cately not decent, but so delicately so, that it was not 
 decent to perceive it. 
 
 After dinner Richard left them. Nothing more than 
 commonly peculiar was observed about him, beyond the 
 excessive glitter of his eyes, but the baronet said, ''Yes, 
 yes! that will pass." He and Adrian, and Lady Blandish, 
 took tea in the library, and sat till a late hour dis- 
 cussing casuistries relating mostly to the Apple-disease. 
 Converse very amusing to the wise youth, who could 
 suggest to the two chaste minds situations of the shadiest 
 character, with the air of a seeker after truth, and lead 
 them, unsuspecting, where they dared not look about 
 them. The Aphorist had elated the heart of his constant 
 fair worshipper with a newly rounded if not newly con- 
 ceived sentence, when they became aware that they were 
 four. Heavy Benson stood among them. He said he 
 had knocked, but received no answer. There was, how- 
 ever, a vestige of surprise and dissatisfaction on his face 
 beholding Adrian of the company, which had not quite 
 worn away, and gave place, when it did vanish, to an 
 aspect of flabby severity. 
 
 "Well, Benson? well?" said the baronet. 
 
 The unmoving man replied: "If you please, Sir Austin 
 —Mr. Richard!" 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "He's out!" 
 'Well ?" 
 
 "With Bakewell !" 
 "Well ?"
 
 CEISIS IN THE APPLE-DISEASE 173 
 
 "And a carpet-bag!" 
 
 The carpet-bag might be supposed to contain that funny 
 thing called a young hero's romance in the making. 
 
 Out Kichard was, and with a carpet-bag, which Tom 
 Bakewell carried. He was on the road to Bellingham, 
 under heavy rain, hasting like an escaped captive, wild 
 with joy, while Tom shook his skin, and grunted at his 
 discomforts. The mail train was to be caught at Bell- 
 ingham. He knew where to find her now, through the 
 intervention of Miss Davenport, and thither he was fly- 
 ing, an arrow loosed from the bow: thither, in spite of 
 fathers and friends and plotters, to claim her, and take 
 her, and stand with her against the world. 
 
 They were both thoroughly wet when they entered 
 Bellingham, and Tom's visions were of hot drinks. He 
 hinted the necessity for inward consolation to his master, 
 who could answer nothing but "Tom! Tom! I shall see 
 her to-morrow !" It was bad — travelling in the wet, Tom 
 hinted again, to provoke the same insane outcry, and have 
 his arm seized and furiously shaken into the bargain. 
 Passing the principal inn of the place, Tom spoke plainly 
 for brandy. 
 
 "No!" cried Richard, "there's not a moment to be 
 lost!" and as he said it, he reeled, and fell against Tom, 
 muttering indistinctly of faintness, and that there was 
 no time to lose. Tom lifted him in his arms, and got 
 admission to the inn. Brandy, the country's specific, was 
 advised by host and hostess, and forced into his mouth, 
 reviving him sufficiently to cry out, "Tom! the bell's 
 ringing: we shall be late," after which he fell back in- 
 sensible on the sofa where they had stretched him. Ex- 
 citement of blood and brain had done its work upon him. 
 The youth suffered them to undress him and put him 
 to bed, and there he lay, forgetful even of love; a 
 drowned weed borne onward by the tide of the hours. 
 There his father found him. 
 
 Was the Scientific Humanist remorseful? He had 
 looked forward to such a crisis as that point in the 
 disease his son was the victim of, when the body would 
 fail and give the spirit calm to conquer the malady, 
 knowing very well that the seeds of the evil were not 
 of the spirit. Moreover, to see him and have him was
 
 174 THE OKDKAL OF RICHARD FEVEBEL 
 
 a repose after the alarm Benson had sounded. "Mark!" 
 he said to Lady Blandish, "when he recovers he will not 
 cart' for her." 
 
 The lady had accompanied him to the Bellingham inn 
 on first, hearing of Richard's seizure. 
 
 "What an iron man you can he," she exclaimed, 
 smothering her intuitions. She was for giving the boy 
 his bauble; promising it him, at least, if he would only 
 get well and be the bright flower of promise he once was. 
 
 "Can you look on him," she pleaded, "can you look on 
 him and persevere?" 
 
 It was a hard Bight for this man who loved his son so 
 deeply. The youth lay in his strange hed, straight and 
 motionless, with fever on his cheeks, and altered eyes. 
 
 Old Dr. Clifford of Lobourne was the medical attendant, 
 who, with head-shaking, and gathering "1" lips, and rem- 
 iniscences of ancient arguments, guaranteed to do all 
 that leech could do in the matter. The old doctor did 
 admit that Richard's constitution was admirable, and 
 answered to his prescriptions like a piano to the musician. 
 "But," he said at a family consultation, for Sir Austin 
 had told him how it stood with the young man, "drugs 
 are not much in cases of this sort. Change! That's 
 what's wanted, and as soon as may be. Distraction ! 
 He ought to see the world, and know what he is made 
 of. It's no use my talking, I know," added the doctor. 
 
 "On the contrary," said Sir Austin, "I am quite of 
 your persuasion. And the world he shall see — now." 
 
 "We have dipped him in Styx, you know, doctor," 
 Adrian remarked. 
 
 "But, doctor," said Lady Blandish, "have you known 
 a case of this sort before?" 
 
 "Never, my lady," said the doctor, "they're not com- 
 mon in these parts. Country people are tolerably healthy- 
 minded." 
 
 "But people — and country people — have died for iove, 
 doctor?" 
 
 The doctor had oot met any of them. 
 
 "Men, or women 8" inquired the baronet. 
 
 Lady Blandish believed mostly women. 
 
 "Ask the doctor whether they were healthy-minded 
 women," said the baronet. "No! you are both looking at
 
 THE SPRING AND AUTUMN PRIMROSE 175 
 
 th6 wrong end. Between a highly-cultured being, and 
 an emotionless animal, there is all the difference in the 
 world. But of the two, the doctor is nearer the truth. 
 The healthy nature is pretty safe. If he allowed for 
 organization he would be right altogether. To feel, but 
 not to feel to excess, that is the problem." 
 
 "If I can't have the one I chose, 
 To some fresh maid I will propose," 
 
 Adrian hummed a country ballad. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 OF THE SPRING PRIMROSE AND THE AUTUMNAL 
 
 When the young Experiment again knew the hours that 
 rolled him onward, he was in his own room at Raynham. 
 Nothing had changed: only a strong fist had knocked him 
 down and stunned him, and he opened his eyes to a grey 
 world: he had forgotten what he lived for. He was weak 
 and thin, and with a pale memory of things. His func- 
 tions were the same, everything surrounding him was the 
 same: he looked upon the old blue hills, the far-lying 
 fallows, the river, and the woods: he knew them, they 
 seemed to have lost recollection of him. Nor could he find 
 in familiar human faces the secret of intimacy of hereto- 
 fore. They were the same faces: they nodded and smiled 
 to him. What was lost he could not tell. Something had 
 been knocked out of him ! He was sensible of his father's 
 sweetness of manner, and he was grieved that he could 
 not reply to it, for every sense of shame and reproach had 
 strangely gone. He felt very useless. In place of the 
 fiery love for one, he now bore about a cold charity to 
 all/ 
 
 Thus in the heart of the young man died the Spring 
 Primrose, and while it died another heart was pushing 
 forth the Primrose of Autumn. 
 
 The wonderful change in Richard, and the wisdom of 
 her admirer, now positively proved, were exciting matters
 
 176 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD PEVEREL 
 
 to Lady Blandish. She was rebuked for certain little 
 rebellious fancies concerning him that bad come across 
 
 ber enslaved mind from time to time. For was be n<>t 
 almost a prophel 1 It distressed the sentimental lady thai 
 a love like Richard's could pass off in mere smoke, and 
 words such as she bad beard him speak in Abbey-wood 
 resolve to emptiness. Xay, it humiliated ber personally, 
 and the baronet's shrewd prognostication humiliated ber. 
 For how should he know, and dare to say, that love was 
 a thing- of the dust that could be trodden out under the 
 heel of science! 1 1 Jut he had said so, and he had proved 
 himself right. She heard with wonderment that Richard 
 of his own accord had spoken to bis father of the folly 
 he had been guilty of, and bad begged bis pardon. The 
 baronet told her this, adding that the youth had done it 
 in a cold unwavering way, without a movement of his 
 features: bad evidently done it to throw off the burden 
 of the duty he had conceived. He had thought himself 
 bound to acknowledge that he had been the Foolish Young 
 Fellow, wishing, possibly, to abjure the fact by an act of 
 penance. He had also given satisfaction to Benson, and 
 was become a renovated peaceful spirit, whose main object 
 appeared to be to get up his physical strength by exercise 
 and no expenditure of speech. 
 
 In her company he was composed and courteous; even 
 when they were alone together, he did not exhibit a trace 
 of melancholy. Sober he seemed, as one who has recovered 
 from a drunkenness and has determined to drink no more. 
 The idea struck her that he might be playing a part, but 
 Tom Bakewell, in a private conversation they had, in- 
 formed her that he had received an order from his young 
 master, one day while boxing with him, not to mention 
 the young lady's name to him as long as he lived; and 
 Tom could only suppose 1 that she had offended him. Theo- 
 retically wise Lady Blandish had always thought the 
 baronet; she was unprepared to find him thus practically 
 sagacious. She fell many degrees; she wanted something 
 to cling to; so she clung to the man who struck ber low. 
 Love, then, was earthly; its depth could be probed by 
 science! A man lived who could measure 1 it from end 
 to end; foretell its term: handle the young cherub as were 
 he a shot owl! We who have flown into cousinship with
 
 THE SPRING AND AUTUMN PRIMROSE 177 
 
 the empyrean, and disported among immortal hosts, our 
 base birth as a child of Time is made bare to us!— our 
 wings are cut ! Oh, then, if science is this victorious 
 enemy of love, let us love science! was the logic of the 
 lady's heart; and secretly cherishing the assurance that 
 she should confute him yet, and prove him utterly wrong, 
 she gave him the fruits of present success, as it is a habit 
 of women to do; involuntarily partly. The fires took hold 
 of her. She felt soft emotions such as a girl feels, and 
 they flattered her. It was like youth coming back. _ Pure 
 women have a second youth. The Autumn primrose 
 flourished. 
 
 We are advised by The Pilgrim's Scrip that — 
 
 ''The ways of women, which are Involution, and their 
 practices, which are Opposition, are generally best hit 
 upon by guess work, and a bold word;" — it being impos- 
 sible to track them and hunt them down in the ordinary 
 style. 
 
 So that we may not ourselves become involved and op- 
 posed, let us each of us venture a guess and say a bold 
 word as to how it came that the lady, who trusted love to 
 be eternal, grovelled to him that shattered her tender faith, 
 and loved him. 
 
 Hitherto it had been simply a sentimental dalliance, and 
 gossips had maligned the lady. Just when the gossips 
 grew tired of their slander, and inclined to look upon her 
 charitably, she set about to deserve every word they had 
 said of her; which may instruct us, if you please, that 
 gossips have only to persist in lying to be crowned with 
 verity, or that one has only to endure evil mouths for a 
 period to gain impunity. She was always at the Abbey 
 now. She was much closeted with the baronet. It seemed 
 to be understood that she had taken Mrs. Doria's place. 
 Benson in his misogynic soul perceived that she was tak- 
 ing Lady Feverel's: but any report circulated by Benson 
 was sure to meet discredit, and drew the gossips upon 
 himself; which made his meditations tragic. No sooner 
 was one woman defeated than another took the field! 
 The object of the System was no sooner safe than its 
 great author was in danger! 
 
 "I can't think what has come to Benson," he said to 
 Adrian.
 
 178 THE ORDEAL O! KK'IIARI) FEVEREL 
 
 "He seems to have received a fresh legacy of several 
 pounds of lead," returned the wise youth, and imitating 
 Dr. Clifford's manner. "Change is what he wants! dis- 
 traction! send him to Wales t'.ir a month, sir, and let Rich- 
 ard go with him. The. two victims of woman may do each 
 other good." 
 
 "Unfortunately I can't do without him," said the bar- 
 onet. 
 
 "Then we must continue to have him on our shoulders 
 all day, and on our chests all night !" Adrian ejaculated. 
 
 "I think while he preserves this aspect we won't have 
 him at the dinner-table," said the baronet. 
 
 Adrian thought that would he a relied' to their diges- 
 tions; and added: "You know, sir, what he says?" 
 
 Receiving a negative, Adrian delicately explained to 
 him that Benson's excessive ponderosity of demeanour 
 was caused by anxiety for the safety of his master. 
 
 "You must pardon a faithful fool, sir," he continued, 
 for the baronet became red. and exclaimed: 
 
 "His stupidity is past belief! 1 have* absolutely to bolt 
 my study-door against him." 
 
 Adrian at once beheld a charming scene in the interior 
 of the study, not unlike one that. Benson had visually wit- 
 nessed. For, like a wary prophet, Benson, that he might 
 have warrant for what he foretold of the future, had a 
 care to spy upon the present: warned haply by Tin: 
 Pilg-rim's SCRIP, of which he was a diligent reader, and 
 which says, rather emphatically: "Could we see Time's 
 full face, we were wise of him." Now to see Time's full 
 face, it is sometimes necessary to look through keyhole^, 
 the veteran having a trick of smiling peace to you on one 
 cheek and grimacing confusion on the other behind the 
 curtain. Decency and a sense of honour restrain most 
 of us from being thus wise and miserable for ever. Ben- 
 son's excuse was that he believed in his master, who was 
 menaced. And moreover, notwithstanding his previous 
 tribulation, to spy upon Cupid was sweet to him. So 
 he peeped, and he saw a sight., lie saw Time's full face; 
 or, in other words, he saw the wiles of woman and the 
 weakness of man: which is our history, as Benson would 
 have written it, and a great many poets and philosophers 
 have written it
 
 THE SPRING AND AUTUMN PRIMROSE 179 
 
 Yet it was but the plucking of the Autumn primrose 
 that Benson had seen: a somewhat different operation 
 from the plucking of the Spring one : very innocent ! Our 
 staid elderly sister has paler blood, and has, or thinks 
 she has, a reason or two about the roots. She is not all 
 instinct. "For this high cause, and for that I know men, 
 and know him to be the flower of men, I give myself to 
 him!" She makes that lofty inward exclamation while 
 the hand is detaching her from the roots. Even so strong 
 a self-justification she requires. She has not that blind 
 glory in excess which her younger sister can gild the 
 longest leap with. And if, moth-like, she desires the star, 
 she is nervously cautious of candles. Hence her circles 
 about the dangerous human flame are wide and shy. She 
 must be drawn nearer and nearer by a fresh reason. She 
 loves to sentimentalize. Lady Blandish had been senti- 
 mentalizing for ten years. She would have preferred to 
 pursue the game. The dark-eyed dame was pleased with 
 her smooth life and the soft excitement that did not 
 ruffle it. Not willingly did she let herself be won. 
 
 "Sentimentalists," says The Pilgrim's Scrip, "are they 
 who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtor- 
 ship for a thing done." 
 
 "It is," the writer says of Sentimentalism elsewhere, "a 
 happy pastime and an important science to the timid, the 
 idle, and the heartless; but a damning one to them who 
 have anything to forfeit." 
 
 However, one who could set down the dying for love, as 
 a sentimentalism, can hardly be accepted as a clear author- 
 ity. Assuredly he was not one to avoid the incurring of 
 the immense debtorship in any way: but he was a bonds- 
 man still to the woman who had forsaken him, and a 
 spoken word would have made it seem his duty to face that 
 public scandal which was the last evil to him. What had 
 so horrified the virtuous Benson, Richard had already be- 
 held in Daphne's Bower; a simple kissing of the fair 
 white hand ! Doubtless the keyhole somehow added to 
 Benson's horror. The two similar performances, so very 
 innocent, had wondrous opposite consequences. The first 
 kindled Richard to adore Woman; the second destroyed 
 Benson's faith in Man. But Lady Blandish knew the 
 difference between the two. She understood why the bar-
 
 180 THE OEDEAL OK KICIIAKD KKVEREL 
 
 onet diil not speak; excused, and respected him for it. 
 She was content, since she must love, to love humbly, and 
 she had, besides, her pity for his sorrows to comfort her. 
 A hundred t'ir-li reasons for loving him arose and multi- 
 plied every day. He read to her the secret book in his 
 own handwriting, composed for Kichard's Marriage 
 Guide: containing Advice and Directions to a Young 
 Husband, full of the most tender wisdom and delicacy; 
 so she thought ; nay, not wanting in poetry, though neither 
 rhymed nor measured. He expounded to her the dis- 
 tinctive character of the divers ages of love, giving the 
 palm to the flower she put forth, over that of Spring, or 
 the Summer rose. And while they sat and talked, "My 
 wound has healed," he said. "How?" she asked. "At 
 the fountain of your eyes," he replied, and drew the joy 
 of new life from her blushes, without incurring further 
 debtorship for a thing done. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 IN WHICH THE HERO TAKES A STEP 
 
 Let it be some apology for the damage caused by the 
 careering hero, and a consolation to the quiet wretches, 
 dragged along with him at his chariot-wheels, that he is 
 generally the last to know when he has made an actual 
 start ; such a mere creature is he, like the rest of us, albeit 
 the head of our fates. By this you perceive the true hero, 
 whether he be a prince or a pot-boy, that he does not plot; 
 Fortune does all for him. He may be compared to one to 
 whom, in an electric circle, it is given to carry the batter//. 
 We caper and grimace at his will ; yet not his the will, not 
 his the power. 'Tis all Fortune's, whose puppet he is. She 
 deals her dispensations through him. Yea, though our 
 capers be never so comical, he laughs not. Intent upon 
 his own business, the true hero asks little services of us 
 here and there; thinks it quite natural that they should 
 be acceded to, and sees nothing ridiculous in the lamen- 
 table contortions we must go through to fulfil them. 
 Probably he is the elect of Fortune, because of that notablo
 
 THE HERO TAKES A STEP 181 
 
 faculty of being intent upon his own business : "Which. 
 is," says The Pilgrim's Scrip, "with men to be valued 
 equal to that force which in water makes a stream." This 
 prelude was necessary to the present chapter of Richard's 
 history. 
 
 It happened that in the turn of the year, and while old 
 earth was busy with her flowers, the fresh wind blew, the 
 little bird sang, and Hippias Feverel, the Dyspepsy, 
 amazed, felt the Spring move within him. He communi- 
 cated his delightful new sensations to the baronet, his 
 brother, whose constant exclamation with regard to him, 
 was : "Poor Hippias ! All his machinery is bare !" and 
 had no hope that he would ever be in a condition to defend 
 it from view. Nevertheless Hippias had that hope, and 
 so he told his brother, making great exposure of his ma- 
 chinery to effect the explanation. He spoke of all his 
 physical experiences exultingly, and with wonder. The 
 achievement of common efforts, not usually blazoned, he 
 celebrated as triumphs, and, of course, had Adrian on his 
 back very quickly. But he could bear him, or anything, 
 now. It was such ineffable relief to find himself looking 
 out upon the world of mortals instead of into the black 
 phantasmal abysses of his own complicated frightful 
 structure. "My mind doesn't so much seem to haunt 
 itself, now," said Hippias, nodding shortly and peering 
 out of intense puckers to convey a glimpse of what hellish 
 sufferings his had been: "I feel as if I had come above- 
 ground." 
 
 A poor Dyspepsy may talk as he will, but he is the one 
 who never gets sympathy, or experiences compassion : and 
 it is he whose groaning petitions for charity do at last 
 rout that Christian virtue. Lady Blandish, a charitable 
 soul, could not listen to Hippias, though she had a heart 
 for little mice and flies, and Sir Austin had also small 
 patience with his brother's gleam of health, which was 
 just enough to make his disease visible. He remembered 
 his early follies and excesses, and bent his ear to him as 
 one man does to another who complains of having to pay 
 a debt legally incurred. 
 
 "I think," said Adrian, seeing how the communications 
 of Hippias were received, "that when our Nemesis takes
 
 L82 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 lodgings in the stomach, it's best to act the Spartan, smilo 
 hard, and be silent." 
 
 Richard alone was decently kind to Hippias; whether 
 from opposition, or real affection, could not be said, as the 
 young man was mysterious. He advised his uncle to take 
 exercise, walked with him, cultivated cheerful impressions 
 in him, and pointed out innocent pursuits. He made Hip- 
 pias visit with him some of the poor old folk of the village, 
 who bewailed the loss of his cousin Austin Wentworth, 
 and did his best to waken him up, and give the outer world 
 a stronger hold on him. He succeeded in nothing but in 
 winning his uncle's gratitude. The season bloomed scarce 
 longer than a week for Hippias^ and then began to lan- 
 guish. The- poor Dyspepsy's eager grasp at beatification 
 relaxed : he went underground again. He announced that 
 he felt "spongy things" — one of the more constant throes 
 of his malady. His bitter face recurred: he chewed the 
 cud of horrid hallucinations. He told Richard he must 
 give up going about with- him: people telling of their 
 ailments made him so uncomfortable — the birds were so 
 noisy, pairing — the rude bare soil sickened him. 
 
 Richard treated him with a gravity equal to his father's. 
 He asked what the doctors said. 
 
 "Oh! the doctors!" cried Hippias with vehement scepti- 
 cism. "No man of sense believes in medicine for chronic 
 disorder. Do you happen to have heard of any new remedy 
 then, Richard? No? They advertise a great many cures 
 for indigestion, I assure you, my dear boy. I wonder 
 whether one can rely upon the authenticity of those signa- 
 tures? I see no reason why there should be no cure for 
 such a disease? — Eh? And it's just one of the things a 
 quack, as they call them, would hit upon sooner than one 
 who is in the beaten track. Do you know, Richard, my 
 dear boy, I've often thought that if we could by any means 
 appropriate to our use some of the extraordinary digestive 
 power that a boa constrictor has in his gastric juices, 
 there is really no manner of reason why we should not 
 comfortably dispose of as much of an ox as our stomachs 
 will hold, and one might eat French dishes without the 
 wretchedness of thinking what's to follow. And this 
 makes me think that those fellows may, after all, have 
 got some truth in them: some secret that, of course, they
 
 THE HEKO TAKES A STEP 133 
 
 require to be paid for. We distrust each other in this 
 world too much, Eichard. I've felt inclined once or 
 twice — but it's absurd! — If it only alleviated a few of my 
 sufferings I should be satisfied. I've no hesitation in 
 saying that I should be quite satisfied if it only did 
 away with one or two, and left me free to eat and drink 
 as other people do. Not that I mean to try them. It's 
 only a fancy — Eh ? What a thing health is, my dear boy ! 
 Ah! if I were like you! I was in love once!" 
 
 "Were you !" said Richard, coolly regarding him. 
 
 "I've forgotten what I felt!" Hippias sighed. "You've 
 very much improved, my dear boy." 
 
 "So people say," quoth Richard. 
 
 Hippias looked at him anxiously: "If I go to town and 
 get the doctor's opinion about trying a new course — Eh, 
 Richard ? will you come with me ? I should like your com- 
 pany. We could see London together, you know. Enjoy 
 ourselves," and Hippias rubbed his hands. 
 
 Richard smiled at the feeble glimmer of enjoyment 
 promised by his uncle's eyes, and said he thought it better 
 they should stay where they were; — an answer that might 
 mean anything. Hippias immediately became possessed 
 by the beguiling project. He went to the baronet, and put 
 the matter before him, instancing doctors as the object 
 of his journey, not quacks, of course ; and requesting leave 
 to take Richard. Sir Austin was getting uneasy about 
 his son's manner. It was not natural. His heart seemed 
 to be frozen : he had no confidences : he appeared to have no 
 ambition — to have lost the virtues of youth with the 
 poison that had passed out of him. He was disposed to 
 try what effect a little travelling might have on him, and 
 had himself once or twice hinted to Richard that it would 
 be good for him to move about, the young man quietly 
 replying that he did not wish to quit Raynham at all, 
 which was too strict a fulfilment of his father's original 
 views in educating him there entirely. On the day that 
 Hippias made his proposal, Adrian, seconded by Lady 
 Blandish, also made one. The sweet Spring season stirred 
 in Adrian as well as in others: not to pastoral measures: 
 to the joys of the operatic world and bravura glories. He 
 also suggested that it would be advisable to carry Richard 
 to town for a term, and let him know his position, and
 
 L84 THE OKI) K A I. OF RICHARD FEVER EL 
 
 some freedom. Sir Austin weighed the two proposals. 
 He was pretty certain that Riehard's passion was con- 
 sumed, and thai the youth was now only under the burden 
 of its ashes. II'- had found against Ids heart, at the Bell- 
 in ghftm inn: a great lock of golden hair. He had taken 
 it, and tho lover, after feeling about for it with faint 
 hands, never asked for it. This precious lock (Miss 
 Davenport had thrust it into his hand at Belthorpe as 
 Lucy's last gift), what sighs and tears it had weathered! 
 The baronet laid it in Richard's sight one day, and be- 
 held him take it up, turn it over, and drop it down again 
 calmly, as if he were handling any common curiosity. 
 It pacified him on that score. The young man's love was 
 dead. Dr. Clifford said rightly: he wanted distractions. 
 The baronet determined that Richard should go. Hippias 
 and Adrian then pressed their several suits as to which 
 should have him. Hippias, when ho could forget himself, 
 did not lack sense. He observed that Adrian was not at 
 present a proper companion for Richard, and would teach 
 him to look on life from the false point. 
 
 "You don't understand a young philosopher," said the 
 baronet. 
 
 "A young philosopher's an old fool!" returned Hippias, 
 not thinking that his growl had begotten a phrase. 
 
 His brother smiled with gratification, and applauded 
 him loudly: "Excellent! worthy of your best days! You're 
 wrong, though, in applying it to Adrian. He has never 
 been precocious. All he has done has been to bring sound 
 common sense to bear upon what he hears and sees. I 
 think, however," the baronet added, "he may want faith 
 in the better qualities of men." And this reflection in- 
 clined him not to let his son be alone with Adrian. He 
 gave Richard his choice, who saw which way his father's 
 wishes tended, and decided so to please him. Naturally 
 it annoyed Adrian extremely. He said to his chief: 
 
 "I suppose you know what you are doing, sir. I don't 
 see that we derive any advantage from the family name 
 being made notorious for twenty years of obscene suffer- 
 ing, and 1 uning a byword for our constitutional ten- 
 dency to stomachic distention before we fortunately en- 
 countered Quackem's Pill. My uncle's tortures have been 
 huge, but I would rather society were not intimate with
 
 THE HERO TAKES A STEP 185 
 
 them under their several headings." Adrian enumerated 
 some of the most abhorrent. "You know him, sir. If he 
 conceives a duty, he will do it in the face of every decency 
 — all the more obstinate because the conception is rare. 
 If he feels a little brisk the morning after the pill, he 
 sends the letter that makes us famous! We go down to 
 posterity with heightened characteristics, to say nothing 
 of a contemporary celebrity nothing less than our being 
 turned inside-out to the rabble. I confess I don't desire 
 to have my machinery made bare to them." 
 
 Sir Austin assured the wise youth that Hippias had ar- 
 ranged to go to Dr. Bairam. He softened Adrian's 
 chagrin by telling him that in about two weeks they 
 would follow to London : hinting also at a prospective 
 Summer campaign. The day was fixed for Richard to 
 depart, and the day came. Madame the Eighteenth Cen- 
 tury called him to her chamber and put into his hand 
 a fifty-pound note, as her contribution toward his pocket- 
 expenses. He did not want it, he said, but she told him 
 he was a young man, and would soon make that fly when 
 he stood on his own feet. The old lady did not at all 
 approve of the System in her heart, and she gave her 
 grand-nephew to understand that, should he require more, 
 he knew where to apply, and secrets would be kept. His 
 father presented him with a hundred pounds — which also 
 Richard said he did not want — he did not care for money. 
 "Spend it or not," said the baronet, perfectly secure in 
 him. 
 
 Hippias had few injunctions to observe. They were to 
 take up quarters at the hotel, Algernon's general run of 
 company at the house not being altogether wholesome. 
 The baronet particularly forewarned Hippias of the im- 
 prudence of attempting to restrict the young man's move- 
 ments, and letting him imagine he was under surveillance. 
 Richard having been, as it were, pollarded by despotism, 
 was now to grow up straight, and bloom again, in complete 
 independence, as far as he could feel. So did the sage 
 decree; and we may pause a moment to reflect how wise 
 were his previsions, and how successful they must have 
 been, had not Fortune, the great foe to human cleverness, 
 turned against him, or he against himself. 
 
 The departure took place on a fine March morning. The
 
 L86 THE OKDEAl OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 bird of Winter Bang from the budding tree; in the blue 
 sky sang the bird of Summer. Adrian rode between Rich- 
 ard and Hippias to the Bellingham station, and vented 
 his disgust on them after his own humorous fashion, 
 because it did not rain and damp their ardour. In tin' 
 rear came Lady Blandish and the baronet, conversing on 
 the calm summit of success. 
 
 "You have shaped him exactly to resemble yourself," 
 she said, pointing with her riding-whip to the grave. 
 stately figure of the young man. 
 
 "Outwardly, perhaps," he answered, and led to a dis- 
 cussion on Purity and Strength, the lady saying that she 
 preferred Purity. 
 
 "But you do not," said the baronet. "And there I ad- 
 mire the always true instinct of women, that they all 
 worship Strength in whatever form, and seem to know it 
 to be the child of heaven; whereas Purity is but a charac- 
 teristic, a garment, and can be spotted — how soon ! For 
 there are questions in this life with which we must grapple 
 or be lost, and when, hunted by that cold eye of intense 
 inner-consciousness, the clearest soul becomes a cunning 
 fox, if it have not courage to stand and do battle. 
 Strength indicates a boundless nature — like the Maker. 
 Strength is a God to you — Purity a toy. A pretty one, 
 and you seem to be fond of playing with it," he added, 
 with unaccustomed slyness. 
 
 The lady listened, pleased at the sportive malice wdiich 
 showed that the constraint on his mind had left him. It 
 was for women to fight their fight now; she only took part 
 in it for amusement. This is how the ranks of our 
 enemies are thinned; no sooner do poor women put up a 
 champion in their midst than she betrays them. 
 
 "I see," she said archly, "we are the lovelier vessels; 
 you claim the more direct descent. Men are seedlings : 
 Women — slips! Nay, you have said so," she cried out at 
 his gestured protestation, laughing. 
 
 "But I never printed it." 
 
 "Oh! what you speak answers for print with me." 
 
 Exquisite Blandish ! He could not choose but love hor. 
 
 "Tell me what are your plans?" she asked. "May a 
 woman know?" 
 
 He replied, "I have none or you would share them. I
 
 THE HERO TAKES A STEP 187 
 
 shall study him in the world. This indifference must wear 
 off. I shall mark his inclinations now, and he shall be 
 what he inclines to. Occupation will be his prime safety. 
 His cousin Austin's plan of life appears most to his taste, 
 and he can serve the people that way as well as in Parlia- 
 ment, should he have no stronger ambition. The clear 
 duty of a man of any wealth is to serve the people as he 
 best can. He shall go among Austin's set, if he wishes 
 it, though personally I find no pleasure in rash imagina- 
 tions, and undigested schemes built upon the mere instinct 
 of principles." 
 
 "Look at him now," said the lady. "He seems to care 
 for nothing; not even for the beauty of the day." 
 
 "Or Adrian's jokes," added the baronet. 
 
 Adrian could be seen to be trying zealously to torment 
 a laugh, or a confession of irritation, out of his hearers, 
 stretching out his chin to one, and to the other, with 
 audible asides. Richard he treated as a new instrument 
 of destruction about to be let loose on the slumbering 
 metropolis; Hippias as one in an interesting condition; 
 and he got so much fun out of the notion of these two 
 journeying together, and the mishaps that might occur 
 to them, that he esteemed it almost a personal insult for 
 his hearers not to laugh. The wise youth's dull life at 
 Raynham had afflicted him with many peculiarities of the 
 professional joker. 
 
 "Oh! the Spring! the Spring!" he cried, as in scorn of 
 his sallies they exchanged their unmeaning remarks on the 
 sweet weather across him. "You seem both to be uncom- 
 monly excited by the operations of turtles, rooks, and daws. 
 Why can't you let them alone ? 
 
 'Wind bloweth, 
 Cock croweth, 
 
 Doodle-doo; 
 Hippy verteth, 
 Ricky sterteth, 
 
 Sing Cuckoo!' 
 
 There's an old native pastoral! — Why don't you write a 
 Spring sonnet, Ricky? The asparagus-beds are full of 
 promise, I hear, and eke the strawberry. Berries I fancy 
 your Pegasus has a taste for. What kind of berry was that
 
 l^ THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVERKL 
 
 I saw some verses of yours about once? — amatory verses 
 to some kind of berry — yewberry, blueberry, ^hichrrry ! 
 Pretty verses, decidedly warm. Lips, eyes, bosom, legs — 
 legs? 1 don't think you gave ber any legs. No legs and 
 no nose. Thai appears to be tbe poetic taste of the clay. 
 It shall be admitted that you create the very beauties for a 
 chaste people. 
 
 'O might I lie whore leans her lute!' 
 
 and offend no moral community. That's not a bad image 
 of yours, my dear boy: 
 
 'Her shape is like an antelope 
 Upon the Eastern hills.' 
 
 But as a candid critic, I would ask you if the likeness can 
 be considered correct when you give her no legs ? You will 
 see at the ballet that you are in error about women at 
 present, Richard. That admirable institution which our 
 venerable elders have imported from Gallia for the instruc- 
 tion of our gaping youth, will edify and astonish you. I 
 assure you I used, from reading The Pilgrim's Scrip, to 
 imagine all sorts of things about them, till I was taken 
 there, and learnt that they are very like us after all, and 
 then they ceased to trouble me. Mystery is the great 
 danger to youth, my son ! Mystery is woman's redoubtable 
 weapon, O Richard of the Ordeal ! I'm aware that you've 
 had your lessons in anatomy, but nothing will persuade 
 you that an anatomical figure means flesh and blood. You 
 can't realize the fact. Do you intend to publish when 
 you're in town ? It'll be better not to put your name. 
 Having one's name to a volume of poems is as bad as to 
 an advertising pill." 
 
 "I will send you an early copy, Adrian, when I publish," 
 quoth Richard. "Hark at that old blackbird, uncle." 
 
 "Yes!" Hippias quavered, looking up from the usual 
 subject of his contemplation, and trying to take an in- 
 terest in him, "fine old fellow!" 
 
 "What a chuckle he gives out before he flies ! Not 
 unlike July nightingales. You know that bird I "told 
 you of — the blackbird that had its mate shot, and used 
 to come to sing to old Dame Bakewell's bird from the tree
 
 THE HEKO TAKES A STEP 189 
 
 opposite. A rascal knocked it over the day before yes- 
 terday, and the dame says her bird hasn't sung a note 
 since." 
 
 "Extraordinary !" Hippias muttered abstractedly. "I 
 remember the verses." 
 
 "But where' s your moral?" interposed the wrathful 
 Adrian. "Where's constancy rewarded? 
 
 'The ouzel-cock so black of hue, 
 
 The orange-tawny bill ; 
 The rascal with his aim so true; 
 
 The Poet's little quill!' 
 
 Where's the moral of that ? except that all's game to the 
 poet ! Certainly we have a noble example of the devoted- 
 ness of the female, who for three entire days refuses to 
 make herself heard, on account of a defunct male. I 
 suppose that's what Ricky dwells on." 
 
 "As you please, my dear Adrian," says Richard, and 
 points out larch-buds to his uncle, as they ride by the 
 young green wood. 
 
 The wise youth was driven to extremity. Such a lapse 
 from his pupil's heroics to this last verge of Arcadian cool- 
 ness, Adrian could not believe in. "Hark at this old 
 blackbird!" he cried, in his turn, and pretending to in- 
 terpret his fits of song : 
 
 "Oh, what a pretty comedy! — Don't we wear the mask 
 well, my Fieseo? — Genoa will be our own to-morrow! — 
 Only wait until the train has started — jolly! jolly! jolly! 
 We'll be winners yet! 
 
 "Not a bad verse — eh, Ricky? my Lucius Junius!" 
 
 "You do the blackbird well," said Richard, and looked 
 at him in a manner mildly affable. 
 
 Adrian shrugged. "You're a young man of wonderful 
 powers," he emphatically observed; meaning to say that 
 Richard quite beat him; for which opinion Richard 
 gravely thanked him, and with this they rode into Bell- 
 ingham. 
 
 There was young Tom Blaize at the station, in his Sun- 
 day beaver and gala waistcoat and neckcloth, coming the 
 lord over Tom Bakewell, who had preceded his master in 
 charge of the baggage. He likewise was bound for Lon-
 
 190 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 don. Richard, as he was dismounting, heard Adrian say- 
 to the- baronet: "Tin- 'least, sir, appears to be going to 
 fetch Beauty;*' hut he paid no heed to the words. 
 Whether young Tom heard them or not, Adrian's look 
 took the lord out of him, and he shrunk away into ob- 
 scurity, where the nearest approach to the fashions which 
 the tailors of Bellingham could supply to him, sat upon 
 him more easily, and he was not stiffened by the eyes of 
 the superiors whom he sought to rival. The baronet, Lady 
 Blandish, and Adrian remained on horseback, and received 
 Richard's adieus across the palings. He shook hands with 
 each of them in the same kindly cold way, eliciting from 
 Adrian a marked encomium on his style of doing it. The 
 train came up, and Richard stepped after his uncle into 
 one of the carriages. 
 
 Now surely there will come an age when the presenta- 
 tion of science at war with Fortune and the Fates will 
 be deemed the true epic of modern life; and the aspect of 
 a scientific humanist who, by dint of incessant watchful- 
 ness, has maintained a System against those active forces, 
 cannot be reckoned less than sublime, even though at the 
 moment he but sit upon his horse, on a fine March morn- 
 ing such as this, and smile wistfully to behold the son 
 of his heart, his System incarnate, wave a serene adieu to 
 tutelage, neither too eager nor morbidly unwilling to try 
 his luck alone for a term of two weeks. At present, I am 
 aware, an audience impatient for blood and glory scorns 
 the stress I am putting on incidents so minute, a picture 
 so little imposing. An audience will come to whom it will 
 be given to see the elementary machinery at work : who, 
 as it were, from some slight hint of the straws, will feel 
 the winds of March when they do not blow. To them will 
 nothing be trivial, seeing that they will have in their eyes 
 the invisible conflict going on around us, whose features 
 a nod, a smile, a laugh of ours perpetually changes. And 
 they will perceive, moreover, that in real life all hangs 
 together: the train is laid in the lifting of an eyebrow, 
 that bursts upon the field of thousands. They will see 
 the links of things as they pass, and wonder not, as foolish 
 people now do, that this great matter came out of that 
 small one. 
 
 Such an audience, then, will participate in the baronet's
 
 THE HERO TAKES A STEP 191 
 
 gratification at his son's demeanour, wherein he noted the 
 calm bearing of experience not gained in the usual wan- 
 ton way: and will not be without some excited apprehen- 
 sion at his twinge of astonishment, when, just as the train 
 went sliding into swiftness, he beheld the grave, cold, 
 self-possessed young man throw himself back in the car- 
 riage violently laughing. Science was at a loss to account 
 for that. Sir Austin checked his mind from inquiring, 
 that he might keep suspicion at a distance, but he thought 
 it odd, and the jarring sensation that ran along his nerves 
 at the sight, remained with him as he rode home. 
 
 Lady Blandish's tender womanly intuition bade her say : 
 "You see it was the very thing he wanted. He has got his 
 natural spirits already." 
 
 "It was," Adrian put in his word, "the exact thing he 
 wanted. His spirits have returned miraculously." 
 
 "Something amused him," said the baronet, with an eye 
 on the puffing train. 
 
 "Probably something his uncle said or did," Lady Blan- 
 dish suggested, and led off at a gallop. 
 
 Her conjecture chanced to be quite correct. The cause 
 for Richard's laughter was simple enough. Hippias, on 
 finding the carriage-door closed on him, became all at once 
 aware of the bright-haired hope which dwells in Change, 
 for one who does not woo her too frequently; and to ex- 
 press his sudden relief from mental despondency at the 
 amorous prospect, the Dyspepsy bent and gave his hands 
 a sharp rub between his legs: which unlucky action 
 brought Adrian's pastoral, 
 
 "Hippy verteth, 
 Sing cuckoo!" 
 
 in such comic colours before Richard, that a demon of 
 laughter seized him. 
 
 "Hippy verteth!" 
 
 Every time he glanced at his uncle the song sprang up, 
 and he laughed so immoderately that it looked like mad- 
 ness come upon him. 
 
 "Why, why, why, what are you laughing at, my dear
 
 L92 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 boy," said Hippias. and was provoked by the contagious 
 ex ercis e to a modest "ha! ha!" 
 
 "Why, what are you laughing at, uncle?" cried Richard. 
 
 "I really don't know," Hippias chuckled. 
 
 "Nor I, uncle! Sing, cuckoo!" 
 
 They laughed themselves into the pleasantest mood 
 imaginable. Hippias not only came aboveground, he flew 
 about in the very skies, verting like any blithe creature of 
 the season. He remembered old legal jokes, and anecdotes 
 of Circuit; and Richard laughed at them all, but more at 
 him — he was so genial, and childishly fresh, and inno- 
 cently joyful at his own transformation, while a lurking 
 doubt in the bottom of his eyes, now and then, that it 
 might not last, and that he must go underground again, 
 lent him a look of pathos and humour which tickled his 
 youthful companion irresistibly, and made his heart warm 
 to him. 
 
 "I tell you what, uncle," said Richard, "I think travel- 
 ling's a capital thing." 
 
 "The best thing in the world, my dear boy," Hippias 
 returned. "It makes me wish I had given up that Work 
 of mine, and tried it before, instead of chaining myself 
 to a task. We're quite different beings in a minute. I 
 am. Hem! what shall we have for dinner?" 
 
 "Leave that to me, uncle. I shall order for you. You 
 know, I intend to make you well. How gloriously we go 
 along! I shoidd like to ride on a railway every day." 
 
 Hippias remarked: "They say it rather injures the di- 
 gestion." 
 
 "Nonsense! see how you'll digest to-night and to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Perhaps I shall do something yet," sighed Hippias, 
 alluding to the vast literary fame he had aforetime 
 dreamed of. "I hope I shall have a good night to-night." 
 
 "Of course you will! What! after laughing like that?" 
 
 "Ugh!" Hippias grunted, "I daresay, Richard, you sleep 
 the moment you get into bed !" 
 
 "The instant my head's on my pillow, and up the 
 moment I wake. Health's everything!" 
 
 "Health's everything!" echoed Hippias, from his im- 
 mense distance. 
 
 "And if you'll put yourself in my hands," Richard con-
 
 THE HERO TAKES A STEP 193 
 
 tinued, "you shall do just as I do. You shall be well and 
 strong, and sing 'Jolly!' like Adrian's blackbird. You 
 shall, upon my hoaour, uncle!" 
 
 He specified the hours of devotion to his uncle's recov- 
 ery — no less than twelve a day — that he intended to ex- 
 pend, and his cheery robustness ^almost won his uncle to 
 leap up recklessly and clutch health as his own. 
 
 "Mind," quoth Hippias, with a half-seduced smile, 
 "mind your dishes are not too savoury!" 
 
 "Light food and claret ! Regular meals and amusement ! 
 Lend your heart to all, but give it to none!" exclaims 
 young Wisdom, and Hippias mutters, "Yes! yes!" and 
 intimates that the origin of his malady lay in his not fol- 
 lowing that maxim earlier. 
 
 "Love ruins us, my dear boy," he said, thinking to 
 preach Richard a lesson, and Richard boisterously broke 
 out — 
 
 "The love of Monsieur Francatelli, 
 It was the ruin of — et ccetera." 
 
 Hippias blinked, exclaiming, "Really, my dear boy! I 
 never saw you so excited." 
 
 "It's the railway! It's the fun, uncle!" 
 
 "Ah !" Hippias wagged a melancholy head, "you've got 
 the Golden Bride! Keep her if you can. That's a pretty 
 fable of your father's. I gave him the idea, though. 
 Austin filches a great many of my ideas!" 
 
 "Here's the idea in verse, uncle — 
 
 '0 sunless walkers by the tide! 
 O have you seen the Golden Bride! 
 They say that she is fair beyond 
 All women; faithful, and more fond!' 
 
 You know, the young inquirer comes to a group of peni- 
 tent sinners by the brink of a stream. They howl, and 
 answer : 
 
 'Faithful she is, but she forsakes: 
 And fond, yet endless woe she makes: 
 And fair! but with this curse she's cross'd; 
 To know her not till she is lost!'
 
 194 THE ORPKAI. OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Then the doleful party inarch of! in single file solemnly, 
 and the fabulist pursues — 
 
 'She hath a palace in the West: 
 Bright Jlesper lights her to her rest: 
 And him the Morning Star awakes 
 Whom to her charmed arms she takes. 
 
 'So lives he till he sees, alas! 
 The maids of baser metal pass.' 
 
 And prodigal of the happiness she lends him, he asks to 
 share it with one of them. There is the Silver Maid, and 
 the Copper, and the Brassy Maid, and others of them. 
 First, you know, he tries Argentine, and finds her only 
 twenty to the pound, and has a worse experience with 
 Copperina, till he descends to the scullery; and the lower 
 he goes, the less obscure become the features of his Bride 
 of Gold, and all her radiance shines forth, my uncle!" 
 
 "Verse rather blunts the point. Well, keep to her, now 
 you've got her," says Hippias. 
 
 "We will, uncle ! Look how the farms fly past ! Look 
 at the cattle in the fields ! And how the lines duck, and 
 swim up! 
 
 'She claims the whole, and not the part — 
 The coin of an unused heart! 
 To gain his Golden Bride again, 
 He hunts with melancholy men,' 
 
 — and is waked no longer by the Morning Star!" 
 
 "Not if he doesn't sleep till an hour before it rises!" 
 
 Hippias interjected. "You don't rhyme badly. But stick 
 
 to prose. Poetry's a Base-metal maid. I'm not sure that 
 
 any writing's good for the digestion. I'm afraid it has 
 
 spoilt mine." 
 
 "Fear nothing, uncle!" laughed Richard. "You shall 
 
 ride in the park with me every day to get an appetite. 
 
 You and I and the Golden Bride. You know that little 
 
 poem of Sandoe's? 
 
 'She rides in the park on a prancing bay, 
 
 She and her squires together; 
 Her dark locks gleam from a bonnet of grey, 
 And toss with the tossing feather.
 
 THE HERO TAKES A STEP 195 
 
 'Too calmly proud for a glance of pride 
 
 Is the beautiful face as it passes; 
 The cockneys nod to each other aside, 
 
 The coxcombs lift their glasses. 
 
 'And throng to her, sigh to her, you that can breach 
 
 The ice-wall that guards her securely; 
 You have not such bliss, though she smile on you each, 
 
 As the heart that can image her purely.' 
 
 Wasn't Sandoe once a friend of my father's? I suppose 
 they quarrelled. He understands the heart. What does 
 he make his 'Humble Lover' say? 
 
 'True, Madam, you may think to part 
 
 Conditions by a glacier-ridge, 
 But Beauty's for the largest heart. 
 
 And all abysses Love can bridge ! ' " 
 
 Hippias now laughed; grimly, as men laugh at the 
 emptiness of words. 
 
 "Largest heart!" he sneered. "What's a 'glacier-ridge'? 
 I've never seen one. I can't deny it rhymes with 'bridge.' 
 But don't go parading your admiration of that person, 
 Richard. Your father will speak to you on the subject 
 when he thinks fit." 
 
 "I thought they had quarrelled," said Richard. "What 
 a pity!" and he murmured to a pleased ear: 
 
 "Beauty's for the largest heart!" 
 
 The flow of their conversation was interrupted by the 
 entrance of passengers a + a station. Richard examined 
 their faces with pleasure. All faces pleased him. Human 
 nature sat tributary at the feet of him and his Golden 
 Bride. As he could not well talk his thoughts before them, 
 he looked out at the windows, and enjoyed the changing 
 landscape, projecting all sorts of delights for his old friend 
 Ripton, and musing hazily on the wondrous things he was 
 to do in the world; of the great service he was to be to 
 his fellow-creatures. In the midst of his reveries he was 
 landed in London. Tom Bakewell stood at the carriage 
 door. A glance told Richard that his squire had some-
 
 196 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 thing curiou9 on his mind, and he gave Tom the word 
 to speak out. Tom edged his master out of hearing, and 
 began sputtering a laugh. 
 
 "Dash'd if 1 can help it, sir!" he said. "That young 
 Tom! Ile've come to town dressed that spicy! mu\ he 
 don't know his way about no more than a stag. He's come 
 to fetch somebody from another rail, and he don't know 
 how to get there, and he ain't sure about which rail 'tis. 
 Look at him, Mr. Richard! There he goes." 
 
 Young Tom appeared to have the weight of all London 
 on his beaver. 
 
 "Who has he come for?" Richard asked. 
 
 "Don't you know, sir? You don't like me to mention 
 the name," mumbled Tom, bursting to be perfectly in- 
 telligible. 
 
 "Is it for her, Tom ?" 
 
 "Miss Lucy, sir." 
 
 Richard turned away, and was seized by Hippias, who 
 begged him to get out of the noise and pother, and caught 
 hold of his slack arm to bear him into a conveyance; but 
 Richard, by wheeling half to the right, or left, always got 
 his face round to the point where young Tom was manoeu- 
 vring to appear at his ease. Even when they were seated 
 in the conveyance, Hippias could not persuade him to drive 
 off. He made the excuse that he did not wish to start till 
 there was a clear road. At last young Tom cast anchor 
 by a policeman, and, doubtless at the official's suggestion, 
 bashfully took seat in a cab, and was shot into the whirl- 
 pool of London. Richard then angrily asked his driver 
 what he was waiting for. 
 
 "Are you ill, my boy?" said Hippias. "Where's your 
 colour?" 
 
 He laughed oddly, and made a random answer that he 
 hoped the fellow would drive fast. 
 
 "I hate slow motion after being in the railway," he said. 
 
 Hippias assured him there was something the matter 
 with him. 
 
 "Nothing, uncle! nothing!" said Richard, looking 
 fiercely candid. 
 
 They say, that when the skill and care of men rescue 
 a drowned wretch from extinction, and warm the flicker- 
 ing spirit into steady flame, such pain it is, the blood
 
 THE HEKO TAKES A STEP . 197 
 
 forcing its way along the dry channels, and the heavily- 
 ticking nerves, and the sullen heart — the struggle of life 
 and death in him — grim death relaxing his gripe; such 
 pain it is, he cries out no thanks to them that pull him 
 by inches from the depths of the dead river. And he who 
 has thought a love extinct, and is surprised by the old 
 fires, and the old tyranny, he rebels, and strives to fight 
 clear of the cloud of forgotten sensations that settle on 
 him; such pain it is, the old sweet music reviving through 
 his frame, and the charm of his passion fixing him afresh. 
 Still was fair Lucy the one woman to Richard. He had 
 forbidden her name but from an instinct of self-defence. 
 Must the maids of baser metal dominate him anew, it is 
 in Lucy's shape. Thinking of her now so near him — his 
 darling! all her graces, her sweetness, her truth; for, 
 despite his bitter blame of her, he knew her true — swam 
 in a thousand visions before his eyes; visions pathetic, 
 and full of glory, that now wrung his heart, and now 
 elated it. As well might a ship attempt to calm the sea, 
 as this young man the violent emotion that began to rage 
 in his breast. "I shall not see her!" he said to himself 
 exultingly, and at the same instant thought, how black 
 was every corner of the earth but that one spot where 
 Lucy stood ! how utterly cheerless the place he was going 
 to! Then he determined to bear it; to live in darkness; 
 there was a refuge in the idea of a voluntary martyrdom. 
 "For if I chose I could see her — this day within an hour! 
 — I could see her, and touch her hand, and, oh, heaven ! — 
 But I do not choose." And a great wave swelled through 
 him, and was crushed down only to swell again more 
 stormily. 
 
 Then Tom Bakewell's words recurred to him that young 
 Tom Blaize was uncertain where to go for her, and that 
 she might be thrown on this Babylon alone. And flying 
 from point to point, it struck him that they had known 
 at Raynham of her return, and had sent him to town to 
 be out of the way — they had been miserably plotting 
 against him once more. "They shall see what right they 
 have to fear me. I'll shame them !" was the first turn 
 taken by his wrathful feelings, as he resolved to go, and 
 wee her safe, and calmly return to his uncle, whom he 
 sincerely believed not to be one of the conspirators.
 
 ins THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Nevertheless, after forming that resolve, he sat still, as 
 if there was something fatal in the wheels that bore him 
 away from it — perhaps because he knew, as some do when 
 passion is lord, that his intelligence juggled with him; 
 though none the less keenly did he feel his wrongs and 
 suspicions. His Golden Bride was waning fast. But 
 when Hippias ejaculated to cheer him: "We shall soon 
 be there!" the spell broke. Bichard stopped the cab, 
 saying he wanted to speak to Tom, and would ride with 
 him the rest of the journey. He know well enough which 
 line of railway his Lucy must come by. He had studied 
 every town and station on the line. Before his uncle 
 could express more than a mute remonstrance, he jumped 
 out and hailed Tom Bakewell, who came behind with the 
 boxes and baggage in a companion cab, his head a yard 
 beyond the window to make sure of his ark of safety, the 
 vehicle preceding. 
 
 "What an extraordinary, impetuous boy it is," said Hip- 
 pias. "We're in the very street !" 
 
 Within a minute the stalwart Berry, despatched by the 
 baronet to arrange everything for their comfort, had 
 opened the door, and made his bow. 
 
 "Mr. Bichard, sir? — evaporated?" was Berry's modu- 
 lated inquiry. 
 
 "Behind — among the boxes, fool !" Hippias growled, as 
 he received Berry's muscular assistance to alight. "Lunch 
 ready — eh !" 
 
 "Luncheon was ordered precise at two o'clock, sir — been 
 in attendance one quarter of an hour. Heah!" Berry sang 
 out to the second cab, which, with its pyramid of luggage, 
 remained stationary some thirty paces distant. At his 
 voice the majestic pile deliberately turned its back on 
 them, and went off in a contrary direction.
 
 EAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HEEO 199 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 RECORDS THE RAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HERO 
 
 On the stroke of the hour when Ripton Thompson was 
 accustomed to consult his good watch for practical pur- 
 poses, and sniff freedom and the forthcoming dinner, a 
 burglarious foot entered the clerk's office where he sat, 
 and a man of a scowling countenance, who looked a villain, 
 and whom he was afraid he knew, slid a letter into his 
 hands, nodding that it would be prudent for him to read, 
 and be silent. Ripton obeyed in alarm. Apparently the 
 contents of the letter relieved his conscience; for he 
 reached down his hat, and told Mr. Beazley to inform his 
 father that he had business of pressing importance in the 
 West, and should meet him at the station. Mr. Beazley 
 zealously waited upon the paternal Thompson without 
 delay, and together making their observations from the 
 window, they beheld a cab of many boxes, into which 
 Ripton darted and was followed by one in groom's dress. 
 It was Saturday, the day when Ripton gave up his law- 
 readings, magnanimously to bestow himself upon his 
 family, and Mr. Thompson liked to have his son's arm as 
 he walked down to the station ; but that third glass of 
 Port which always stood for his second, and the groom's 
 suggestion of aristocratic acquaintances, prevented Mr. 
 Thompson from interfering: so Ripton was permitted to 
 depart. 
 
 In the cab Ripton made a study of the letter he held. 
 It had the preciseness of an imperial mandate. 
 
 "Dear Ripton, — You are to get lodgings for a lady 
 immediately. Not a word to a soul. Then come along 
 with Tom. R. D. P." 
 
 "Lodgings for a lady !" Ripton meditated aloud : "What 
 sort of lodgings? Where am I to get lodgings? Who's 
 the lady? — I say!" he addressed the mysterious messen- 
 ger. "So you're Tom Bakewell, are you, Tom?" 
 
 Tom grinned his identity.
 
 200 THE ORDKAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Do you remember the rick, Tom? Hal ha! "We pot 
 out of that neatly. Wo might all have been transported. 
 though. I could have convicted you, Tom, safe! It's no 
 use coming across a practised lawyer. Now tell me." 
 Ripton having llourishcd his powers, commenced his ex- 
 amination: "Who's this lady?" 
 
 "Better wait till you see Mr. Richard, sir," Tom re- 
 sumed his scowl to reply. 
 
 "Ah!" Ripton acquiesced. "Is she young, Tom?" 
 
 Tom said she was not old. 
 
 "Handsome, Tom?" 
 
 "Some might think one thing, some another," Tom 
 said. 
 
 "And where does she come from now?" asked Ripton 
 with the friendly cheerfulness of a baffled counsellor. 
 
 "Comes from the country, sir." 
 
 "A friend of the family, I suppose? a relation?" 
 
 Ripton left this insinuating query to be answered by a 
 look. Tom's face was a dead blank. 
 
 "Ah !" Ripton took a breath, and eyed the mask op- 
 posite him. "Why, you're quite a scholar, Tom! Mr. 
 Richard is well? All right at home?" 
 
 "Come to town this mornin' with his uncle," said Tom. 
 "All well, thank ye, sir." 
 
 "Ha !" cried Ripton, more than ever puzzled, "now I 
 see. You all came to town to-day, and these are your 
 boxes outside. So, so! But. Mr. Richard writes for me to 
 get lodgings for a lady. There must be some mistake — 
 he wrote in a hurry. He wants lodgings for you all — eh ?" 
 
 " 'M sure / d'n know what he wants," said Tom. "You'd 
 better go by the letter, sir." 
 
 Ripton re-consulted that document. " 'Lodgings for a 
 lady, and then come along with Tom. Not a word to a 
 soul.' I say! that looks like — but he never cared for 
 them. You don't mean to say, Tom, he's been running 
 away with anybody ?" 
 
 Tom fell back upon his first reply: "Better wait till ye 
 see Mr. Richard, sir," and Ripton exclaimed: "Hanged if 
 you ain't the tightest witness I ever saw! I shouldn't 
 like to have you in a box. Some of you country fellows 
 beat any number of cockneys. You do !" 
 
 Tom received the compliment stubbornly on his guard,
 
 EAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HERO 201 
 
 and Ripton, as nothing was to be got out of him, set about 
 considering how to perform his friend's injunctions; de- 
 ciding firstly, that a lady fresh from the country ought to 
 lodge near the parks, in which direction he told the cab- 
 man to drive. Thus, unaware of his high destiny, Ripton 
 joined the hero, and accepted his character in the New 
 Comedy. 
 
 It is, nevertheless, true that certain favoured people do 
 have beneficent omens to prepare them for their parts 
 when the hero is in full career, so that they really may 
 be nerved to meet him ; ay, and to check him in his course, 
 had they that signal courage. For instance, Mrs. Eliza- 
 beth Berry, a ripe and wholesome landlady of advertised 
 lodgings, on the borders of Kensington, noted, as she sat 
 rocking her contemplative person before the parlour fire 
 this very March afternoon, a supernatural tendency in 
 that fire to burn all on one side: which signifies that a 
 wedding approaches the house. Why — who shall say? 
 Omens are as impassable as heroes. It may be because in 
 these affairs the fire is thought to be all on one side. 
 Enough that the omen exists, and spoke its solemn warn- 
 ing to the devout woman. Mrs. Berry, in her circle, was 
 known as a certified lecturer against the snares of matri- 
 mony. Still that was no reason why she should not like a 
 wedding. Expectant, therefore, she watched the one glow- 
 ing cheek of Hymen, and with pleasing tremours beheld 
 a cab of many boxes draw up by her bit of garden, and a 
 gentleman emerge from it in the act of consulting an ad- 
 vertisement paper. The gentleman required lodgings for 
 a lady. Lodgings for a lady Mrs. Berry could produce, 
 and a very roseate smile for a gentleman ; so much so that 
 Ripton forgot to ask about the terms, which made the 
 landlady in Mrs. Berry leap up to embrace him as the 
 happy man. But her experienced woman's eye checked 
 her enthusiasm. He had not the air of a bridegroom: 
 he did not seem to have a weight on his chest, or an itch 
 to twiddle everything with his fingers. At any rate, he 
 was not the bridegroom for whom omens fly abroad. 
 Promising to have all ready for the lady within an hour, 
 Mrs. Berry fortified him with her card, curtsied him back 
 to his cab, and floated him off on her smiles. 
 
 The remarkable vehicle which had woven this thread of
 
 202 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 intrigue through London streets, now proceeded sedately 
 to finish its operations. Ripton was landed at a hotel in 
 Westminster. Ere> he was halfway up the stair-, a door 
 opened, and his old comrade in adventure rushed down. 
 Richard allowed no time for salutations. "Have you done 
 it?" was all he asked. Eor answer Ripton handed him 
 Mrs. Berry's card. Richard took it, and left him standing 
 there. Five minutes elapsed, and then Ripton heard the 
 gracious rustle of feminine garments above. Richard 
 came a little in advance. Leading and half supporting a 
 figure in a black-silk mantle and small black straw bonnet; 
 young — that was certain, though she held her veil so close 
 he could hardly catch the outlines of her face; girlishly 
 slender, and sweet and simple in appearance. The hush 
 that came with her, and her soft manner of moving, stirred 
 the silly youth to some of those ardours that awaken the 
 Knight of Dames in our bosoms. He felt that he would 
 have given considerable sums for her to lift her veil. He 
 could see that she was trembling — perhaps weeping. It 
 was the master of her fate she clung to. They passed 
 him without speaking. As she went by, her head passively 
 bent, Ripton had a glimpse of noble tresses and a lovely 
 neck; great golden curls hung loosely behind, pouring 
 from under her bonnet. She looked a captive borne to the 
 sacrifice. What Ripton, after a sight of those curls, would 
 have given for her just to lift her veil an instant and 
 strike him blind with beauty, was, fortunately for his 
 exchequer, never demanded of him. And he had abso- 
 lutely been composing speeches as he came along in the 
 cab! gallant speeches for the lady, and sly congratulatory 
 ones for his friend, to be delivered as occasion should 
 serve, that both might know him a man of the world, and 
 be at their ease. He forgot the smirking immoralities 
 he had revelled in. This was clearly serious. Ripton did 
 not require to be told that his friend was in love, and 
 meant that life and death business called marriage, par- 
 ents and guardians consenting or not. 
 
 Presently Richard returned to him, and said hurriedly, 
 "I want you now to go to my uncle at our hotel. Keep 
 him quiet till I come. Say I had to see you — say any- 
 thing. I shall be there by the dinner hour. Rip! I 
 must talk to you alone after dinner."
 
 EAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HERO 203 
 
 Ripton feebly attempted to reply that he was due at 
 home. He was very curious to hear the plot of the New 
 Comedy; and besides, there was Richard's face question- 
 ing him sternly and confidently for signs of unhesitating 
 obedience. He finished his grimaces by asking the name 
 and direction of the hotel. Richard pressed his hand. 
 It is much to obtain even that recognition of our devotion 
 from the hero. 
 
 Tom Bakewell also received his priming, and, to judge 
 by his chuckles and grins, rather appeared to enjoy the 
 work cut out for him. In a few minutes they had driven 
 to their separate destinations ; Ripton was left to the un- 
 usual exercise of his fancy. Such is the nature of youth 
 and its thirst for romance, that only to act as a subordi- 
 nate is pleasant. When one unfurls the standard of de- 
 fiance to parents and guardians, he may be sure of raising 
 a lawless troop of adolescent ruffians, born rebels, to any 
 amount. The beardless crew know that they have not a 
 chance of pay; but what of that when the rosy prospect 
 of thwarting their elders is in view? Though it is to see 
 another eat the Forbidden Fruit, they will run all his 
 risks with him. Gaily Ripton took rank as lieutenant 
 in the enterprise, and the moment his heart had sworn 
 the oaths, he was rewarded by an exquisite sense of the 
 charms of existence. London streets wore a sly laugh to 
 him. He walked with a dandified heel. The generous 
 youth ogled aristocratic carriages, and glanced intimately 
 at the ladies, overflowingly happy. The crossing-sweepers 
 blessed him. He hummed lively tunes, he turned over 
 old jokes in his mouth unctuously, he hugged himself, he 
 had a mind to dance down Piccadilly, and all because a 
 friend of his was running away with a pretty girl, and 
 he was in the secret. 
 
 It was only when he stood on the doorstep of Richard's 
 hotel, that his jocund mood was a little dashed by remem- 
 bering that he had then to commence the duties of hi 
 office, and must fabricate a plausible story to account fo 
 what he knew nothing about — a part that the greates 
 of sages would find it difficult to perform. The young, 
 however, whom sages well may envy, seldom fail in lift- 
 ing their inventive faculties to the level of their spirits, 
 and two minutes of Hippias's angry complaints against
 
 204 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 the friend he Berenely inquired for, gave Ripton his 
 cue. 
 
 "We're in the very street — within a stone's-throw of 
 the house, and he jumps like a harlequin out of nay cab 
 into another; he must be mad — that boy's got madness in 
 him! — and carries oil' nil the boxes — my dinner-pills, too! 
 iiinl keeps away the whole of the day, though he promised 
 to go to the doctor, and had a dozen enira<rements with 
 me," said Hippias, venting an enraged snarl to sum up 
 his grievances. 
 
 Ripton at once told him that the doctor was not at 
 home. 
 
 "Why, you don't mean to say he's been to the doctor?" 
 Hippias cried out. 
 
 "He has called on him twice, sir," said Ripton, expres- 
 sively. "On leaving me he was going a third time. I 
 shouldn't wonder that's what detains him — he's so deter- 
 mined." 
 
 By fine degrees Ripton ventured to grow circumstantial, 
 saying that Richard's case was urgent and required im- 
 mediate medical advice; and that both he and his father 
 were of opinion Richard should not lose an hour in ob- 
 taining it. 
 
 "He's alarmed about himself," said Ripton, and tapped 
 his chest. 
 
 Hippias protested he had never heard a word from his 
 nephew of any physical affliction. 
 
 "He was afraid of making you anxious, I think, sir." 
 
 Algernon Feverel and Richard came in while he was 
 hammering at the alphabet to recollect the first letter of 
 the doctor's name. They had met in the hall below, and 
 were laughing heartily as they entered the room. Ripton 
 jumped up to get the initiative. 
 
 "Have you seen the doctor?" he asked, significantly 
 plucking at Richard's fingers. 
 
 Richard was all abroad at the question. 
 
 Algernon clapped him on the back. "What the deuce 
 do you want with doctor, boy?" 
 
 The solid thump awakened him to see matters as they 
 were. "Oh, ay! the doctor!" he said, smiling frankly at 
 his lieutenant. "Why, he tells me he'd back me to do 
 Milo's trick in a week from the present day. — Uncle," he
 
 RAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HERO 205 
 
 came forward to Hippias, "I hope you'll excuse me for 
 running off as I did. I was in a hurry. I left something 
 at the railway. This stupid Kip thinks I went to the 
 doctor about myself. The fact was, I wanted to fetch 
 the doctor to see you here — so that you might have no 
 trouble, you know. You can't bear the sight of his in- 
 struments and skeletons — I've heard you say so. You 
 said it set all your marrow in revolt — 'fried your mar- 
 row/ I think were the words, and made you see twenty 
 thousand different ways of sliding down to the chambers 
 of the Grim King. Don't you remember?" 
 
 Hippias emphatically did not remember, and he did not 
 believe the story. Irritation at the mad ravishment of his 
 pill-box rendered him incredulous. As he had no means 
 of confuting his nephew, all he could do safely to express 
 his disbelief in him, was to utter petulant remarks on his 
 powerlessness to appear at the dinner-table that day : upon 
 which — Berry just then trumpeting dinner — Algernon 
 seized one arm of the Dyspepsy, and Richard another, and 
 the laughing couple bore him into the room where dinner 
 was laid, Ripton sniggering in the rear, the really happy 
 man of the party. 
 
 They had fun at the dinner-table. Richard would have 
 it; and his gaiety, his by-play, his princely superiority to 
 truth and heroic promise of overriding all our laws, his 
 handsome face, the lord and possessor of beauty that he 
 looked, as it were a star shining on his forehead, gained 
 the old complete mastery over Ripton, who had been, 
 mentally at least, half patronizing him till then, because 
 he knew more of London and life, and was aware that his 
 friend now depended upon him almost entirely. 
 
 After a second circle of the claret, the hero caught his 
 lieutenant's eye across the table, and said : 
 
 "We must go out and talk over that law-business, Rip, 
 before you go. Do you think the old lady has any 
 chance ?" 
 
 "Not a bit!" said Ripton, authoritatively. 
 
 "But it's worth fighting— eh, Rip?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly !" was Ripton's mature opinion. 
 
 Richard observed that Ripton's father seemed doubtful. 
 Ripton cited his father's habitual caution. Richard made 
 a playful remark on the necessity of sometimes acting in
 
 206 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 opposition to fathers. Ripton agreed to it — in certain 
 cases. 
 
 "Yes, yes! in certain cases," said Richard. 
 
 "Pretty legal morality, gentlemen!" Algernon inter- 
 jected; Ilippias adding: "And lay, too!" 
 
 The pair of uncles listened further to the fictitious dia- 
 logue, well kept up on both sides, and in the end desired 
 a statement of the old lady's garrulous case; Hippias 
 offering to decide what her chances were in law, and Al- 
 gernon to give a common-sense judgment. 
 
 "Rip will tell you," said Richard, deferentially signal- 
 ling the lawyer. "I've a bad hand at these matters. Tell 
 them how it stands, Rip." 
 
 Ripton disguised his excessive uneasiness under endeav- 
 ours to right his position on his chair, and, inwardly pray- 
 ing speed to the claret jug to come and strengthen his 
 wits, began with a careless aspect: "Oh, nothing! She — 
 very curious old character! She — a — wears a wig. She — 
 a — very curious old character indeed! She — a — quite tin- 
 old style. There's no doing anything with her!" and 
 Ripton took a long breath to relieve himself after his 
 elaborate fiction. 
 
 "So it appears," Hippias commented, and Algernon 
 asked: "Well? and about her wig? Somebody stole it I" 
 while Richard, whose features were grim with suppressed 
 laughter, bade the narrator continue. 
 
 Ripton lunged for the claret jug. He had got an old 
 lady like an oppressive bundle- on his brain, and he was as 
 helpless as she was. In the pangs of ineffectual author- 
 ship his ideas shot at her wig, and then at her one char- 
 acteristic of extreme obstinacy, and tore back again at her 
 wig, but she would not be animated. The obstinate old 
 thing would remain a bundle. Law studies seemed light 
 in comparison with this tremendous task of changing an 
 old lady from a doll to a human creature. He flung off 
 some claret, perspired freely, and, with a mental tribute 
 to the cleverness of those author fellows, recommenced : 
 "Oh, nothing! She — Richard knows her better than I 
 do — an old lady — somewhere down in Suffolk. I think 
 we had better advise her not to proceed. The expenses 
 of litigation are enormous! She — I think we had better 
 advise her to stop short, and not make any scandal."
 
 RAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HERO 207 
 
 "And not make any scandal !" Algernon took him up. 
 "Come, come! there's something more than a wig, then?" 
 
 Ripton was commanded to proceed, whether she did or 
 no. The luckless fictionist looked straight at his pitiless 
 leader, and blurted out dubiously, "She — there's a daughter." 
 
 "Born with effort!" ejaculated Hippias. "Must give 
 her pause after that! and I'll take the opportunity to 
 stretch my length on the sofa. Heigho ! that's true what 
 Austin says : 'The general prayer should be for a full 
 stomach, and the individual for one that works well; for 
 on that basis only are we a match for temporal matters, 
 and able to contemplate eternal.' Sententious, but true. 
 I gave him the idea, though ! Take care of your stomachs, 
 boys! and if ever you hear of a monument proposed to a 
 scientific cook or gastronomic doctor, send in your sub- 
 scriptions. Or say to him while he lives, Go forth, and be 
 a Knight. Ha! They have a good cook at this house. 
 He suits me better than ours at Raynham. I almost wish 
 I had brought my manuscript to town, I feel so much 
 better. Aha ! I didn't expect to digest at all without my 
 regular incentive. I think I shall give it up. — What do 
 you say to the theatre to-night, boys!" 
 
 Richard shouted, "Bravo, uncle!" 
 
 "Let Mr. Thompson finish first," said Algernon. "I 
 want to hear the conclusion of the story. The old girl 
 has a wig and a daughter. I'll swear somebody runs away 
 with one of the two ! Fill your glass, Mr. Thompson, and 
 forward !" 
 
 "So somebody does," Ripton received his impetus. "And 
 they're found in town together," he made a fresh jerk. 
 "She — a — that is, the old lady — found them in company." 
 
 "She finds him with her wig on in company!" said 
 Algernon. "Capital! Here's matter for the lawyers!" 
 
 "And you advise her not to proceed, under such circum- 
 stances of aggravation ?" Hippias observed, humorously 
 twinkling with his stomachic contentment. 
 
 "It's the daughter," Ripton sighed, and surrendering to 
 pressure, hurried on recklessly, "A runaway match — beau- 
 tiful girl ! — the only son of a baronet — married by special 
 licence. A — the point is," he now brightened and spoke 
 from his own element, "the point is whether the marriage 
 can be annulled, as she's of the Catholic persuasion and
 
 208 THE ORDEAL OF KKMIARD FEYERKL 
 
 he's a Protestant, and they're both married under age. 
 That's the point." 
 
 Having come to the point he breathed extreme relief, 
 and saw things more distinctly; not a little amazed at his 
 leader's horrified face. 
 
 The two elders were making various absurd inquiries, 
 when Richard sent his chair to the floor, crying, "What 
 a muddle you're in, Rip! You're mixing half-a-dozen 
 stories together. The old lady I told you about was old 
 Dame Bakewell, and the dispute was concerning a neigh- 
 bour of hers who encroached on her garden, and I said 
 I'd pay the money to see her righted!"' 
 
 "Ah," said Ripton, humbly, "I was thinking of the other. 
 Her garden ! Cnbbages don't interest me" 
 
 "Here, come along," Richard beckoned t<> him savagely. 
 "I'll be back in five minutes, uncle," he nodded coolly to 
 either. 
 
 The young men left the room. In the hall-passage they 
 met Berry, dressed to return to Raynham. Richard 
 dropped a helper to the intelligence into his hand, and 
 warned him not to gossip much of London. Berry bowed 
 perfect discreetness. 
 
 "What on earth induced you to talk about Protestants 
 and Catholics marrying, Rip?" said Richard, as soon as 
 they were in the street. 
 
 "Why," Ripton answered, "I was so hard pushed for it, 
 'pon my honour, I didn't know what to say. I ain't an 
 author, you know; I can't make a story. I was trying to 
 invent a point, and I couldn't think of any other, and I 
 thought that was just the point likely to make a jolly 
 good dispute. Capital dinners they give at those crack 
 hotels. Why did you throw it all upon me? I didn't 
 begin on the old lady." 
 
 The hero mused, "It's odd! It's impossible you could 
 have known! I'll tell you why. Rip! I wanted to try 
 you. You fib well at long range, but you don't do at close 
 quarters and single combat. You're good behind walls, 
 but not worth a shot in the open. I just see what you're 
 fit for. You're staunch — that I am certain of. You al- 
 ways were. Lead the way to one of the parks — down in 
 that direction. You know? — where she is!" 
 
 Ripton led the way. His dinner had prepared this
 
 RAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HERO 209 
 
 young Englishman to defy the whole artillery of estab- 
 lished morals. With the muffled roar of London around 
 them, alone in a dark slope of green, the hero, leaning 
 on his henchman, and speaking in a harsh clear under- 
 tone, delivered his explanations. Doubtless the true heroic 
 insignia and point of view will be discerned, albeit in 
 common private's uniform. 
 
 "They've been plotting against me for a year, Rip ! 
 When you see her, you'll know what it was to have such 
 a creature taken away from you. It nearly killed me. 
 Never mind what she is. She's the most perfect and noble 
 creature God ever made! It's not only her beauty — 
 I don't care so much about that! — but when you've once 
 seen her, she seems to draw music from all the nerves 
 of your body; but she's such an angel. I worship her. 
 And her mind's like her face. She's pure gold. There, 
 you'll see her to-night. 
 
 "Well," he pursued, after inflating Ripton with this rap- 
 turous prospect, "they got her away, and I recovered. It 
 was Mister Adrian's work. What's my father's objection 
 to her? Because of her birth ? She's educated; her man- 
 ners are beautiful — full of refinement — quick and soft! 
 Can they show me one of their ladies like her? — she's the 
 daughter of a naval lieutenant ! Because she's a Catholic ? 
 What has religion to do with" — he pronounced "Love!" a 
 little modestly — as it were a blush in his voice. 
 
 "Well, when I recovered I thought I did not care for 
 her. It shows how we know ourselves! And I cared 
 for nothing. I felt as if I had no blood. I tried to 
 imitate my dear Austin. I wish to God he were 
 here. I love Austin. He would understand her. He's 
 coming back this year, and then — but it'll be too late 
 then. — Well, my father's always scheming to make me 
 perfect — he has never spoken to me a word about her, 
 but I can see her in his eyes — he wanted to give me a 
 change, he said, and asked me to come to town with 
 my uncle Hippy, and I consented. It was another plot to 
 get me out of the way! As I live, I had no more idea 
 of meeting her than of flying to heaven !" 
 
 He lifted his face. "Look at those old elm branches! 
 How they seem to mix among the stars ! — glittering fruits 
 of Winter!"
 
 -in T1IK OKDl'.AI. OK KICHAKD FEVEREL 
 
 Ripton tipped his comical nose upward, and was in duty- 
 bound to say, Y<>! though he observed no connection 
 between them and the narrative. 
 
 "Well," the hero went on, "I came to town. There I 
 heard she was coming, too — coming home. It must have 
 been fate, Ripton ! Heaven forgive me! I was angry with 
 her, and I thought I should like to see her once — only 
 once — and reproach her for being false — for she never 
 wrote to me. And, oh, the dear angel ! what she must have 
 suffered ! — I gave my uncle the slip, and got to the railway 
 she was coming by. There was a fellow going to meet 
 her — a farmer's son — and, good God ! they were going to 
 try and make her marry him! I remembered it all then. 
 A servant of the farm had told me. That fellow went 
 to the wrong station, I suppose, for we saw nothing of 
 him. There she was — not changed a bit ! — looking lovelier 
 than ever! And when she saw me, I knew in a minute 
 that she must love me till death! — You don't know what 
 it is yet, Rip! — Will you believe it? — Though I was as 
 sure she loved me and had been true as steel, as that I 
 shall see her to-night, I spoke bitterly to her. And she 
 bore it meekly — she looked like a saint. I told her there 
 was but one hope of life for me — she must prove she was 
 true, and as I give up all, so must she. I don't know 
 what I said. The thought of losing her made me mad. 
 She tried to plead with me to wait — it was for my sake, 
 I know. I pretended, like a miserable hypocrite, that 
 she did not love me at all. I think I said shameful things. 
 Oh what noble creatures women are! She hardly had 
 strength to move. I took her to that place where you 
 found us. — Rip ! she went down on her knees to me. I 
 never dreamed of anything in life so lovely as she looked 
 then. Her eyes were thrown up, bright with a crowd of 
 tears — her dark brows bent together, like Pain and Beauty 
 meeting in one; and her glorious golden hair swept off 
 her shoulders as she hung forward to my hands. — Could 
 I lose such a prize? — If anything could have persuaded 
 me, would not that? — I thought of Dante's Madonna — 
 Guido's Magdalen. — Is there sin in it? I see none! And 
 if there is, it's all mine! I swear she's spotless of a 
 thought of sin. I see her very soul! Cease to love her? 
 Who dares ask me? Cease to love her? Why, I live on
 
 RAPID DEVELOPMENT OF THE HERO 211 
 
 her! — To see her little chin straining up from her throat, 
 as she knelt to me! — there was one curl that fell across 
 her throat" . . . 
 
 Ripton listened for more. Richard had gone off in a 
 muse at the picture. 
 
 "Well ?" said Ripton, "and how about that young farmer 
 fellow?" 
 
 The hero's head was again contemplating the starry 
 branches. His lieutenant's question came to him after an 
 interval. 
 
 "Young Tom? Why, it's young Tom Blaize — son of 
 our old enemy, Rip ! I like the old man now. Oh ! I saw 
 nothing of the fellow." 
 
 "Lord !" cried Ripton, "are we going to get into a mess 
 with Blaizes again? I don't like that!" 
 
 His commander quietly passed his likes or dislikes. 
 
 "But when he goes to the train, and finds she's not 
 there?" Ripton suggested. 
 
 "I've provided for that. The fool went to the South- 
 east instead of the South-west. All warmth, all sweet- 
 ness, comes with the South-west! — I've provided for that, 
 friend Rip. My trusty Tom awaits him there, as if by 
 accident. He tells him he has not seen her, and advises 
 him to remain in town, and go for her there to-morrow, 
 and the day following. Tom has money for the work. 
 Young Tom ought to see London, you know, Rip! — like 
 you. We shall gain some good clear days. And when 
 old Blaize hears of it — what then? I have her! she's 
 mine! — Besides, he won't hear for a week. This Tom 
 beats that Tom in cunning, I'll wager. Ha ! ha !" the hero 
 burst out at a recollection. "What do you think, Rip? 
 My father has some sort of System with me, it appears, 
 and when I came to town the time before, he took me 
 to some people — the Grandisons — and what do you think? 
 one of the daughters is a little girl — a nice little thing 
 enough — very funny — and he wants me to wait for her! 
 He hasn't said so, but I know it. I know what he means. 
 Nobody understands him but me. I know he loves me, 
 and is one of the best of men — but just consider! — a 
 little girl who just comes up to my elbow. Isn't it 
 ridiculous? Did you ever hear such nonsense?"
 
 212 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Ripton emphasized his opinion that it certainly was 
 foolish. 
 
 "No, no ! The die's cast !" said Richard. "They've been 
 plotting for a year up to this day, and this is what comes 
 of it! If my father loves me, he will love her. And if 
 he loves me, he'll forgive my acting against his wishes, 
 and see it was the only thing to be done. Come! step 
 out! what a time we've been!" and away he went, com- 
 pelling Ripton to the sort of strides a drummer-boy has 
 to take beside a column of grenadiers. 
 
 Ripton began to wish himself in love, seeing that it 
 endowed a man with wind so that he could breathe great 
 sighs, while going at a tremendous pace, and experience 
 no sensation of fatigue. The hero was communing with 
 the elements, his familiars, and allowed him to pant a3 
 he pleased. Some keen-eyed Kensington urchins, notic- 
 ing the discrepancy between the pedestrian powers of the 
 two, aimed their wit at Mr. Thompson junior's expense. 
 The pace, and nothing but the pace, induced Ripton to 
 proclaim that they had gone too far, when they dis- 
 covered that they had overshot the mark by half a mile. 
 In the street over which stood love's star, the hero 
 thundered his presence at a door, and evoked a flying 
 housemaid, who knew not Mrs. Berry. The hero attached 
 significance to the fact that his instincts should have be- 
 trayed him, for he could have sworn to that house. The 
 door being shut he stood in dead silence. 
 
 "Haven't you got her card?" Ripton inquired, and heard 
 that it was in the custody of the cabman. Neither of 
 them could positively bring to mind the number of the 
 house. 
 
 "You ought to have chalked it, like that fellow in the 
 Forty Thieves," Ripton hazarded a pleasantry which met 
 with no response. 
 
 Betrayed by his instincts, the magic slaves of Love! 
 The hero heavily descended the steps. 
 
 Ripton murmured that they were done for. His com- 
 mander turned on him, and said : "Take all the houses 
 on the opposite side, one after another. I'll take these." 
 With a wry face Ripton crossed the road, altogether sub- 
 dued by Richard's native superiority to adverse cir- 
 cumstances.
 
 INTERCESSION FOR THE HEROINE 213 
 
 Then were families aroused. Then did mortals dimly 
 guess that something portentous was abroad. Then were 
 labourers all day in the vineyard, harshly wakened from 
 their evening's nap. Hope and Fear stalked the street, 
 as again and again the loud companion summonses re- 
 sounded. Finally Ripton sang out cheerfully. He had 
 Mrs. Berry before him, profuse of mellow curtsies. 
 
 Richard ran to her and caught her hands: "She's 
 well ? — upstairs ?" 
 
 "Oh, quite well ! only a trifle tired with her journey, and 
 flutter ing-1 ike," Mrs. Berry replied to Ripton alone. The 
 lover had flown aloft. 
 
 The wise woman sagely ushered Ripton into her own 
 private parlour, there to wait till he was wanted. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVTI 
 CONTAINS AN INTERCESSION FOR THE HEROINE 
 
 "In all cases where two have joined to commit an of- 
 fence, punish one of the two lightly," is the dictum of 
 The Pilgrim's Scrip. 
 
 It is possible for young heads to conceive proper plans 
 of action, and occasionally, by sheer force of will, to check 
 the wild horses that are ever fretting to gallop off with 
 them. But when they have given the reins and the whip 
 to another, what are they to do? They may go down 
 on their knees, and beg and pray the furious charioteer 
 to stop, or moderate his pace. Alas! each fresh thing 
 they do redoubles his ardour. There is a power in their 
 troubled beauty women learn the use of, and what wonder? 
 They have seen it kindle Ilium to flames so often! But 
 ere they grow matronly in the house of Menelaus, they 
 weep, and implore, and do not, in truth, know how ter- 
 ribly two-edged is their gift of loveliness. They resign 
 themselves to an incomprehensible frenzy; pleasant to 
 them, because they attribute it to excessive love. And so 
 the very sensible things which they can and do say, are 
 vain.
 
 214 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 I reckon it absurd to ask thorn to be quite in earnest. 
 Are not those their own horses in yonder team? Cer- 
 tainly, if they were quite in earnest, they might soon have 
 my gentleman as sober as a carter. A hundred different 
 ways of disenchanting him exist, and Adrian will point 
 you out one or two that shall be instantly efficacious. 
 For Love, the charioteer, is easily tripped, while honest 
 jog-trot Love keeps his legs to the end. Granted dear 
 women are not quite in earnest, still the mere words 
 they utter should be put to their good account. They 
 do mean them, though their hearts are set the wrong 
 way. 'Tis a despairing, pathetic homage to the judg- 
 ment of the majority, in whose faces they are flying. 
 Punish Helen, very young, lightly. After a certain age 
 you may select her for special chastisement. An innocent 
 with Theseus, with Paris she is an advanced incendiary. 
 
 The fair young girl was sitting as her lover had left 
 her; trying to recall her stunned senses. Her bonnet 
 was unremoved, her hands clasped on her knees; dry tears 
 in her eyes. Like a dutiful slave, she rose to him. And 
 first he claimed her mouth. There was a speech, made 
 up of all the pretty wisdom her wild situation and true 
 love could gather, awaiting him there; but his kiss scat- 
 tered it to fragments. She dropped to her seat weeping, 
 and hiding her shamed cheeks. 
 
 By his silence she divined his thoughts, and took his 
 hand and drew it to her lips. 
 
 He bent beside her, bidding her look at him. 
 
 "Keep your eyes so." 
 
 She could not. 
 
 "Do you fear me, Lucy?" 
 
 A throbbing pressure answered him. 
 
 "Do you love me, darling?" 
 
 She trembled from head to foot. 
 
 "Then why do you turn from me?' 
 
 She wept: "O Richard, take me home! take me home!" 
 
 "Look at me, Lucy!" 
 
 Her head shrank timidly round. 
 
 "Keep your eyes on me, darling! Now speak!" 
 
 But she could not look and speak too. The lover knew 
 his mastery when he had her eyes. 
 
 "You wish me to take you home?"
 
 INTERCESSION FOR THE HEROINE 215 
 
 She faltered: "O Richard? it is not too late." 
 
 "You regret what you have done for me?" 
 
 "Dearest! it is ruin." 
 
 "You weep because you have consented to be mine?" 
 
 "Not for me ! O Richard !" 
 
 "For me you weep ? Look at me ! For me ?" 
 
 "How will it end! O Richard!" 
 
 "You weep for me?" 
 
 "Dearest! I would die for you!" 
 
 "Would you see me indifferent to everything in the 
 world? Would you have me lost? Do you think I will 
 live another day in England without you ? I have staked 
 all I have on you, Lucy. You have nearly killed me 
 once. A second time, and the earth will not be troubled 
 by me. You ask me to wait, when they are plotting 
 against us on all sides ? Darling Lucy ! look on me. Fix 
 your fond eyes on me. You ask me to wait when here 
 you are given to me — when you have proved my faith — ■ 
 when we know we love as none have loved. Give me your 
 eyes ! Let them tell me I have your heart !" 
 
 Where was her wise little speech? How could she 
 match such mighty eloquence? She sought to collect a 
 few more of the scattered fragments. 
 
 "Dearest! your father may be brought to consent by 
 and by, and then — oh ! if you take me home now" 
 
 The lover stood up. "He who has been arranging that 
 fine scheme to disgrace and martyrize you? True, as I 
 live ! that's the reason of their having you back. Your 
 old servant heard him and your uncle discussing it. He! 
 — Lucy ! he's a good man, but he must not step in between 
 you and me. I say God has given you to me." 
 
 He was down by her side again, his arms enfolding her. 
 
 She had hoped to fight a better battle than in the morn- 
 ing, and she was weaker and softer. 
 
 Ah ! why should she doubt that his great love was the 
 first law to her? Why should she not believe that she 
 would wreck him by resisting? And if she suffered, oh 
 sweet to think it was for his sake! Sweet to shut out 
 wisdom; accept total blindness, and be led by him! 
 
 The hag Wisdom annoyed them little further. She 
 rustled her garments ominously, and vanished. 
 
 "Oh, my own Richard !" the fair girl just breathed.
 
 216 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 He whispered, "Call mo that name." 
 
 She blushed deeply. 
 
 "Call me that name," he repeated. "You said it once 
 to-day." 
 
 "Dearest !" 
 
 "Not that." 
 
 "O darling !" 
 
 "Not that." 
 
 "Husband!" 
 
 She was won. The rosy gate from which the word had 
 issued was closed with a seal. 
 
 Ripton did not enjoy his introduction to the caged bird 
 of beauty that night. He received a lesson in the art of 
 pumping from the worthy landlady below, up to an hour 
 when she yawned, and he blinked, and their common 
 candle wore with dignity the brigand's hat of midnight, 
 and cocked a drunken eye at them from under it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 RELATES HOW PREPARATIONS FOR ACTION WERE 
 CONDUCTED UNDER THE APRIL OF LOVERS 
 
 Beauty, of course, is for the hero. Nevertheless, it is 
 not always he on whom beauty works its most conquering 
 influence. It is the dull commonplace man into whose 
 slow brain she drops like a celestial light, and burns 
 lastingly. The poet, for instance, is a connoisseur of 
 beauty : to the artist she is a model. These gentlemen by 
 much contemplation of her charms wax critical. The 
 days when they had hearts being gone, they are haply 
 divided between the blonde and the brunette; the aquiline 
 nose and the Proserpine; this shaped eye and that. But 
 go about among simple unprofessional fellows, boors, 
 dunderheads, and here and there you shall find some 
 barbarous intelligence which has had just enough to 
 conceive, and has taken Beauty as its Goddess, and knows 
 but one form to worship, in its poor stupid fashion, and 
 would perish for her. Nay, more: the man would devote 
 all his days to her, though he is dumb as a dog. And,
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR ACTION 217 
 
 indeed, he is Beauty's Dog. Almost every Beauty has 
 her Dog. The hero possesses her; the poet proclaims her; 
 the painter puts her upon canvas; and the faithful Old 
 Dog follows her: and the end of it all is that the faith- 
 ful Old Dog is her single attendant. Sir Hero is revelling 
 in the wars, or in Armida's bowers; Mr. Poet has spied 
 a wrinkle; the brush is for the rose in its season. She 
 turns to her Old Dog then. She hugs him ; and he, who has 
 subsisted on a bone and a pat till there he squats decrepit, 
 he turns his grateful old eyes up to her, and has not 
 a notion that she is hugging sad memories in him : Hero, 
 Poet, Painter, in one scrubby one! Then is she buried, 
 and the village hears languid howls, and there is a para- 
 graph in the newspapers concerning the extraordinary 
 fidelity of an Old Dog. 
 
 Excited by suggestive recollections of Nooredeen and 
 the Fair Persian, and the change in the obscure monotony 
 of his life by his having quarters in a crack hotel, and 
 living familiarly with West-End people — living on the fat 
 of the land (which forms a stout portion of an honest 
 youth's romance), Ripton Thompson breakfasted next 
 morning with his chief at half-past eight. The meal had 
 been fixed overnight for seven, but Ripton slept a great 
 deal more than the nightingale, and (to chronicle his 
 exact state) even half-past eight rather afflicted his new 
 aristocratic senses and reminded him too keenly of law 
 and bondage. He had preferred to breakfast at Alger- 
 non's hour, who had left word for eleven. Him, how- 
 ever, it was Richard's object to avoid, so they fell to, 
 and Ripton no longer envied Hippias in bed. Breakfast 
 done, they bequeathed the consoling information for Al- 
 gernon that they were off to hear a popular preacher, 
 and departed. 
 
 "How happy everybody looks!" said Richard, in the 
 quiet Sunday streets. 
 
 "Yes— jolly!" said Ripton. 
 
 "When I'm — when this is over, I'll see that they are, 
 too — as many as I can make happy," said the hero; 
 adding softly: "Her blind was down at a quarter to six. 
 I think she slept well !" 
 
 "You've been there this morning?" Ripton exclaimed; 
 and an idea of what love was dawned upon his dull brain.
 
 218 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Will she see me, Ricky?" 
 
 "Yes. She'll see you to-day. She was tired last night." 
 
 "Positively?" 
 
 Richard assured him that the privilege would be his. 
 
 "H^re," he said, coming under some trees in the park, 
 "here\ where I talked to you last night. What a time 
 it seems! How I hate the night!" 
 
 On the way, that Richard might have an exalted opinion 
 of him, Ripton hinted decorously at a somewhat intimate 
 and mysterious acquaintance with the sex. Headings of 
 certain random adventures ho gave. 
 
 "Well!" said his chief, "why not marry her?" 
 
 Then was Ripton shocked, and cried, "Oh!" and had a 
 taste of the feeling of superiority, destined that day to 
 be crushed utterly. 
 
 He was again deposited in Mrs. Berry's charge for a 
 term that caused him dismal fears that the Eair Persian 
 still refused to show her face, but Richard called out to 
 him, and up Ripton went, unaware of the transformation 
 ho was to undergo. Hero and Beauty stood together to 
 receive him. From the bottom of the stairs he had his 
 vivaciously agreeable smile ready for them, and by the 
 time he entered the room his cheeks were painfully stiff, 
 and his eyes had strained beyond their exact meaning. 
 Lucy, with one hand anchored to her lover, welcomed 
 him kindly. He relieved her shyness by looking so ex- 
 tremely silly. They sat down, and tried to commence a 
 conversation, but Ripton was as little master of his tongue 
 as he was of his eyes. After an interval, the Fair Persian 
 having done duty by showing herself, was glad to quit 
 the room. Her lord and possessor then turned inquir- 
 ingly to Ripton. 
 
 "You don't wonder now, Rip?" he said. 
 
 "No, Richard !" Ripton waited to reply with sufficient 
 solemnity, "indeed I don't!" 
 
 He spoke differently; he looked differently. He had the 
 Old Dog's eyes in his head. They watched the door she 
 had passed through ; they listened for her, as dogs' eyes 
 do. When she came in, bonneted for a walk, his agita- 
 tion was dog-like. When she hung on her lover timidly, 
 and went forth, he followed without an idea of envy, or 
 anything save the secret raptures the sight of her gave
 
 PREPARATIONS FOE ACTION 219 
 
 him, which are the Old Dog's own. For beneficent Nature 
 requites him. His sensations cannot be heroic, but they 
 have a fulness and a wagging delight as good in their 
 way. And this capacity for humble unaspiring worship 
 has its peculiar guerdon: When Ripton comes to think of 
 Miss Random now, what will he think of himself? Let 
 no one despise the Old Dog. Through him doth Beauty 
 vindicate her sex. 
 
 It did not please Ripton that others should have the 
 bliss of beholding her, and as, to his perceptions, every- 
 body did, and observed her offensively, and stared, and 
 turned their heads back, and interchanged comments on 
 her, and became in a minute madly in love with her, he 
 had to smother low growls. They strolled about the 
 pleasant gardens of Kensington all the morning, under 
 the young chestnut buds, and round the windless waters, 
 talking, and soothing the wild excitement of their hearts. 
 If Lucy spoke, Ripton pricked up his ears. She, too, 
 made the remark that everybody seemed to look happy, 
 and he heard it with thrills of joy. "So everybody is, 
 where you are!" he would have wished to say, if he 
 dared, but was restrained by fears that his burning elo- 
 quence would commit him. Ripton knew the people he 
 met twice. It would have been difficult to persuade him 
 they were the creatures of accident. 
 
 From the Gardens, in contempt of Ripton's frowned 
 protest, Richard boldly struck into the park, where soli- 
 tary carriages were beginning to perform the circuit. 
 Here Ripton had some justification for his jealous pangs. 
 The young girl's golden locks of hair; her sweet, now 
 dreamily sad, face; her gentle graceful figure in the black 
 straight dress she wore; a sort of half -conventional air 
 she had — a mark of something not of class, that was 
 partly beauty's, partly maiden innocence growing con- 
 scious, partly remorse at her weakness and dim fear of 
 the future it was sowing — did attract the eye-glasses. 
 Ripton had to learn that eyes are bearable, but eye-glasses 
 an abomination. They fixed a spell upon his courage; 
 for somehow the youth had always ranked them as 
 emblems of our nobility, and hearing two exquisite eye- 
 glasses, who had been to front and rear several times, drawl 
 in gibberish generally imputed to lords, that his heroine
 
 220 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 was a charming little creature, just the size, hut had 
 no style, — he was abashed ; he did not fly at them and 
 tear them. He became dejected. Beauty's dog is af- 
 fected by the. eye-glass in a manner not unlike the com- 
 mon animal's terror of the human eye. 
 
 Richard appeared to hear nothing, or it was homage 
 that he heard. He repeated to Lucy Diaper Sandoe's 
 verses — 
 
 "The cockneys nod to each other aside, 
 The coxcombs lift their glasses," 
 
 and projected hiring a horse for her to ride every day in 
 the park, and shine among the highest. 
 
 They had turned to the West, against the sky glittering 
 through the bare trees across the water, and the bright- 
 edged rack. The lover, his imagination just then occupied 
 in clothing earthly glories in celestial, felt where his 
 senses were sharpest the hand of his darling falter, and 
 instinctively looked ahead. His uncle Algernon was 
 leisurely jolting towards them on his one sound leg. The 
 dismembered Guardsman talked to a friend whose arm 
 supported him, and speculated from time to time on the 
 fair ladies driving by. The two white faces passed him 
 unobserved. Unfortunately Ripton, coming behind, went 
 plump upon the Captain's live toe — or so he pretended, 
 crying, "Confound it, Mr. Thompson ! you might have 
 chosen the other." 
 
 The horrible apparition did confound Ripton, who 
 stammered that it was extraordinary. 
 
 "Not at all," said Algernon. "Everybody makes up to 
 that fellow. Instinct, I suppose!" 
 
 He had not to ask for his nephew. Richard turned 
 to face the matter. 
 
 "Sorry I couldn't wait for you this morning, uncle," 
 he said, with the coolness of relationship. "I thought you 
 never walked so far." 
 
 His voice was in perfect tone — the heroic mask ad- 
 mirable. 
 
 Algernon examined the downcast visage at his side, and 
 contrived to allude to the popular preacher. He was in- 
 stantly introduced to Ripton's sister. Miss Thompson. 
 
 The Captain bowed, smiling melancholy approval of
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR ACTION 221 
 
 his nephew's choice of a minister. After a few stray 
 remarks, and an affable salute to Miss Thompson, he 
 hobbled away, and then the three sealed volcanoes 
 breathed, and Lucy's arm ceased to be squeezed quite 
 so much up to the heroic pitch. 
 
 This incident quickened their steps homeward to the 
 sheltering wings of Mrs. Berry. All that passed between 
 them on the subject comprised a stammered excuse from 
 Ripton for his conduct, and a good-humoured rejoinder 
 from Richard, that he had gained a sister by it : at which 
 Ripton ventured to wish aloud Miss Desborough would 
 only think so, and a faint smile twitched poor Lucy's lips 
 to please him. She hardly had strength to reach her cage. 
 She had none to eat of Mrs. Berry's nice little dinner. 
 To be alone, that she might cry and ease her heart of its 
 accusing weight of tears, was all she prayed for. Kind 
 Mrs. Berry, slipping into her bedroom to take off her 
 things, found the fair body in a fevered shudder, and 
 finished by undressing her completely and putting her 
 to bed. 
 
 "Just an hour's sleep, or so," the mellifluous woman 
 explained the case to the two anxious gentlemen. "A 
 quiet sleep and a cup of warm tea goes for more than 
 twenty doctors, it do — when there's the flutters," she pur- 
 sued. "I know it by myself. And a good cry before- 
 hand's better than the best of medicine." 
 
 She nursed them into a make-believe of eating, and 
 retired to her softer charge and sweeter babe, reflecting, 
 "Lord! Lord! the three of 'em don't make fifty! I'm as 
 old as two and a half of 'em, to say the least." Mrs. 
 Berry used her apron, and by virtue of their tender years 
 took them all three into her heart. 
 
 Left alone, neither of the young men could swallow 
 a morsel. 
 
 "Did you see the change come over her?" Richard 
 whispered. 
 
 Ripton fiercely accused his prodigious stupidity. 
 
 The lover flung down his knife and fork : "What could 
 I do? If I had said nothing, we should have been 
 suspected. I was obliged to speak. And she hates a lie! 
 See! it has struck her down. God forgive me!" 
 
 Ripton affected a serene mind: "It was a fright, Rich-
 
 222 T1IK OKDKAL (>F RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ard," he said. "That's what Mrs. Berry means by flutters. 
 Those old women talk in that way. You heard what she 
 said. And these old women know. I'll tell you what it 
 is. It's this. Richard! — it's because you've got a fool for 
 your friend!" 
 
 "She regrets it," muttered the lover. "Good God! I 
 think she fears me." He dropped his face in his hands. 
 
 Ripton w T ent to the window, repeating energetically for 
 his comfort: "It's because you've got a fool for your 
 friend !" 
 
 Sombre grew the street they had last night aroused. 
 The sun was buried alive in cloud. Ripton saw himself 
 no more in the opposite window. He watched the de- 
 plorable objects passing on the pavement. His aristo- 
 cratic visions had gone like his breakfast. Beauty had 
 been struck down by his egregious folly, and there he 
 stood — a wretch ! 
 
 Richard came to him: "Don't mumble on like that, 
 Rip!" he said. "Nobody blames you." 
 
 "Ah! you're very kind, Richard," interposed the wretch, 
 moved at the face of misery he beheld. 
 
 "Listen to me, Rip ! I shall take her home to-night. 
 Yes ! If she's happier away from me ! — do you think me 
 a brute, Ripton? Rather than have her shed a tear, 
 I'd! I'll take her home to-night!" 
 
 Ripton suggested that it was sudden; adding from his 
 larger experience, people perhaps might talk. 
 
 The lover could not understand what they should talk 
 about, but he said: "If I give him who came for her 
 yesterday the clue? If no one sees or hears of me, what 
 can they say? O Rip! I'll give her up. I'm wrecked 
 for ever! What of that? Yes — let them take her! The 
 world in arms should never have torn her from me, but 
 when she cries — Yes! all's over. I'll find him at once." 
 
 He searched in out-of-the-way corners for the hat of 
 resolve. Ripton looked on, wretcheder than ever. 
 
 The idea struck him: — "Suppose, Richard, she doesn't 
 want to go?" 
 
 It was a moment when, perhaps, one who sided with 
 parents and guardians and the old wise world, might have 
 inclined them to pursue their righteous wretched course, 
 and have given small Cupid a smack and sent him home
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR ACTION" 223 
 
 to his naughty Mother. Alas! (it is The Pilgrim's Scrip 
 interjecting) women are the born accomplices of mis- 
 chief! In bustles Mrs. Berry to clear away the refection, 
 and find the two knights helmed, and sees, though 'tis 
 dusk, that they wear doubtful brows, and guesses bad 
 things for her dear God Hymen in a twinkling. 
 
 "Dear! dear!" she exclaimed, "and neither of you eaten 
 a scrap! And there's my dear young lady off into the 
 prettiest sleep you ever see!" 
 
 "Ha?" cried the lover, illuminated. 
 
 "Soft as a baby!" Mrs. Berry averred. "I went to 
 look at her this very moment, and there's not a bit of 
 trouble in her breath. It come and it go like the sweetest 
 regular instrument ever made. The Black Ox haven't 
 trod on her foot yet! Most like it was the air of Lon- 
 don. But only fancy, if you had called in a doctor ! Why, 
 I shouldn't have let her take any of his quackery. Now, 
 there!" 
 
 Ripton attentively observed his chief, and saw him doff 
 his hat with a curious caution, and peer into its recess, 
 from which, during Mrs. Berry's speech, he drew forth a 
 little glove— dropped there by some freak of chance. 
 
 "Keep me, keep me, now you have me!" sang the little 
 glove, and amused the lover with a thousand conceits. 
 
 "When will she wake, do you think, Mrs. Berry?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh! we mustn't go for disturbing her," said the guile- 
 ful good creature. "Bless ye ! let her sleep it out. And if 
 you young gentlemen was to take my advice, and go and 
 take a walk for to get a appetite — everybody should eat ! 
 it's their sacred duty, no matter what their feelings be! 
 and I say it who'm no chicken! — I'll frickashee this — 
 which is a chicken — against your return. I'm a cook, I 
 can assure ye!" 
 
 The lover seized her two hands. "You're the best old 
 soul in the world!" he cried. Mrs. Berry appeared will- 
 ing to kiss him. "We won't disturb her. Let her sleep. 
 Keep her in bed, Mrs. Berry. Will you? And we'll call 
 to inquire after her this evening, and come and see her 
 to-morrow. I'm sure you'll be kind to her. There! 
 there!" Mrs. Berry was preparing to whimper. "I trust 
 her to you, you see. Good-bye, you dear old soul."
 
 224 THE OKDEAL OK RICHARD KEVEKEL 
 
 He smuggled a handful of gold into her keeping, and 
 went to dine with his uncles, happy and hungry. 
 
 Before they reached the hotel, they had agreed to draw 
 Mrs. Berry into their confidence, telling her (with em- 
 bellishments) all save their names, so that they might 
 enjoy the counsel and assistance of that trump of a woman. 
 and yet have nothing to fear from her. Lucy was to 
 receive the name of Letitia, Bipton's youngest and best- 
 looking sister. The heartless follow proposed it in cruel 
 mockery of an old weakness of hers. 
 
 "Letitia!" mused Kichard. "I like the name. Both 
 begin with L. There's something soft — womanlike — in 
 the L.'s." 
 
 Material Bipton remarked that they looked like pounds 
 on paper. The lover roamed through his golden groves. 
 "Lucy Feverel ! that sounds better ! I wonder where 
 Balph is. I should like to help him. He's in love with 
 my cousin Clare. He'll never do anything till he marries. 
 No man can. I'm going to do a hundred things when 
 it's over. We shall travel first. I want to see the Alps. 
 One doesn't know what the earth is till one has seen 
 the Alps. What a delight it will be to her! I fancy I 
 see her eyes gazing up at them. 
 
 'And oh, your dear blue eyes, that heavenward glance 
 With kindred beauty, banished humbleness, 
 Past weeping for mortality's distress — 
 Yet from your soul a tear hangs there in trance, 
 And fills, but does not fall; 
 Softly I hear it call 
 At heaven's gate, till Sister Seraphs press 
 To look on you their old love from the skies: 
 Those are the eyes of Seraphs bright on your blue eyes!' 
 
 Beautiful ! These lines, Bip, were written by a man who 
 was once a friend of my father's. I intend to find him 
 and make them friends again. You don't care for poetry. 
 It's no use your trying to swallow it, Bip!" 
 
 "It sounds very nice," said Bipton, modestly shutting 
 his mouth. 
 
 "The Alps! Italy! Bome! and then I shall go to the 
 East," the hero continued. "She's ready to go anywhere 
 with me, the dear brave heart! Oh, the glorious golden
 
 PEEPARATIONS FOR ACTION 225 
 
 East! I dream of the desert. I dream I'm chief of an 
 Arab tribe, and we fly all white in the moonlight on our 
 mares, and hurry to the rescue of my darling! And we 
 push the spears, and we scatter them, and I come to the 
 tent where she crouches, and catch her to my saddle, and 
 away! — Rip! what a life!" 
 
 Ripton strove to imagine he could enjoy it. 
 
 "And then we shall come home, and I shall lead Austin's 
 life, with her to help me. First be virtuous, Rip! and 
 then serve your country heart and soul. A wise man told 
 me that. I think I shall do something." 
 
 Sunshine and cloud, cloud and sunshine, passed over the 
 lover. Now life was a narrow ring; now the distances 
 extended, were winged, flew illimitably. An hour ago 
 and food was hateful. Now he manfully refreshed his 
 nature, and joined in Algernon's encomiums on Miss 
 Letitia Thompson. 
 
 Meantime Beauty slept, watched by the veteran vol- 
 unteer of the hero's band. Lucy awoke from dreams 
 which seemed reality, to the reality which was a dream. 
 She awoke calling for some friend, "Margaret !" and heard 
 one say, "My name is Bessy Berry, my love! not Mar- 
 garet." Then she asked piteously where she was, and 
 where was Margaret, her dear friend, and Mrs. Berry 
 whispered, "Sure you've got a dearer!" 
 
 "Ah!" sighed Lucy, sinking on her pillow, overwhelmed 
 by the strangeness of her state. 
 
 Mrs. Berry closed the frill of her nightgown and ad- 
 justed the bedclothes quietly. 
 
 Her name was breathed. 
 
 "Yes, my love?" she said. 
 
 "Is he here?" 
 
 "He's gone, my dear." 
 
 "Gone? — Oh, where?" The young girl started up in 
 disorder. 
 
 "Gone, to be back, my love! Ah! that young gentle- 
 man!" Mrs. Berry chanted: "Not a morsel have he eat; 
 not a drop have he drunk!" 
 
 "0 Mrs. Berry! why did you not make him?" Lucy 
 wept for the famine-struck hero, who was just then feed- 
 ing mightily. 
 
 Mrs. Berry explained that to make one eat who thought
 
 226 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 the darling of his heart like to die, was a sheer impossi- 
 bility for the cleverest of women; and on this deep truth 
 Lucy reflected, with her eyes wide at the candle. She 
 wanted one to pour her feelings out to. She slid her 
 hand from under the bedclothes, and took Mrs. Lorry's, 
 and kissed it. The good creature required no further 
 avowal of her secret, but forthwith leaned her consum- 
 mate bosom to the pillow, and petitioned heaven to bless 
 them both ! — Then the little bride was alarmed, and won- 
 dered how Mrs. Eerry could have guessed it. 
 
 "Why," said Mrs. Berry, "your love is out of your eye-, 
 and out of everything ye do." And the little bride won- 
 dered more. She thought she had been so very cautious 
 not to betray it. The common woman in them made 
 cheer together after their own April fashion. Following 
 which Mrs. Eerry probed for the sweet particulars of 
 this beautiful love-match; but the little bride's lips were 
 locked. She only said her lover was above her in sta- 
 tion. 
 
 "And you're a Catholic, my dear!" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Berry!" 
 
 "And him a Protestant." 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Berry!" 
 
 "Dear, dear! — And why shouldn't ye be?" she ejacu- 
 lated, seeing sadness return to the bridal babe. "So as 
 you was born, so shall ye be! But you'll have to make 
 your arrangements about the children. The girls to wor- 
 ship with you, the boys with him. It's the same God. 
 my dear! You mustn't blush at it, though you do look 
 so pretty. If my young gentleman could see you now!" 
 
 "Please, Mrs. Berry!" Lucy murmured. 
 
 "Why, he will, you know, my dear!" 
 
 "Oh, please, Mrs. Berry!" 
 
 "And you that can't bear the thoughts of it ! "Well, I 
 do wish there was fathers and mothers on both sides and 
 dockments signed, and bridesmaids, and a breakfast! but 
 love is love, and ever will be, in spite of them." 
 
 She made other and deeper dives into the little heart, 
 but though she drew up pearls, they were not of the kind 
 she searched for. The one fact that hung as a fruit upon 
 her tree of Love, Lucy had given her; she would not, 
 in fealty to her lover, reveal its growth and history, how-
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR ACTION" 227 
 
 ever sadly she yearned to pour out all to this dear old 
 Mother Confessor. 
 
 Her conduct drove Mrs. Berry from the rosy to the 
 autumnal view of matrimony, generally heralded by the 
 announcement that it is a lottery. 
 
 "And when you see your ticket," said Mrs. Berry, "you 
 shan't know whether it's a prize or a blank. And, Lord 
 knows ! some go on thinking it's a prize when it turns on 
 'em and tears 'em. I'm one of the blanks, my dear! I 
 drew a blank in Berry. He was a black Berry to me, 
 my dear ! Smile away ! he truly was, and I a-prizin' him 
 as proud as you can conceive! My dear!" Mrs. Berry 
 pressed her hands flat on her apron. "We hadn't been 
 a three months man and wife, when that man — it wasn't 
 the honeymoon, which some can't say — that man — Yes ! 
 he kicked me. His wedded wife he kicked ! Ah !" she 
 sighed to Lucy's large eyes, "I could have borne that. 
 A blow don't touch the heart," the poor creature tapped 
 her sensitive side. "I went on loving of him, for I'm 
 a soft one. Tall as a Grenadier he is, and when out of 
 service grows his moustache. I used to call him my 
 body-guardsman — like a Queen! I flattered him like the 
 fools we women are. For, take my word for it, my dear, 
 there's nothing here below so vain as a man ! That I 
 know. But I didn't deserve it. . . . I'm a superior 
 cook. ... I did not deserve that noways." Mrs. Berry 
 thumped her knee, and accentuated up her climax: "I 
 mended his linen. I saw to his adornments — he called 
 his clothes, the bad man ! I was a servant to him, my 
 dear! and there — it was nine months — nine months from 
 the day he swear to protect and cherish and that — nine 
 calendar months, and my gentleman is off with another 
 woman ! Bone of his bone! — pish !" exclaimed Mrs. Berry, 
 reckoning her wrongs over vividly. "Here's my ring. A 
 pretty ornament! What do it mean? I'm for tearin' it 
 off my finger a dozen times in the day. It's a symbol? 
 I call it a tomfoolery for the dead-alive to wear it, that's 
 a widow and not a widow, and haven't got a name for 
 what she is in any Dixonary. I've looked, my dear, and" 
 ■ — she spread out her arms — "Johnson haven't got a name 
 for me !" 
 
 At this impressive woe Mrs. Berry's voice quavered
 
 228 THE OKDKAI. <>F K1CJIARD FEYKKEL 
 
 into sob9. Lucy spoke gentle words to the poor outcast 
 from Johnson. The sorrows of Autumn have no warning 
 for April. The little bride, for all her tender pity, felt 
 happier when she had heard her landlady's moving tale 
 of the wickedness of man, which cast in bright relief 
 tho glory of that one hero who was hers. Then from a 
 short flight of inconceivable bliss, she fell, shot by one of 
 her hundred Argus-eyed fears. 
 
 "0 Mrs. Berry! I'm so young! Think of me — only 
 just seventeen!" 
 
 Mrs. Berry immediately dried her eyes to radiance. 
 "Young, my dear! Nonsense! There's no so much harm 
 in being young, here and there. 1 knew an Irish lady was 
 married at fourteen. Her daughter married close over 
 fourteen. She was a grandmother by thirty! When any 
 strange man began, she used to ask him what pattern caps 
 grandmothers wore. They'd stare! Bless you! the grand- 
 mother could have married over and over again. It was 
 her daughter's fault, not hers, you know." 
 
 "She was three years younger," mused Lucy. 
 
 "She married beneath her, my dear. Ran off with her 
 father's bailiff's son. 'Ah, Berry!' she'd say, 'if I hadn't 
 been foolish, I should be my lady now — not Granny!' 
 Her father never forgave her — left all his estates out of 
 the family." 
 
 "Did her husband always love her?" Lucy preferred to 
 know. 
 
 "In his way, my dear, he did," said Mrs. Berry, coming 
 upon her matrimonial wisdom. "He couldn't help him- 
 self. If he left off, he began again. She was so clever, 
 and did make him so comfortable. Cook! there wasn't 
 such another cook out of a Alderman's kitchen; no, in- 
 deed! And she a born lady! That tells ye it's the duty 
 of all women ! She had her saying — 'When the parlour 
 fire gets low, put coals on the ketchen fire!' and a good 
 saying it is to treasure. Such is man! no use in havin' 
 their hearts if ye don't have their stomachs." 
 
 Perceiving that she grew abstruse, Mrs. Berry added 
 briskly: "You know nothing about that yet, my dear. 
 Only mind me and mark me: don't neglect your cookery. 
 Kissing don't last: cookery do!" 
 
 Here, with an aphorism worthy a place in The Pil-
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR ACTION" 229 
 
 GRIm's Scrip, she broke off to go posseting for her dear 
 invalid. Lucy was quite well ; very eager to be allowed 
 to rise and be ready when the knock should come. Mrs. 
 Berry, in her loving considerateness for the little bride, 
 positively commanded her to lie down, and be quiet, and 
 submit to be nursed and cherished. For Mrs. Berry well 
 knew that ten minutes alone with the hero could only 
 be had while the little bride was in that unattainable 
 position. 
 
 Thanks to her strategy, as she thought, her object was 
 gained. The night did not pass before she learnt, from 
 the hero's own mouth, that Mr. Richards, the father of 
 the hero, and a stern lawyer, was averse to his union 
 with this young lady he loved, because of a ward of his, 
 heiress to an immense property, whom he desired his son 
 to espouse; and because his darling Letitia was a Cath- 
 olic — Letitia, the sole daughter of a brave naval officer 
 deceased, and in the hands of a savage uncle, who wanted 
 to sacrifice this beauty to a brute of a son. Mrs. Berry 
 listened credulously to the emphatic narrative, and spoke 
 to the effect that the wickedness of old people formed the 
 excuse for the wildness of young ones. The ceremonious 
 administration of oaths of secrecy and devotion over, she 
 was enrolled in the hero's band, which now numbered 
 three, and entered upon the duties with feminine energy, 
 for there are no conspirators like women. Ripton's lieu- 
 tenancy became a sinecure, his rank merely titular. He 
 had never been married — he knew nothing about licences, 
 except that they must be obtained, and were not diffi- 
 cult — he had not an idea that so many days' warning must 
 be given to the clergyman of the parish where one of the 
 parties was resident. How should he? All his fore- 
 thought was comprised in the ring, and whenever the 
 discussion of arrangements for the great event grew par- 
 ticularly hot and important, he would say, with a shrewd 
 nod : "We mustn't forget the ring, you know, Mrs. Berry !" 
 and the new member was only prevented by natural 
 complacence from shouting : "Oh, drat ye ! and your ring, 
 too." Mrs. Berry had acted conspicuously in fifteen mar- 
 riages, by banns, and by licence, and to have such an 
 obvious requisite dinned in her ears was exasperating. 
 They could not have contracted alliance with an auxiliary
 
 230 THE OKDKAL OF ETC HARD FEVEREL 
 
 more invaluable, an authority so profound; ami thoy 
 acknowledged it to themselves. The hero marched like 
 an automaton at her bidding; Lieutenant Thompson was 
 rejoiced to perform services as errand-boy in the enter- 
 prise. 
 
 "It's in hopes you'll be happier than me, I do it," said 
 the devout and charitable Berry. "Marriages is made in 
 heaven, they say; and if that's the case, I say they don't 
 take much account of us below !" 
 
 Her own woful experiences had been given to the hero 
 in exchange for his story of cruel parents. 
 
 Richard vowed to her that he would henceforth hold 
 it a duty to hunt out the wanderer from wedded bonds, 
 and bring him back bound and suppliant. 
 
 ''Oh, he'll come!" said Mrs. Berry, pursing prophetic 
 wrinkles : "he'll come of his own accord. Never anywheres 
 will he meet such a cook as Bessy Berry! And he know 
 her value in his heart of hearts. And I do believe, when 
 he do come, I shall be opening these arms to him again, 
 and not slapping his impidence in the face — I'm that soft! 
 I always was — in matrimony, Mr. Richards!" 
 
 As when nations are secretly preparing for war, the 
 docks and arsenals hammer night and day, and busy con- 
 tractors measure time by inches, and the air hums around 
 for leagues as it were myriads of bees, so the house and 
 neighbourhood of the matrimonial soft one resounded in 
 the heroic style, and knew little of the changes of light 
 decreed by Creation. Mrs. Berry was the general of the 
 hour. Down to Doctors' Commons she expedited the hero, 
 instructing him how boldly to face the Law, and fib: 
 for that the Law never could resist a fib and a bold face. 
 Down the hero went, and proclaimed his presence. And 
 lo! the Law danced to him its sedatest lovely bear's-dance. 
 Think ye the Law less susceptible to him than flesh and 
 blood? With a beautiful confidence it put the few familiar 
 questions to him, and nodded to his replies: then stamped 
 the bond, and took the fee. It must be an old vagabond 
 at heart that can permit the irrevocable to go so eheup, 
 even to a hero. For only mark him when he is petitioned 
 by heroes and heroines to undo what he does so easily ! 
 That small archway of Doctors' Commons seems the eye 
 of a needle, through which the lean purse has a way,
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR ACTIOX 231 
 
 somehow, of slipping more readily than the portly; but 
 once through, all are camels alike, the lean purse an 
 especially big camel. Dispensing tremendous marriage as 
 it does, the Law can have no conscience. 
 
 "I hadn't the slightest difficulty," said the exulting hero. 
 
 "Of course not!" returns Mrs. Berry. "It's as easy, if 
 ye're in earnest, as buying a plum bun." 
 
 Likewise the ambassador of the hero went to claim the 
 promise of the Church to be in attendance on a certain 
 spot, on a certain day, and there hear oath of eternal 
 fealty, and gird him about with all its forces : which the 
 Church, receiving a wink from the Law, obsequiously 
 engaged to do, for less than the price of a plum-cake. 
 
 Meantime, while craftsmen and skilled women, directed 
 by Mrs. Berry, were toiling to deck the day at hand, 
 Raynham and Belthorpe slept, — the former soundly; and 
 one day was as another to them. Regularly every morn- 
 ing a letter arrived from Richard to his father, contain- 
 ing observations on the phenomena of London; remarks 
 (mainly cynical) on the speeches and acts of Parliament; 
 and reasons for not having yet been able to call on the 
 Grandisons. They were certainly rather monotonous and 
 spiritless. The baronet did not complain. That cold duti- 
 ful tone assured him there was no internal trouble or 
 distraction. "The letters of a healthful physique !" he said 
 to Lady Blandish, with sure insight. Complacently he 
 sat and smiled, little witting that his son's ordeal was 
 imminent, and that his son's ordeal was to be his own. 
 Hippias wrote that his nephew was killing him by making 
 appointments which he never kept, and altogether neglect- 
 ing him in the most shameless way, so that his ganglionic 
 centre was in a ten times worse state than when he left 
 Raynham. He wrote very bitterly, but it was hard to feel 
 compassion for his offended stomach. 
 
 On the other hand, young Tom Blaize was not forth- 
 coming, and had despatched no tidings whatever. Farmer 
 Blaize smoked his pipe evening after evening, vastly dis- 
 turbed. London was a large place — young Tom might be 
 lost in it, he thought; and young Tom had his weaknesses. 
 A wolf at Belthorpe, he was likely to be a sheep in 
 London, as yokels have proved. But what had become 
 of Lucy? This consideration almost sent Farmer Blaize
 
 232 THE ORDEAL OE RICHA RD FE V E REL 
 
 of! to London direct, and he would have pone had not 
 his pipe enlightened him. A young fellow might play 
 truant and get into a scrape, but a young man and a 
 young woman were sure to be heard of, unless they were 
 acting in complicity. Why, of course, young Tom had 
 behaved like a man, the rascal! and married her out- 
 right there, while he had the chance. It was a long 
 guess. Still it was the only reasonable way of account- 
 ing for his extraordinary silence, and therefore the farmer 
 held to it that he had done the deed. lie argued as 
 modern men do who think the hero, the upsetter of 
 ordinary calculations, is gone from us. So, after despatch- 
 ing a letter to a friend in town to be on the outlook 
 for son Tom, he continued awhile to smoke his pipe, 
 rather elated than not, and mused on the shrewd manner 
 he should adopt when Master Honeymoon did appear. 
 
 Toward the middle of the second week of Richard's 
 absence, Tom Bakewell came to Raynham for Cassandra, 
 and privately handed a letter to the Eighteenth Century, 
 containing a request for money, and a round sum. The 
 Eighteenth Century was as good as her word, and gave 
 Tom a letter in return, enclosing a cheque on her bankers, 
 amply providing to keep the heroic engine in motion at 
 a moderate pace. Tom went back, and Raynham and 
 Lobourne slept and dreamed not of the morrow. The 
 System, wedded to Time, slept, and knew not how he 
 had been outraged — anticipated by seven pregnant sea- 
 sons. For Time had heard the hero swear to that legaliz- 
 ing instrument, and had also registered an oath. Ah me! 
 venerable Hebrew Time! he is unforgiving. Half the 
 confusion and fever of the world comes of this vendetta 
 he declares against the hapless innocents who have once 
 done him a wrong. They cannot escape him. They will 
 never outlive it. The father of jokes, he is himself no 
 joke; which it seems the business of men to discover. 
 
 The days roll round. He is their servant now. Mrs. 
 Berry has a new satin gown, a beautiful bonnet, a gold 
 brooch, and sweet gloves, presented to her by the hero, 
 wherein to stand by his bride at the altar to-morrow; and, 
 instead of being an old wary hen, she is as much a chicken 
 as any of the party, such has been the magic of these 
 articles. Fathers she sees accepting the facts produced
 
 THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY 233 
 
 for them by their children; a world content to be carved 
 out as it pleases the hero. 
 
 At last Time brings the bridal eve, and is blest as a 
 benefactor. The final arrangements are made; the bride- 
 groom does depart ; and Mrs. Berry lights the little bride 
 to her bed. Lucy stops on the landing where there is 
 an old clock eccentrically correct that night, 'Tis the 
 palpitating pause before the gates of her transfiguration. 
 Mrs. Berry sees her put her rosy finger on the One about 
 to strike, and touch all the hours successively till she 
 comes to the Twelve that shall sound "Wife" in her ears 
 on the morrow, moving her lips the while, and looking 
 round archly solemn when she has done; and that sight 
 so catches at Mrs. Berry's heart that, not guessing Time 
 to be the poor child's enemy, she endangers her candle 
 by folding Lucy warmly in her arms, whimpering, "Bless 
 you for a darling! you innocent lamb!- You shall be 
 happy! You shall!" 
 
 Old Time gazes grimly ahead. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 IN WHICH THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY TAKES THE 
 PLACE OF THE FIRST 
 
 Although it blew hard when Caesar crossed the Rubi- 
 con, the passage of that river is commonly calm ; calm as 
 Acheron. So long as he gets his fare, the ferryman 
 does not need to be told whom he carries: he pulls with 
 a will, and heroes may be over in half-an-hour. Only 
 when they stand on the opposite bank, do they see what 
 a leap they have taken. The shores they have relinquished 
 shrink to an infinite remoteness. There they_ have 
 dreamed : here they must act. There lie youth and irreso- 
 lution: here manhood and purpose. They are veritably 
 in another land: a moral Acheron divides their life. 
 Their memories scarce seem their own! The Philo- 
 sophical Geography (about to be published) observes that 
 each man has, one time or other, a little Rubicon — 
 a clear or a foul water to cross. It is asked him : "Wilt
 
 234 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 thou wed this Fate, and give up all behind thee?" And 
 "I will," firmly pronounced, speeds him over. The above- 
 named manuscripl authority informa us, that by far the 
 
 greater number uf carcases rolled by this heroic flood 
 to its sister stream below, arc tlmse of fellows who have 
 repented their pledge, and have tried to swim back to the 
 bank they have blotted out. For though every man of 
 us may lie a hero for one fatal minute, very few remain 
 so after a day's march even: and who wonders that 
 Madam Fate is indignant, and wears the features of the 
 terrible Universal Fate to him? Fail before her, either 
 in heart or in act, and lo, how the alluring loves in her 
 visage wither and sicken to what it is modelled on! Be 
 your Rubicon big or small, clear or foul, it is the same: 
 you shall not return. On — or to Acheron! — I subscribe 
 to that saying of The Pilorim's Scrip: 
 
 ''The danger of a little knowledge of things is disput- 
 able: bnt beware the little knowledge of one's self!'' 
 
 Richard Feverel was now crossing the River of his Or- 
 deal. Already the mists were stealing over the land he 
 had left: his life was cut in two, and he breathed hut the 
 air that met his nostrils. His father, his father's love, 
 his boyhood and ambition, were shadowy. His poetic 
 dreams had taken a living attainable shape. He had a 
 distincter impression of the Autumnal Berry and her 
 household than of anything at Raynham. And yet the 
 young man loved his father, loved his home: and 1 dare- 
 say Caesar loved Rome: but whether be did or no, CVsar 
 when he killed the Republic was quite bald, and the hero 
 we are dealing with is scarce beginning to feel his 
 despotic moustache. Did he know what he was made of? 
 Doubtless, nothing at all. But honest passion has an 
 instinct that can be safer than conscious wisdom. He 
 was an arrow drawn to the head, living to the bow. His 
 audacious mendacities and subterfuges did not strike 
 him as in any way criminal; for he was perfectly sure 
 thai the winning and securing of Lucy would in the end 
 be boisterously approved of, and in that case, were not 
 the means justified? Not that he took trouble to argue 
 thus, as older heroes and self-convicting villains are in 
 the habit of doing, to deduce a clear conscience. Con- 
 science and Lucy went together.
 
 THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY 235 
 
 It was a soft fair day. The Rubicon sparkled in the 
 morning sun. One of those days when London embraces 
 the prospect of summer, and troops forth all its babies. 
 The pavement, the squares, the parks, were early alive 
 with the cries of young Britain. Violet and primrose 
 girls, and organ boys with military monkeys, and sys- 
 tematic bands very determined in tone if not in tune, 
 filled the atmosphere, and crowned the blazing procession 
 of omnibuses, freighted with business men, Cityward, 
 where a column of reddish brown smoke, — blown aloft 
 by the South-west, marked the scene of conflict to which 
 these persistent warriors repaired. Richard had seen 
 much of early London that morning. His plans were 
 laid. He had taken care to ensure his personal liberty 
 against accidents, by leaving his hotel and his injured 
 uncle Hippias at sunrise. To-day or to-morrow his father 
 was to arrive. Farmer Blaize, Tom Bakewell reported 
 to him, was raging in town. Another day and she might 
 be torn from him: but to-day this miracle of creation 
 would be his, and then from those glittering banks yon- 
 der, let them summon him to surrender her who dared! 
 The position of things looked so propitious that he 
 naturally thought the powers waiting on love conspired in 
 his behalf. And she, too — since she must cross this river, 
 she had sworn to him to be brave, and do him honour, 
 and wear the true gladness of her heart in her face. With- 
 out a suspicion of folly in his acts, or fear of results, 
 Richard strolled into Kensington Gardens, breakfasting 
 on the foreshadow of his great joy, now with a vision of 
 his bride, now of the new life opening to him. Mountain 
 masses of clouds, rounded in sunlight, swung up the blue. 
 The flowering chestnut pavilions overhead rustled and 
 hummed. A sound in his ears as of a banner unfolding 
 in the joyful distance lulled him. 
 
 He was to meet his bride at the church at a quarter 
 past eleven. His watch said a quarter to ten. He strolled 
 on beneath the long-stemmed trees toward the well dedi- 
 cated to a saint obscure. Some people were drinking at 
 the well. A florid lady stood by a younger one, who had 
 a little silver mug half-way to her mouth, and evinced 
 undisguised dislike to the liquor of the salutary saint. 
 
 "Drink, child!" said the maturer lady. "That is only
 
 23G THE OEDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 your second muR. T insist \ipon your drinking throe full 
 ones every morning we're in town. Your constitution 
 positively requires iron!" 
 
 "But, mama," the other expostulated, "it's so nasty. I 
 shall be sick."' 
 
 "Drink!" was the harsh injunction. "Nothing to the 
 German waters, my dear. Here, let mo taste." She took 
 the mug and gave it a flying kiss. "I declare I think it 
 almost nice — not at all objectionable. Pray, taste it," she 
 said to a gentleman standing below them to act as cup- 
 bearer. 
 
 An unmistakable cis-Rubicon voice replied: "Cer- 
 tainly, if it's good fellowship; though I confess I don't 
 think mutual sickness a very engaging ceremony." 
 
 Can one never escape irom ones relatives? Richard 
 ejaculated inwardly. 
 
 Without a doubt those people were Mrs. Doria, Clare, 
 and Adrian. He had them under his eyes. 
 
 Clare, peeping up from her constitutional dose to make 
 sure no man was near to see the possible consequence of 
 it, was the first to perceive him. Her hand dropped. 
 
 "Now, pray, drink, and do not fuss!" said Mrs. Doria. 
 
 "Mama !" Clare gasped. 
 
 Richard came forward and capitulated honourably, 
 since retreat was out of the question. Mrs. Doria swam 
 to meet him: "My own boy! My dear Richard!" profuse 
 of exclamations. Clare shyly greeted him. Adrian kept 
 in the background. 
 
 "Why, we were coming for you to-day, Richard," said 
 Mrs. Doria, smiling effusion; and rattled on, "We want 
 another cavalier. This is delightful! My dear nephew! 
 You have grown from a boy to a man. And there's down 
 on his lip! And what brings you here at such an hour 
 in the morning? Poetry, I suppose! Here, take my arm, 
 child. — Clare! finish that mug and thank your cousin for 
 sparing you the third. I always bring her, when we are 
 by a chalybeate, to take the waters before breakfast. We 
 have to get up at unearthly hours. Think, my dear boy! 
 Mothers are sacrifices! And so you've been alone a fort- 
 night with your agreeable uncle! A charming time of 
 it you must have had! Poor Hippias! what may be his 
 last nostrum?"
 
 THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY 237 
 
 "Nephew!" Adrian stretched his head round to the 
 couple. "Doses of nephew taken morning and night four- 
 teen days! And he guarantees that it shall destroy an 
 iron constitution in a month." 
 
 Richard mechanically shook Adrian's hand as he spoke. 
 
 "Quite well, Ricky?" 
 
 "Yes: well enough," Richard answered. 
 
 "Well?" resumed his vigorous aunt, walking on with 
 him, while Clare and Adrian followed. "I really never 
 saw you looking so handsome. There's something about 
 your face — look at me — you needn't blush. You've grown 
 to an Apollo. That blue buttoned-up frock coat becomes 
 you admirably — and those gloves, and that easy neck-tie. 
 Your style is irreproachable, quite a style of your own! 
 And nothing eccentric. You have the instinct of dress. 
 Dress shows blood, my dear boy, as much as anything 
 else. Boy! — you see, I can't forget old habit's. You 
 were a boy when I left, and now! — Do you see any 
 change in him, Clare?" she turned half round to her 
 daughter. 
 
 "Richard is looking very well, mama," said Clare, 
 glancing at him under her eyelids. 
 
 "I wish I could say the same of you, my dear. — Take 
 my arm, Richard. Are you afraid of your aunt? I want 
 to get used to you. Won't it be pleasant, our being all in 
 town together in the season? How fresh the Opera will 
 be to you ! Austin, I hear, takes stalls. You can come 
 to the Forey's box when you like. We are staying with 
 the Foreys close by here. I think it's a little too far 
 out, you know; but they like the neighbourhood. This 
 is what I have always said: Give him more liberty! 
 Austin has seen it at last. How do you think Clare 
 looking?" 
 
 The question had to be repeated. Richard surveyed 
 his cousin hastily, and praised her looks. 
 
 "Pale!" Mrs. Doria sighed. 
 
 "Rather pale, aunt." 
 
 "Grown very much — don't you think, Richard?" 
 
 "Very tall girl indeed, aunt." 
 
 "If she had but a little more colour, my dear Richard ! 
 I'm sure I give her all the iron she can swallow, but that 
 pallor still continues. I think she does not prosper away
 
 238 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 from her old companion. She was accustomed to look 
 up to you, Richard" 
 
 "Did you get Ralph's letter, aunt!" Richard interrupted 
 her. 
 
 "Absurd!" Mrs. Doria pressed his arm. "The non- 
 sense of a boy ! Why did you undertake to forward such 
 stuff*" 
 
 "I'm certain he loves her," said Richard, in a serious 
 way. 
 
 The maternal eyes narrowed on him. "Life, my dear 
 Richard, is a game of cross-purposes," she observed, drop- 
 ping her fluency, and was rather angered to hear him 
 laugh. He excused himself by saying that she spoke so 
 like his father. 
 
 "You breakfast with us," she freshened off again. "The 
 Foreys wish to see you; the girls are dying to know you. 
 Do you know, you have a reputation on account of that" 
 — she crushed an intruding adjective — "System you were 
 brought up on. You mustn't mind it. For my part, I 
 think you look a credit to it. Don't be bashful with young 
 women, mind ! As much as you please with the old ones. 
 You know how to behave among men. There you have 
 your Drawing-room Guide! I'm sure I shall be proud 
 of you. Am I not?" 
 
 Mrs. Doria addressed his eyes coaxingly. 
 
 A benevolent idea struck Richard, that he might em- 
 ploy the minutes to spare, in pleading the case of poor 
 Ralph; and, as he was drawn along, he pulled out his 
 watch to note the precise number of minutes he could 
 dedicate to this charitable office. 
 
 "Pardon me," said Mrs. Doria. "You want manners, 
 my dear boy. I think it never happened to me before 
 that a man consulted his watch in my presence." 
 
 Richard mildly replied that he had an engagement at f 
 particular hour, up to which he was her servant. 
 
 "Fiddlededee!" the vivacious lady sang. "Now I've got 
 you, I mean to keep you. Oh! I've hoard all about you. 
 This ridiculous indifference that your father makes so 
 much of ! Why, of course, you wanted to see the world ! 
 A strong, healthy young man shut up all his life in a 
 lonely house — no friends, no society, no amusements but 
 those of rustics! Of course you were indifferent! Your
 
 THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY 239 
 
 intelligence and superior mind alone saved you from 
 becoming a dissipated country boor. — Where are the 
 others ?" 
 
 Clare and Adrian came up at a quick pace. 
 
 "My damozel dropped something," Adrian explained. 
 
 Her mother asked what it was. 
 
 "Nothing, mama," said Clare, demurely, and they pro- 
 ceeded as before. 
 
 Overborne by his aunt's fluency of tongue, and occu- 
 pied in acute calculation of the flying minutes, Eichard 
 let many pass before he edged in a word for Ralph. 
 When he did, Mrs. Doria stopped him immediately. 
 
 "I must tell you, child, that I refuse to listen to such 
 rank idiotcy." 
 
 "It's nothing of the kind, aunt." 
 
 "The fancy of a boy." 
 
 "He's not a boy. He's half-a-year older than I am!" 
 
 "You silly child! The moment you fall in love, you 
 all think yourselves men." 
 
 "On my honour, aunt! I believe he loves her thor- 
 oughly." 
 
 "Did he tell you so, child?" 
 
 "Men don't speak openly of those things," said Richard. 
 
 "Boys do," said Mrs. Doria. 
 
 "But listen to me in earnest, aunt. I want you to be 
 kind to Ralph. Don't drive him to — You may be sorry 
 for it. Let him — do let him write to her, and see her. I 
 believe women are as cruel as men in these things." 
 
 "I never encourage absurdity, Richard." 
 
 "What objection have you to Ralph, aunt?" 
 
 "Oh, they're both good families. It's not that absurdity, 
 Richard. It will be to his credit to remember that his 
 first fancy wasn't a dairymaid." Mrs. Doria pitched her 
 accent tellingly. It did not touch her nephew. 
 
 "Don't you want Clare ever to marry?" He put the 
 last point of reason to her. 
 
 Mrs. Doria laughed. "I hope so, child. We must find 
 some comfortable old gentleman for her." 
 
 "What infamy!" mutters Richard. 
 
 "And .1 engage Ralph shall be ready to dance at her 
 wedding, or eat a hearty breakfast — We don't dance at 
 weddings now, and very properly. It's a horrid sad busi-
 
 240 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ness, not to be treated with levity. — Ts that his regiment?" 
 she said, as they passed out of the hussar-sentinelled gar- 
 dens. "Tush, tush, child;- Master Ralph will recover, as 
 — hem! others have done. A little headache — you call it 
 
 heartache — and up you rise again, looking better than 
 ever. No doubt, to have a grain of sense forced into 
 your brains, you poor dear children! must be painful. 
 Girls sutler as much as boys, I assure you. .Mure, for 
 their heads are weaker, and their appetites less constant. 
 Do I talk like your father now! 1 Whatever makes the 
 boy fidget at his watch so ?" 
 
 Richard stopped short. Time spoke urgently. 
 
 "I must go," he said. 
 
 His face did not seem good for trifling. Mrs. Doria 
 would triile in spite. 
 
 "Listen, Clare! Richard is going. He says he has an 
 engagement. What possible engagement can a young 
 man have at eleven o'clock in the morning? — unless it's 
 to be married!" Mrs. Doria laughed at the ingenuity of 
 her suggestion. 
 
 "Is the church handy, Ricky?" said Adrian. "You can 
 still give us half-an-hour if it is. The celibate hours 
 strike at Twelve." And he also laughed in his fashion. 
 
 "Won't you stay with us, Richard?" Clare asked. She 
 blushed timidly, and her voice shook. 
 
 Something indefinite — a sharp-edged thrill in the tones 
 made the burning bridegroom speak gently to her. 
 
 "Indeed, I would, Clare; I should like to please you. 
 but I have a most imperative appointment — that is, I 
 promised — I must go. I shall see you again" 
 
 Mrs. Doria took forcible possession of him. "Now, do 
 come, and don't waste words. I insist upon your having 
 some breakfast first, and then, if you really must go, you 
 shall. Look! there's the house. At least you will accom- 
 pany your aunt to the door." 
 
 Richard conceded this. She little imagined what she 
 required of him. Two of his golden minutes melted into 
 nothingness. They were growing to be jewels of price, 
 one by one more and more precious as they ran, and now 
 so costly-rare — rich as his blood! not to kindest relations. 
 dearest friends, could he give another. The die is cast! 
 Ferryman ! push off.
 
 THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY 241 
 
 "Good-bye!" he cried, nodding bluffly at the three a3 
 one, and fled. 
 
 They watched his abrupt muscular stride through the 
 grounds of the house. He looked like resolution on the 
 march. Mrs. Doria, as usual with her out of her brother's 
 hearing, began rating the System. 
 
 "See what becomes of that nonsensical education ! The 
 boy really does not know how to behave like a common 
 mortal. He has some paltry appointment, or is mad after 
 some ridiculous idea of his own, and everything must be 
 sacrificed to it! That's what Austin calls concentration 
 of the faculties. I think it's more likely to lead to down- 
 right insanity than to greatness of any kind. And so I 
 shall tell Austin. It's time he should be spoken to seri- 
 ously about him." 
 
 ''He's an engine, my dear aunt," said Adrian. "He 
 isn't a boy, or a man, but an engine. And he appears to 
 have been at high pressure since he came to town — out 
 all day and half the night." 
 
 "He's mad!" Mrs. Doria interjected. 
 
 "Not at all. Extremely shrewd is Master Ricky, and 
 carries as open an eye ahead of him as the ships before 
 Troy. He's more than a match for any of us. He is for 
 me, I confess." 
 
 "Then," said Mrs. Doria, "he does astonish me!" 
 
 Adrian begged her to retain her astonishment till the 
 right season, which would not be long arriving. 
 
 Their common wisdom counselled them not to tell the 
 Foreys of their hopeful relative's ungracious behaviour. 
 Clare had left them. When Mrs. Doria went to her room 
 her daughter was there, gazing down at something in her 
 hand, which she guiltily closed. 
 
 In answer to an inquiry why she had nctf gone to take 
 off her things, Clare said she was not hungry. Mrs. Doria 
 lamented the obstinacy of a constitution that no quantity 
 of iron could affect, and eclipsed the looking-glass, say^ 
 ing: "Take them off here, child, and learn to assist 
 yourself." 
 
 She disentangled her bonnet from the array of hev 
 spreading hair, talking of Richard, and his handsoma 
 appearance, and extraordinary conduct. Clare kept 
 opening and shutting her hand, in an attitude half p6Xi^
 
 242 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 si\e, half-listless. Sin- did not stir to undress. A joyous 
 dimple hung in one pale cheek, and she drew long, even 
 breaths. 
 
 Mrs. Doria, assured by the glass that she was ready to 
 show, came to her daughter. 
 
 "Now, really," she said, "you are too helpless, my dear. 
 You cannot do a thing without a dozen women at your 
 elbow. What will become of you? You will have to 
 marry a millionaire. — What's the matter with you, child?" 
 
 Clare undid her tight-shut fingers, as if to some attrac- 
 tion of her eyes, and displayed a small gold hoop on the 
 palm of a green glove. 
 
 "A wedding-ring!" exclaimed Mrs. Doria, inspecting 
 the curiosity most daintily. 
 
 There on Clare's pale green glove lay a wedding-ring:! 
 
 Rapid questions as to where, when, how, it was found. 
 beset Clare, who replied: "In the Gardens, mama. This 
 morning. When T was walking behind Richard." 
 
 "Are you sure he did not give it you, Clare?" 
 
 "Oh no, mama! he did not give it me!" 
 
 "Of course not! only he does such absurd things! I 
 thought, perhaps — these boys are so exceedingly ridicu- 
 lous!" Mrs. Doria had an idea that it might have been 
 concerted between the two young gentlemen, Richard and 
 Ralph, that the former should present this token of 
 hymeneal devotion from the latter to the young lady of 
 his love; but a moment's reflection exonerated boys even 
 from such preposterous behaviour. 
 
 "Now, I wonder," she speculated on Clare's cold face, 
 "I do wonder whether it's lucky to find a wedding-ring. 
 What very quick eyes you have, my darling!" Mrs. Doria 
 kissed her. She thought it must be lucky, and the cir- 
 cumstance made her feel tender to her child. Her child 
 did not move to the kiss. 
 
 "Let's see whether it fits," said Mrs. Doria, almost in- 
 fantine with surprise and pleasure. 
 
 Clare sull'ered her glove to be drawn off. The ring slid 
 down her long thin finger, and settled comfortably. 
 
 "It does!" Mrs. Doria whispered. To find a wedding- 
 ring is open to any woman; but to find a wedding-ring 
 that fits may well cause a superstitious emotion. More- 
 over, Uiat it should be found while walking in the neigh-
 
 THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY 24-5 
 
 bourhood of the identical youth whom a mother has 
 destined for her daughter, gives significance to the gentle 
 perturbation of ideas consequent on such a hint from 
 Fortune. 
 
 "It really fits!" she pursued. "Now I never pay any 
 attention to the nonsense of omens and that kind of 
 thing" (had the ring been a horseshoe Mrs. Doria would 
 have picked it up and dragged it obediently home), "but 
 this, I must say, is odd — to find a ring that fits ! — singu- 
 lar! It never happened to me. Sixpence is the most I 
 ever discovered, and I have it now. Mind you keep it, 
 Clare — this ring. And," she laughed, "offer it to Richard 
 when he comes; say, you think he must have dropped it." 
 
 The dimple in Clare's cheek quivered. 
 
 Mother and daughter had never spoken explicitly of 
 Richard. Mrs. Doria, by exquisite management, had con- 
 trived to be sure that on one side there would be no 
 obstacle to her project of general happiness, without, as 
 she thought, compromising her daughter's feelings un- 
 necessarily. It could do no harm to an obedient young 
 girl to hear that there was no youth in the world like a 
 certain youth. He the prince of his generation, she might 
 softly consent, when requested, to be his princess; and 
 if never requested (for Mrs. Doria envisaged failure), 
 she might easily transfer her softness to squires of lower 
 degree. Clare had always been blindly obedient to her 
 mother (Adrian called them Mrs. Doria Battledoria and 
 the fair Shuttlecockiana), and her mother accepted in 
 this blind obedience the text of her entire character. It 
 is difficult for those who think very earnestly for their 
 children to know when their children are thinking on 
 their own account. The exercise of their volition we 
 construe as revolt. Our love does not like to be invalided 
 and deposed from its command, and here I think yonder 
 old thrush on the lawn who has just kicked the last of her 
 lank offspring out of the nest to go shift for itself, much 
 the kinder of the two, though sentimental people do shrug 
 their shoulders at these unsentimental acts of the crea- 
 tures who never wander from nature. Now, excess of 
 obedience is, to one who manages most exquisitely, as bad 
 as insurrection. Happily Mrs. Doria saw nothing in her 
 daughter's manner save a want of iron. Her pallor, her
 
 244 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 lassitude, tho tremulous nerves in her face, exhibited an 
 imperious requirement of the mineral. 
 
 "The reason why n and women arc mysterious to us, 
 
 and prove disappointing," we learn from The Pilgrim's 
 Scrip, "is, that we will read them from our own book; 
 just as we are perplexed by reading ourselves from theirs." 
 
 Mrs. Doria read her daughter from her own book, and 
 she was gay; she laughed with Adrian at the breakfast- 
 table, and mock-seriously joined in his jocose assertion 
 that Clare was positively and by all hymeneal auspices 
 betrothed to the owner of that ring, be he who he may, 
 and must, whenever he should choose to come and claim 
 her, give her hand to him (for everybody agreed the 
 owner must be masculine, as no woman would drop a 
 wedding-ring), and follow him whither he listed all the 
 world over. Amiable giggling Forey girls called Clare, 
 The Betrothed. Dark man, or fair? was mooted. Adrian 
 threw off the first strophe of Clare's fortune in burlesque 
 rhymes, with an insinuating gipsy twang. Her aunt 
 Forey warned her to have her dresses in readiness. Her 
 grandpapa Forey pretended to grumble at bridal presents 
 being expected from grandpapas. This one smelt orange- 
 flower, another spoke solemnly of an old shoe. The find- 
 ing of a wedding-ring was celebrated through all the pal- 
 pitating accessories and rosy ceremonies involved by that 
 famous instrument. In the midst of the general hilarity, 
 Clare showed her deplorable want of iron by bursting into 
 
 Did the poor mocked-at heart divine what might be then 
 enacting? Perhaps, dimly, as we say: that is, without 
 
 eyes. . 
 
 At an altar stand two fair young creatures, ready with 
 their oaths. They are asked to fix all time to the moment, 
 and they do so. If there is hesitation at the immense 
 undertaking, it is but maidenly. She conceives as little 
 mental doubt of tho sanity of the act as he. Over them 
 hangs a cool young curate in his raiment of office. Be- 
 hind are two apparently lucid people, distinguished from 
 each other by sex and age; the foremost a bunch of sim- 
 mering black satin; under her shadow a cock-robin in 
 the dress of a gentleman, big joy swelling out his chest, 
 and pert satisfaction cocking his head. These be they
 
 THE LAST ACT OF A COMEDY 245 
 
 who stand here in place of parents to the young couple. 
 All is well. The service proceeds. 
 
 Firmly the bridegroom tells forth his words. This hour 
 of the complacent giant at least is his, and that he means 
 to hold him bound through the eternities, men may hear. 
 Clearly, and with brave modesty, speaks she: no less 
 firmly, though her body trembles : her voice just vibrating 
 while the tone travels on, like a smitten vase. 
 
 Time hears sentence pronounced on him : the frail hands 
 bind his huge limbs and lock the chains. He is used to it : 
 he lets them do as they will. 
 
 Then comes that period when they are to give their troth 
 to each other. The Man with his right hand takes the 
 Woman by her right hand : the Woman with her right 
 hand takes the Man by his right hand. — Devils dare not 
 laugh at whom Angels crowd to contemplate. 
 
 Their hands are joined; their blood flows as one stream. 
 Adam and fair Eve front the generations. Are they not 
 lovely? Purer fountains of life were never in two bosoms. 
 
 And then they loose their hands, and the cool curate 
 doth bid the Man to put a ring on the Woman's fourth 
 finger, counting thumb. And the Man thrusts his hand 
 into one pocket, and into another, forward and back many 
 times : into all his pockets. He remembers that he felt 
 for it, and felt it in his waistcoat pocket, when in the 
 Gardens. And his hand comes forth empty. And the Man 
 is ghastly to look at! 
 
 Yet, though Angels smile, shall not Devils laugh ! The 
 curate deliberates. The black satin bunch ceases to sim- 
 mer. He in her shadow changes from a beaming cock- 
 robin to an inquisitive sparrow. Eyes multiply questions: 
 lips have no reply. Time ominously shakes his chain, 
 and in the pause a sound of mockery stings their ears. 
 
 Think ye a hero is one to be defeated in his first battle? 
 Look at the clock ! there are but seven minutes to the 
 stroke of the celibate hours: the veteran is surely lifting 
 his two hands to deliver fire, and his shot will sunder 
 them in twain so nearly united. All the jewellers of 
 London speeding down with sacks full of the nuptial 
 circlet cannot save them ! 
 
 The battle must be won on the fieid, and what does the 
 hero now? It is an inspiration! For who else would
 
 246 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 dream of such a reserve in the rear? None see what he 
 does; only that the black-satin bunch is remonstratingly 
 agitated, stormily shaken, and subdued: and as though the 
 menacing cloud had opened, and dropped the dear token 
 from the skies at his demand, lie produces the symbol of 
 their consent, and the service proceeds: "With this ring 
 I thee wed." 
 
 They are prayed over and blest. For good, or for ill, 
 this deed is done. The names are registered; fees fly 
 right and left: they thank, and salute, the curate, whose 
 official coolness melts into a smile of monastic gallantry: 
 the beadle on the steps waves off a gaping world as they 
 issue forth: bridegroom and bridesman recklessly scatter 
 gold on him: carriage doors are banged to: the coachmen 
 drive off, and the scene closes, everybody happy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 CELEBRATES THE BREAKFAST 
 
 And the next moment the bride is weeping as if she 
 would dissolve to one of Dian's Virgin Fountains from 
 the clasp of the Sun-God. She has nobly preserved the 
 mask imposed by comedies, till the curtain has fallen, and 
 now she weeps, streams with tears. Have patience, O im- 
 petuous young man ! It is your profession to be a hero. 
 This poor heart is new to it, and her duties involve such 
 wild acts, such brigandage, such terrors and tasks, she is 
 quite unnerved. She did you honour till now. Rear with 
 her now. She does not cry the cry of ordinary maidens 
 in like cases. While the struggle went on her tender face 
 was brave; but alas! Omens are against her: she holds 
 an ever-present dreadful one on that fatal fourth finger 
 of hers, which has coiled itself round her dream of delight, 
 and takes her in its clutch like a horrid serpent. And yet 
 she must love it. She dares not part from it. She must 
 love and hug it, and feed on its strange honey, and all 
 the bliss it gives her casts all the deeper shadow on what 
 is to come.
 
 CELEBRATES THE BREAKFAST 247 
 
 Say: Is it not enough to cause feminine apprehension, 
 for a woman to be married in another woman's ring? 
 
 You are amazons, ladies, at Saragossa, and a thousand 
 citadels — wherever there is strife, and Time is to be taken 
 by the throat. Then shall few men match your sublime 
 fury. But what if you see a vulture, visible only to 
 yourselves, hovering over the house you are gaily led by 
 the torch to inhabit? Will you not crouch and be cowards ? 
 
 As for the hero, in the hour of victory he pays no heed 
 to omens. He does his best to win his darling to con- 
 fidence by caresses. Is she not his ? Is he not hers ? And 
 why, when the battle is won, does she weep? Does she 
 regret what she has done? 
 
 Oh, never! never! her soft blue eyes assure him, stead- 
 fast love seen swimming on clear depths of faith in them, 
 through the shower. 
 
 He is silenced by her exceeding beauty, and sits per- 
 plexed waiting for the shower to pass. 
 
 Alone with Mrs. Berry, in her bedroom, Lucy gave 
 tongue to her distress, and a second character in the 
 comedy changed her face. 
 
 "O Mrs. Berry ! Mrs. Berry ! what has happened ! what 
 has happened!" 
 
 "My darlin' child!" The bridal Berry gazed at the 
 finger of doleful joy. "I'd forgot all about it ! And that's 
 what've made me feel so queer ever since, then! I've 
 been seemin' as if I wasn't myself somehow, without my 
 ring. Dear! dear! what a wilful young gentleman! We 
 ain't a match for men in that state — Lord help us!" 
 
 Mrs. Berry sat on the edge of a chair : Lucy on the edge 
 of the bed. 
 
 "What do you think of it, Mrs. Berry? Is it not 
 terrible ?" 
 
 "I can't say I should 'a liked it myself, my dear," Mrs. 
 Berry candidly responded. 
 
 "Oh! why, why, why did it happen!" the young bride 
 bent to a flood of fresh tears, murmuring that she felt 
 already old — forsaken. 
 
 "Haven't you got a comfort in your religion for all acci- 
 dents?" Mrs. Berry inquired. 
 
 "None for this. I know it's wrong to cry when I am so 
 happy. I hope he will forgive me."
 
 248 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Mrs. Berry vowed her bride was the sweetest, softest, 
 beautifulest thing in life. 
 
 "Ill cry no more," said Lucy. "Leave me, Mrs. Berry, 
 and come back when 1 ring." 
 
 Sbe drew forth a little silver cross, and fell upon her 
 knees to the bed. Mrs. Berry left the room tiptoe. 
 
 When she was called to return, Lucy was calm and tear- 
 less, and smiled kindly to her. 
 
 "It's over now," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Berry sedately looked for her ring to follow. 
 
 "Ho does not wish me to go in to the breakfast you 
 have prepared, Mrs. Berry. I begged to be excused. I 
 cannot eat." 
 
 Mrs. Berry very much deplored it, as she had laid out 
 a superior nuptial breakfast, but with her mind on her 
 ring she nodded assentingly. 
 
 "We shall not have much packing to do, Mrs. Berry." 
 
 "No, my dear. It's pretty well all done." 
 
 "We are going to the Isle of Wight, Mrs. Berry." 
 
 "And a very suitable spot ye've chose, my dear!" 
 
 "He loves the sea. He wishes to be near it." 
 
 "Don't ye cross to-night, if it's anyways rough, my dear. 
 It isn't advisable." Mrs. Berry sank her voice to say, 
 "Don't ye be soft and give way to him there, or you'll 
 both be repenting it." 
 
 Lucy had only been staving off the unpleasantness she 
 had to speak. She saw Mrs. Berry's eyes pursuing her 
 ring, and screwed up her courage at last. 
 
 "Mrs. Berry." 
 
 "Yes, my dear." 
 
 "Mrs. Berry, you shall have another ring." 
 
 "Another, my dear?" Berry did not comprehend. 
 "One's quite enough for the objeck," she remarked. 
 
 "I mean," Lucy touched her fourth finger, "I cannot 
 part with this." She looked straight at Mrs. Berry. 
 
 That bewildered creature gazed at her, and at the ring, 
 till she had thoroughly exhausted the meaning of the 
 words, and then exclaimed, horror-struck: "Deary me, 
 now! you don't say that? You're to be married again in 
 your own religion." 
 
 The young wife repeated : "I can never part with it." 
 
 "But, my dear!" the wretched Berry wrung her hands,
 
 CELEBEATES THE BEEAKFAST 249 
 
 divided between compassion and a sense of injury. "My 
 dear!" she kept expostulating like a mute. 
 
 "I know all that you would say, Mrs. Berry. I am very 
 grieved to pain you. It is mine now, and must be mine. 
 I cannot give it back." 
 
 There she sat, suddenly developed to the most inflexible 
 little heroine in the three Ivingdoms. 
 
 From her first perception of the meaning of the young 
 bride's words, Mrs. Berry, a shrewd physiognomist, knew 
 that her case was hopeless, unless she treated her as she 
 herself had been treated, and seized the ring by force of 
 arms; and that she had not heart for. 
 
 "What !" she gasped faintly, "one's own lawful wedding- 
 ring you wouldn't give back to a body?" 
 
 "Because it is mine, Mrs. Berry. It was yours, but it is 
 mine now. You shall have whatever you ask for but that. 
 Pray, forgive me! It must be so." 
 
 Mrs. Berry rocked on her chair, and sounded her hands 
 together. It amazed her that this soft little creature could 
 be thus firm. She tried argument. 
 
 "Don't ye know, my dear, it's the fatalest thing you're 
 inflictin' upon me, reelly ! Don't ye know that bein' bereft 
 of one's own lawful wedding-ring's the fatalest thing in 
 life, and there's no prosperity after it ! For what stands 
 in place o' that, when that's gone, my dear? And what 
 could ye give me to compensate a body for the loss o' that ? 
 Don't ye know — Oh, deary me!" The little bride's face 
 was so set that poor Berry wailed off in despair. 
 
 "I know it," said Lucy. "I know it all. I know what 
 I do to you. Dear, dear Mrs. Berry! forgive me! If I 
 parted with my ring I know it would be fatal." 
 
 So this fair young freebooter took possession of her 
 argument as well as her ring. 
 
 Berry racked her distracted wits for a further appeal. 
 
 "But, my child," she counterargued, "you don't under- 
 stand. It ain't as you think. It ain't a hurt to you now. 
 Not a bit, it ain't. It makes no difference now! Any ring 
 does while the wearer's a maid. And your Mr. Eichard '11 
 find the very ring he intended for ye. And, of course, 
 that's the one you'll wear as his wife. It's all the same 
 now, my dear. It's no shame to a maid. Now do — now 
 do — there's a darlin'!"
 
 250 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Wheedling availed as little as argument. 
 
 "Mrs. Berry," said Lucy, "you know what my — he 
 spoke: 'With this ring 1 tlu-c wed.' Jt was with litis ring. 
 Then how could it be with another?" 
 
 Berry was constrained despondently to acknowledge that 
 was logic. 
 
 She hit upon an artful conjecture: 
 
 "Won't it be unlucky your wearin' of the ring which 
 served me so? Think o' that!" 
 
 "It may ! it may ! it may !" cried Lucy. 
 
 "And arn't you rushin' into it. my clear?" 
 
 "Mrs. Berry," Lucy said again, "it was this ring. It 
 cannot — it never can be another. It was this. What it 
 brings mo I must bear. I shall wear it till I di<!" 
 
 "Then what am I to do?" the ill-used woman groaned. 
 "What shall I tell my husband when he come back to me, 
 and see I've got a new ring waitin' for him? Won't that 
 be a welcome?" 
 
 Quoth Lucy: "How can he know it is not tho same, in 
 a plain gold ring?" 
 
 "You never see so keen a eyed man in joolry as my 
 Berry!" returned his solitary spouse. "Not know, my 
 dear? Why, any one would know that 've got eyes in his 
 head. There's as much difference in wedding-rings as 
 there's in wedding people! Now, do pray be reasonable, 
 my own sweet!" 
 
 "Pray, do not ask me," pleads Lucy. 
 
 "Pray, do think better of it," urges Berry. 
 
 "Pray, pray, Mrs. Berry I" pleads Lucy. 
 
 " — And not leave your old Berry all forlorn just when 
 you're so happy!" 
 
 "Indeed I would not, you dear, kind old creature!" 
 Lucy faltered. 
 
 Mrs. Berry thought she had her. 
 
 "Just when you're going to be the happiest wife on 
 earth — all you want yours!" she pursued the tender strain. 
 "A handsome young gentleman ! Love and Fortune 
 smilin' on ye!" 
 
 Lucy rose up. 
 
 ''Mrs. Berry," she said, "I think we must not lose time 
 in getting ready, or he will be impatient." 
 
 Poor Berry surveyed her in abject wonder from the edge
 
 CELEBRATES THE BREAKFAST 251 
 
 of her chair. Dignity and resolve were in the ductile 
 form she had hitherto folded under her wing. In an hour 
 the heroine had risen to the measure of the hero. With- 
 out being exactly aware what creature she was dealing 
 with, Berry acknowledged to herself it was not one of the 
 common run, and sighed, and submitted. 
 
 "It's like a divorce, that it is!" she sobbed. 
 
 After putting the corners of her apron to her eyes, 
 Berry bustled humbly about the packing. Then Lucy, 
 whose heart was full to her, came and kissed her, and 
 Berry bumped down and regularly cried. This over, she 
 had recourse to fatalism. 
 
 "I suppose it was to be, my dear! It's my punishment 
 for meddlin' wi' such matters. No, I'm not sorry. Bless 
 ye both. Who'd 'a thought you was so wilful ? — you that 
 any one might have taken for one of the silly-softs! 
 You're a pair, my dear! indeed you are! You was made 
 to meet! But we mustn't show him we've been crying. — 
 Men don't like it when they're happy. Let's wash our 
 faces and try to bear our lot." 
 
 So saying the black-satin bunch careened to a renewed 
 deluge. She deserved some sympathy, for if it is sad to 
 be married in another person's ring, how much sadder to 
 have one's own old accustomed lawful ring violently torn 
 off one's finger and eternally severed from one! But 
 where you have heroes and heroines, these terrible com- 
 plications ensue. 
 
 They had now both fought their battle of the ring, and 
 with equal honour and success. 
 
 In the chamber of banquet Richard was giving Ripton 
 his last directions. Though it was a private wedding, Mrs. 
 Berry had prepared a sumptuous breakfast. Chickens 
 offered their breasts : pies hinted savoury secrets : things 
 mystic, in a mash, with Gallic appellatives, jellies, creams, 
 fruits, strewed the table: as a tower in the midst, the 
 cake colossal : the priestly vesture of its nuptial white re- 
 lieved by hymeneal splendours. 
 
 Many hours, much labour and anxiety of mind, Mrs. 
 Berry had expended upon this breakfast, and why ? There 
 is one who comes to all feasts that have their basis in 
 Folly, whom criminals of trained instinct are careful to 
 provide against : who will speak, and whose hateful voice
 
 252 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD EEVEREL 
 
 must somehow bo silenced while the feast is going on. 
 This personage is The Philosopher. Mrs. Berry knew 
 him. She knew that he would come. She provided 
 against him in the manner she thought most efficacious: 
 that is, by cheating her eyes and intoxicating her con- 
 science with the due and proper glories incident to wed- 
 dings where fathers dilate, mothers collapse, and marriage 
 settlements are flourished on high by the family lawyer: 
 and had there been no show of the kind to greet her on 
 her return from the church, she would, and she foresaw 
 she would, have stared at squalor and emptiness, and 
 repented her work. The Philosopher would have laid hold 
 of her by the ear, and called her bad names. Entrenched 
 behind a breakfast-table so legitimately adorned, Mrs. 
 Berry defied him. In the presence of that cake he dared 
 not speak above a whisper. And there were wines to 
 drown him in, should he still think of protesting; fiery 
 wines, and cool : claret sent purposely by the bridegroom 
 for the delectation of his friend. 
 
 For one good hour, therefore, the labour of many hours 
 kept him dumb. Ripton was fortifying himself so as to 
 forget him altogether, and the world as well, till the next 
 morning. Ripton was excited, overdone with delight. He 
 had already finished one bottle, and listened, pleasantly 
 flushed, to his emphatic and more abstemious chief. He 
 had nothing to do but to listen, and to drink. The hero 
 would not allow him to shout Victory! or hear a -word of 
 toasts; and as, from the quantity of oil poured on it, his 
 eloquence was becoming a natural force in his bosom, the 
 poor fellow was afflicted with a sort of elephantiasis of 
 suppressed emotion. At times he half-rose from his chair, 
 and fell vacuously into it again; or he chuckled in the 
 face of weighty, severely-worded instructions; tapped his 
 chest, stretched his arms, yawned, and in short behaved 
 so singularly that Richard observed it, and said: "On 
 my soul, I don't think you know a word I'm saying." 
 
 "Every word, Ricky I" Ripton spirted through the open- 
 ing. "I'm going down to your governor, and tell him: 
 Sir Austin! Here's your only chance of being a happy 
 father — no, no ! — Oh ! don't you fear me, Ricky ! 1 shall 
 talk the old gentleman over."
 
 CELEBRATES THE BREAKFAST 253 
 
 His chief said : 
 
 "Look here. Yon had better not go down to-night. Go 
 down the first thing to-morrow, by the six o'clock train. 
 Give him my letter. Listen to me — give him my letter, 
 and don't speak a word till he speaks. His eyebrows will 
 go up and down, he won't say much. I know him. If he 
 asks you about her, don't be a fool, but say what you 
 think of her sensibly" 
 
 No cork could hold in Ripton when she was alluded to. 
 He shouted : "She's an angel !" 
 
 Richard checked him: "Speak sensibly, I say — quietly. 
 You can say how gentle and good she is — my fleur-de-luce ! 
 And say, this was not her doing. If any one's to blame, 
 it's I. I made her marry me. Then go to Lady Blandish, 
 if you don't find her at the house. You may say whatever 
 you please to her. Give her my letter, and tell her I 
 want to hear from her immediately. She has seen Lucy, 
 and I know what she thinks of her. You will then go to 
 Farmer Blaize. I told you Lucy happens to be his niece — 
 she has not lived long there. She lived with her aunt 
 Desborough in France while she was a child, and can 
 hardly be called a relative to the farmer — there's not a 
 point of likeness between them. Poor darling! she never 
 knew her mother. Go to Mr. Blaize, and tell him. You 
 will treat him just as you would treat any other gentle- 
 man. If you are civil, he is sure to be. And if he 
 abuses me, for my sake and hers you will still treat him 
 with respect. You hear? And then write me a full ac- 
 count of all that has been said and done. You will have 
 my address the day after to-morrow. By the way, Tom 
 will be here this afternoon. Write out for him where to 
 call on you the day after to-morrow, in case you have 
 heard anything in the morning you think I ought to 
 know at once, as Tom will join me that night. Don't 
 mention to anybody about my losing the ring, Ripton. 
 I wouldn't have Adrian get hold of that for a thousand 
 pounds. How on earth I came to lose it! How well she 
 bore it, Rip! How beautifully she behaved!" 
 
 Ripton again shouted : "An angel !" Throwing up the 
 heels of his second bottle, he said : 
 
 "You may trust your friend, Richard. Aha! when you
 
 254 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 pulled at old Mrs. Berry I didn't know what was up. I do 
 wish you'd let me drink her health?" 
 
 "Here's to Penelope!" said Richard, just wetting his 
 mouth. The carriage was at the door: a couple of dire 
 organs, each grinding the same tune, and a vulture-scented 
 itinerant band (from which not the secretest veiled wed- 
 ding can escape) worked harmoniously without in the 
 production of discord, and the noise acting on his nervous 
 state made him begin to fume and send in messages for 
 his bride by the maid. 
 
 By and by the lovely young bride presented herself 
 dressed for her journey, and smiling from stained eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Berry was requested to drink some wine, which 
 Ripton poured out for her, enabling Mrs. Berry thereby to 
 measure his condition. 
 
 The bride now kissed Mrs. Berry, and Mrs. Berry kissed 
 the bridegroom, on the plea of her softness. Lucy gave 
 Ripton her hand, with a musical "Good-bye, Mr. Thomp- 
 son," and her extreme graciousness made him just sensi- 
 ble enough to sit down before he murmured his fervent 
 hopes for her happiness. 
 
 "I shall take good care of him," said Mrs. Berry, focus- 
 sing her eyes to the comprehension of the company. 
 
 "Farewell, Penelope!" cried Richard. "I shall tell the 
 police everywhere to look out for your lord." 
 
 "Oh my dears! good-bye, and Heaven bless ye both!" 
 
 Berry quavered, touched with compunction at thf 
 thoughts of approaching loneliness. Ripton, his mouth 
 drawn like a bow to his ears, brought up the rear to the 
 carriage, receiving a fair slap on the cheek from an old 
 shoe precipitated by Mrs. Berry's enthusiastic female 
 domestic. 
 
 White handkerchiefs were waved, the adieux had fallen 
 to signs: they were off. Then did a thought of such 
 urgency illumine Mrs. Berry, that she telegraphed, hand 
 in air, awakening Ripton's lungs, for the coachman to 
 stop, and ran back to the house. Richard chafed to be 
 gone, but at his bride's intercession he consented to wait. 
 Presently they beheld the old black-satin bunch stream 
 through the street-door, down the bit of garden, and up 
 the astonished street, halting, panting, capless at the 
 carriage door, a book in her hand, — a much-used, dog-
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER IN PERSON 255 
 
 leaved, steamy, greasy book, which, at the same time 
 calling out in breathless jerks, "There! never ye mind 
 looks ! I ain't got a new one. Read it, and don't ye forget 
 it!" she discharged into Lucy's lap, and retreated to the 
 railings, a signal for the coachman to drive away for 
 good. 
 
 How Richard laughed at the Berry's bridal gift ! Lucy, 
 too, lost the omen at her heart as she glanced at the title 
 of the volume. It was Dr. Kitchener on Domestic 
 Cookery ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 THE PHILOSOPHER APPEARS IN PERSON 
 
 General withdrawing of heads from street-windows, 
 emigration of organs and bands, and a relaxed atmosphere 
 in the circle of Mrs. Berry's abode, proved that Dan 
 Cupid had veritably flown to suck the life of fresh regions. 
 With a pensive mind she grasped Ripton's arm to regulate 
 his steps, and returned to the room where her creditor 
 awaited her. In the interval he had stormed her unde- 
 fended fortress, the cake, from which altitude he shook a 
 dolorous head at the guilty woman. She smoothed her 
 excited apron, sighing. Let no one imagine that she 
 regretted her complicity. She was ready to cry torrents, 
 but there must be absolute castigation before this criminal 
 shall conceive the sense of regret; and probably then she 
 will cling to her wickedness the more — such is the born 
 Pagan's tenacity ! Mrs. Berry sighed, and gave him back 
 his shake of the head. O you wanton, improvident 
 creature ! said he. O you very wise old gentleman ! said 
 she. He asked her the thing she had been doing. She 
 enlightened him with the fatalist's reply. He sounded a 
 bogey's alarm of contingent grave results. She retreated 
 to the entrenched camp of the fact she had helped to make. 
 
 "It's done!" she exclaimed. How could she regret what 
 she felt comfort to know was done ? Convinced that events 
 alone could stamp a mark on such stubborn flesh, he deter- 
 mined to wait for them, and crouched silent on the cake,
 
 256 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 with one finger downward at Ripton's incision there, 
 showing a crumbling chasm and gloomy rich recess. 
 
 The eloquent indication was understood. "Dear! dear!" 
 cried Mrs. Berry, "what a heap o' cake, and no one to send 
 it to!" 
 
 Ripton had resumed his seat by the table and his em- 
 brace of the claret. Clear ideas of satisfaction had left 
 him and resolved to a boiling geysir of indistinguishable 
 transports, lie bubbled, and wangled, and nodded ami- 
 cably to nothing, and successfully, though not without 
 effort, preserved his uppermost member from the seduc- 
 tions of the nymph, Gravitation, who was on the look-out 
 for his whole length shortly. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" he shouted, about a minute after Mrs. Berry 
 had spoken, and almost abandoned himself to the nymph 
 on the spot. Mrs. Berry's words had just reached his wits. 
 
 "Why do you laugh, young man?" she inquired, familiar 
 and motherly on account of his condition. 
 
 Ripton laughed louder, and caught his chest on the 
 edge of the table and his nose on a chicken. "That's goo' I" 
 he said, recovering, and rocking under Mrs. Berry's eyes. 
 "No friend !" 
 
 "I did not say, no friend," she remarked. "I said, no 
 one; meanin', I know not where for to send it to." 
 
 Ripton's response to this was: "You put a Griffin on 
 that cake. Wheatsheaves each side." 
 
 "His crest?" Mrs. Berry said sweetly. 
 
 "Oldest baronetcy 'n England !" waved Ripton. 
 
 "Yes?" Mrs. Berry encouraged him on. 
 
 "You think he's Richards. We're oblige' be very close. 
 And she's the most lovely ! — If I hear man say thing 
 'gainst her." 
 
 "You needn't for to cry over her, young man," said Mrs. 
 Berry. "I wanted for to drink their right healths by their 
 right names, and then go about my day's work, and 1 do 
 hope you won't keep me." 
 
 Ripton stood bolt upright at her words. 
 
 "You do?" he said, and filling a bumper he with cheer- 
 fully vinous articulation and glibness of tongue proposed 
 the health of Richard and Lucy Feverel, of Raynham 
 Abbey! and that mankind should not require an expe- 
 ditious example of the way to accept the inspiring toast,
 
 THE PHILOSOPHEE IN PERSON 257 
 
 he drained his bumper at a gulp. It finished him. The 
 farthing rushlight of his reason leapt and expired. He 
 tumbled to the sofa and there stretched. 
 
 Some minutes subsequent to Ripton's signalization of 
 his devotion to the bridal pair, Mrs. Berry's maid entered 
 the room to say that a gentleman was inquiring below 
 after the young gentleman who had departed, and found 
 her mistress with a tottering wineglass in her hand, ex- 
 hibiting every symptom of unconsoled hysterics. Her 
 mouth gaped, as if the fell creditor had her by the swallow. 
 She ejaculated with horrible exultation that she had been 
 and done it, as her disastrous aspect seemed to testify, 
 and her evident, but inexplicable, access of misery induced 
 the sympathetic maid to tender those caressing words that 
 were all Mrs. Berry wanted to go off into the self -caressing 
 fit without delay; and she had already given the preluding 
 demoniac ironic outburst, when the maid called heaven to 
 witness that the gentleman would hear her; upon which 
 Mrs. Berry violently controlled her bosom, and ordered 
 that he should be shown upstairs instantly to see her the 
 wretch she was. She repeated the injunction. 
 
 The maid did as she was told, and Mrs. Berry, wishing 
 first to see herself as she was, mutely accosted the looking- 
 glass, and tried to look a very little better. She dropped a 
 shawl on Ripton and was settled, smoothing her agitation 
 when her visitor was announced. 
 
 The gentleman was Adrian Harley. An interview with 
 Tom Bakewell had put him on the track, and now a mo- 
 mentary survey of the table, and its white-vestured caKe, 
 made him whistle. 
 
 Mrs. Berry plaintively begged him to do her the favour 
 to be seated. 
 
 "A fine morning, ma'am," said Adrian. 
 
 "It have been!" Mrs. Berry answered, glancing over her 
 shoulder at the window, and gulping as if to get her heart 
 down from her mouth. 
 
 "A very fine Spring," pursued Adrian, calmly anatomiz- 
 ing her countenance. 
 
 Mrs. Berry smothered an adjective to "weather" on a 
 deep sigh. Her wretchedness was palpable. In proportion 
 to it, Adrian waxed cheerful and brisk. He divined 
 enough of the business to see that there was some strange
 
 258 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 intelligence to be fished out of the culprit who sat com- 
 pressing hysterics before him; and as ho was never more 
 in his element than when lie had a sinner, and a repentant 
 prostrate abject sinner in hand, his aifable countenance 
 might well deceive poor Berry. 
 
 "I presume these are Mr. Thompson's lodgings?" he 
 remarked, with a look at the table. 
 
 Mrs. Berry's head and the whites of her eyes informed 
 him that they were not Mr. Thompson's lodgings. 
 
 '"No?" said Adrian, and threw a carelessly inquisitive 
 eye about him. "Mr. Feverel is out, I suppose?" 
 
 A convulsive start at the name, and two corroborating 
 hands dropped on her knees, formed Mrs. Berry's reply. 
 
 "Mr. Feverel's man," continued Adrian, "told me I 
 should be certain to find him here. I thought he would 
 be with his friend, Mr. Thompson. I'm too late, I per- 
 ceive. Their entertainment is over. I fancy you have 
 been having a party of them here, ma'am? — a bachelors' 
 breakfast !" 
 
 In the presence of that cake this observation seemed to 
 mask an irony so shrewd that Mrs. Berry could barely 
 contain herself. She felt she must speak. Making her 
 face as deplorably propitiating as she could, she began: 
 
 "Sir, may I beg for to know your name?" 
 
 Mr. Harley accorded her request. 
 
 Groaning in the clutch of a pitiless truth, she con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "And you are Mr. Harley, that was — oh! and you've 
 come for Mr. V 
 
 Mr. Richard Feverel was the gentleman Mr. Harley had 
 come for. 
 
 "Oh! and it's no mistake, and he's of Raynham Abbey?" 
 Mrs. Berry inquired. 
 
 Adrian, very much amused, assured her that he was 
 born and bred there. 
 
 "His father's Sir Austin?" wailed the black-satin bunch 
 from behind her handkerchief. 
 
 Adrian verified Richard's descent. 
 
 "Oh, then, what have I been and done!" she cried, and 
 stared blankly at her visitor. "I been and married my 
 baby! I been and married the bread out of my own mouth. 
 O Mr. Harley! Mr. Harley! I knew you when you was a
 
 THE PHILOSOPHEK IN PEKSON 259 
 
 boy that big, and wore jackets; and all of you. And it's 
 my softness that's my ruin, for I never can resist a man's 
 asking. Look at that cake, Mr. Harley!" 
 
 Adrian followed her directions quite coolly. "Wedding- 
 cake, ma'am!" he said. 
 
 "Bride-cake it is, Mr. Harley!" 
 
 "Did you make it yourself, ma'am?" 
 
 The quiet ease of the question overwhelmed Mrs. Berry, 
 and upset that train of symbolic representations by which 
 she was seeking to make him guess the catastrophe and 
 spare her the furnace of confession. 
 
 "I did not make it myself, Mr. Harley," she replied. 
 "It's a bought cake, and I'm a lost woman. Little I 
 dreamed when I had him in my arms a baby that I should 
 some day be marrying him out of my own house ! I little 
 dreamed that! Oh, why did he come to me! Don't you 
 remember his old nurse, when he was a baby in arms, 
 that went away so sudden, and no fault of hers, Mr. 
 Harley! The very mornin' after the night you got into 
 Mr. Benson's cellar, and got so tipsy on his Madeary 
 I remember it as clear as yesterday ! — and Mr. Benson was 
 that angry he threatened to use the whip to you, and I 
 helped put you to bed.SI'm that very woman." 
 
 Adrian smiled placidly at these reminiscences of his 
 guileless youthful life. 
 
 "Well, ma'am! well?" he said. He would bring her to 
 the furnace. 
 
 "Won't you see it all, kind sir?" Mrs. Berry appealed 
 to him in pathetic dumb show. 
 
 Doubtless by this time Adrian did see it all, and was 
 mentally cursing at Folly, and reckoning the immediate 
 consequences, but he looked uninstructed, his peculiar 
 dimple-smile was undisturbed, his comfortable full-bodied 
 posture was the same. "Well, ma'am?" he spurred her on. 
 
 Mrs. Berry burst forth : "It were done this mornin', 
 Mr. Harley, in the church, at half -past eleven of the clock, 
 or twenty to, by licence." 
 
 Adrian was now obliged to comprehend a case of matri- 
 mony. "Oh!" he said, like one who is as hard as facts, 
 and as little to be moved: "Somebody was married this 
 morning; was it Mr. Thompson, or Mr. Feverel?" 
 
 Mrs. Berry shuffled up to Kipton, and removed the shawl
 
 260 THE OBDEAL OF KICIIARI) 1T.YKKKL 
 
 from him. Baying: "Ho he look like a new married bride- 
 groom, Mr. Harlc.v }" 
 
 Adrian inspected the oblivious Ripton with philosophic 
 gravity. 
 
 "This young gentleman was at church this morning?" 
 
 he asked. 
 
 "Oh, quite reasonable and proper then," Mrs. Berry 
 begged him to understand. 
 
 "Of course, ma'am." Adrian lifted and let fall the 
 stupid inanimate limbs of the gone wretch, puckering his 
 mouth queerly. "You were all reasonable and proper, 
 ma'am. The principal male performer, then, is my cousin, 
 Mr. Feverel? He was married by you, this morning, by 
 licence at your parish church, and came here, and ate a 
 hearty breakfast, and left intoxicated." 
 
 Mrs. Berry flew out. "He never drink a drop, sir. A 
 more moderate young gentleman you never see. Oh ! don't 
 ye think that now, Mr. Harley. He was as upright and 
 master of his mind as you be." 
 
 "Ay !" the wise youth nodded thanks to her for the com- 
 parison, "I mean the other form of intoxication." 
 
 Mrs. Berry sighed. She could say nothing on that 
 score. 
 
 Adrian desired her to sit down, and compose herself, 
 and tell him circumstantially what had been done. 
 
 She obeyed, in utter perplexity at his perfectly composed 
 demeanour. 
 
 Mrs. Berry, as her recital declared, was no other than 
 that identical woman who once in old days had dared to 
 behold the baronet behind his mask, and had ever since 
 lived in exile from the Raynham world on a little pension 
 regularly paid to her as an indemnity. She was that 
 woman, and the thought of it made her almost accuse 
 Providence for the betraying excess of softness it had 
 endowed her with. How was she to recognize her baby 
 grown a man? He came in a feigned name; not a word 
 of the family was mentioned. He came like an ordinary 
 mortal, though she felt something more than ordinary to 
 hi m — s he knew she did. He came bringing a beautiful 
 young lady, and on what grounds could she turn her back 
 on them? Why, seeing that all was chaste and legal, why 
 should she interfere to make them unhappy — so few the
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER IN PERSON 261 
 
 chances of happiness in this world! Mrs. Berry related 
 the seizure of her ring. 
 
 "One wrench," said the sobbing culprit, "one, and my 
 ring was off!" 
 
 She had no suspicions, and the task of writing her name 
 in the vestry-book had been too enacting for a thought 
 upon the other signatures. 
 
 "I daresay you were exceedingly sorry for what you had 
 done," said Adrian. 
 
 "Indeed, sir," moaned Berry, "I were, and am." 
 "And would do your best to rectify the mischief — eh, 
 ma'am ?" 
 
 "Indeed, and indeed, sir, I would," she protested sol- 
 emnly. 
 
 " — As, of course, you should — knowing the family. 
 Where may these lunatics have gone to spend the Moon?" 
 
 Mrs. Berry swimmingly replied: "To the Isle I 
 
 don't quite know, sir!" she snapped the indication short, 
 and jumped out of the pit she had falle*n into. Repentant 
 as she might be, those dears should not be pursued and 
 cruelly balked of their young bliss! "To-morrow, if you 
 please, Mr. Harley : not to-day !" 
 
 "A pleasant spot," Adrian observed, smiling at his easy 
 prey. 
 
 By a measurement of dates he discovered that the bride- 
 groom had brought his bride to the house on the day he 
 had quitted Raynham, and this was enough to satisfy 
 Adrian's mind that there had been concoction and chi- 
 canery. Chance, probably, had brought him to the old 
 woman: chance certainly had not brought him to the 
 young one. 
 
 "Very well, ma'am," he said, in answer to her petitions 
 for his favourable offices with Sir Austin in behalf of her 
 little pension and the bridal pair, "I will tell him you were 
 only a blind agent in the affair, being naturally soft, and 
 that you trust he will bless the consummation. He will 
 be in town to-morrow morning; but one of you two must 
 see him to-night. An emetic kindly administered will set 
 our friend here on his legs. A bath and a clean shirt, and 
 he might go. I don't see why your name should appear at 
 all. Brush him up, and send him to Bellingham by the 
 seven o'clock train. He will find his way to Raynham;
 
 262 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 he knows the neighbourhood best in the dark. Let him 
 go and state the case. Remember, one of you must go/' 
 
 With this fair prospect of leaving a choice of a perdition 
 between the couple of unfortunates, for them to tight and 
 lose all their virtues, over, Adrian said, "Good morning." 
 
 Mrs. Berry touchingly arrested him. "You won't refuse 
 a piece of his cake, Mtf Harley?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no, ma'am," Adrian turned to the cake with 
 alacrity. "1 shall claim a very large piece. Richard has 
 a great many friends who will rejoice to eat his wedding- 
 cake. Cut me a fair quarter, Mrs. Berry. Put it in paper, 
 if you please. I shall be delighted to carry it to tJhem, 
 and apportion it equitably according to their several de- 
 grees of relationship-." 
 
 Mrs. Berry cut the cake. Somehow, as she sliced 
 through it, the sweetness and hapless innocence of the 
 bride was presented to her, and she launched into eulogies 
 of Lucy, and clearly showed how little she regretted her 
 conduct. She vowed that they seemed made for each 
 other; that both were beautiful; both had spirit; both were 
 innocent; and to part them, or make them unhappy, 
 would be, Mrs. Berry wrought herself to cry aloud, oh, 
 euch a pity ! 
 
 Adrian listened to it as the expression of a matter-of- 
 fact opinion. He took the huge quarter of cake, nodded 
 multitudinous promises, and left Mrs. Berry to bless his 
 good heart. 
 
 "So dies the System!" was Adrian's comment in the 
 street. "And now let prophets roar! He dies respectably 
 in a marriage-bed, which is more than I should have fore- 
 told of the monster. Meantime," he gave the cake a 
 dramatic tap, "I'll go sow nightmares." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 PROCESSION OF THE CAKE 
 
 Adrian really bore the news he had heard with credit- 
 able disinterestedness, and admirable repression of any- 
 thing beneath the dignity of a philosopher. When one
 
 PROCESSION OF THE CAKE 263 
 
 has attained that felicitous point of wisdom from which 
 one sees all mankind to be fools, the diminutive objects 
 may make what new moves they please, one does not 
 marvel at them: their sedateness is as comical as their 
 frolic, and their frenzies more comical still. On this 
 intellectual eminence the wise youth had built his castle, 
 and he had lived in it from an early period. Astonishment 
 never shook the foundations, nor did envy of greater 
 heights tempt him to relinquish the security of his strong- 
 hold, for he saw none. Jugglers he saw running up 
 ladders that overtopped him, and air-balloons scaling 
 the empyrean; but the former came precipitately down 
 again, and the latter were at the mercy of the winds; 
 while he remained tranquil on his solid unambitious' 
 ground, fitting his morality to the laws, his conscience to 
 his morality, his comfort to his conscience. Not that 
 voluntarily he cut himself off from his fellows: on the 
 contrary, his sole amusement was their society. Alone he 
 was rather dull, as a man who beholds but one thing must 
 naturally be. Study of the animated varieties of that 
 one thing excited him sufficiently to think life a pleasant 
 play; and the faculties he had forfeited to hold his ele- 
 vated position he could serenely enjoy by contemplation 
 of them in others. Thus: — wonder at Master Richard's 
 madness : though he himself did not experience it, he was 
 eager to mark the effect on his beloved relatives. As he 
 carried along his vindictive hunch of cake, he shaped out 
 their different attitudes of amaze, bewilderment, horror; 
 passing by some personal chagrin in the prospect. For 
 his patron had projected a journey, commencing with 
 Paris, culminating on the Alps, and lapsing in Rome: a 
 delightful journey to show Richard the highways of 
 History and tear him from the risk of further ignoble 
 fascinations, that his spirit might be altogether bathed 
 in freshness and revived. This had been planned during 
 Richard's absence to surprise him. 
 
 Now the dream of travel was to Adrian what the love of 
 woman is to the race of young men. It supplanted that 
 foolishness. It was his Romance, as we say; that buoyant 
 anticipation on which in youth we ride the airs, and 
 which, as we wax older and too heavy for our atmosphere, 
 hardens to the Hobby, which, if an obstinate animal, is
 
 204 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 a safer horse, and ((inducts man at a slower pace to the 
 sexton. Adrian had never travelled. He was aware that 
 his romance was earthly and had discomforts only to be 
 evaded by the one potent talisman possessed by his patron. 
 His Alp would hardly he grand to him without an obse- 
 quious landlord in the foreground: he must recline on 
 Mammon's imperial cushions in order to moralize becom- 
 ingly on tho ancient world. The search for pleasure at 
 the expense of discomfort, as frantic lovers woo their 
 mistresses to partake the shelter of a hut and batten on 
 a crust, Adrian deemed the bitterness of beggarliness. 
 Let his sweet mistress be given him in the pomp and 
 splendour due to his superior emotions, or not at all. 
 Consequently the wise youth had long nursed an inef- 
 fectual passion, and it argued a great nature in him, that 
 at the moment when his wishes were to be crowned, he 
 should look with such slight touches of spleen at the gor- 
 geous composite fabric of Parisian cookery and Roman 
 antiquities crumbling into unsubstantial mockery. Assur- 
 edly very few even of the philosophers would have turned 
 away uncomplainingly to meaner delights the moment 
 after. 
 
 Hippias received the first portion of the cake. 
 
 He was sitting by the window in his hotel, reading. He 
 had fought down his breakfast with more than usual suc- 
 cess, and was looking forward to his dinner at the Foreys' 
 with less than usual timidity. 
 
 "Ah! glad you've come, Adrian," he said, and expanded 
 his chest. "I was afraid I should have to ride down. 
 This is kind of you. We'll walk down together through 
 the park. It's absolutely dangerous to walk alone in these 
 streets. My opinion is, that orange-peel lasts all through 
 the year now, and will till legislation puts a stop to it. I 
 give you my word I slipped on a piece of orange-peel yes- 
 terday afternoon in Piccadilly, and I thought I was down! 
 I saved myself by a miracle." 
 
 "You have an appetite, I hope?" asked Adrian. 
 
 "I think T shall get one, after a bit of a walk," chirped 
 Hippias. "Yes. I think T feel hungry now." 
 
 "Charmed to hear it," said Adrian, and began unpin- 
 ning his parcel on his knees. "How should you define 
 Folly ?" he checked the process to inquire.
 
 PEOCESSIOX OF THE CAKE 265 
 
 "Hm!" Hippias meditated; he prided himself on being 
 oracular when such questions were addressed to him. "1 
 think I should define it to be a slide." 
 
 "Very good definition. In other words, a piece of 
 orange-peel; once on it, your life and limbs are in danger, 
 and you are saved by a miracle. You must present that 
 to the Pilgrim. And the monument of folly, what would 
 that be?" 
 
 Hippias meditated anew. "AH the human race on one 
 another's shoulders." He chuckled at the sweeping sour- 
 ness of the instance. 
 
 "Very good," Adrian applauded, "or in default of that, 
 some symbol of the thing, say; such as this of which I 
 have here brought you a chip." 
 
 Adrian displayed the quarter of the cake. 
 
 "This is the monument made portable — eh?" 
 
 "Cake !" cried Hippias, retreating to his chair to drama- 
 tize his intense disgust. "You're right of them that eat 
 it. If I — if I don't mistake," he peered at it, "the noxious 
 composition bedizened in that way is what they call wed- 
 ding-cake. It's arrant poison! Who is it you want to 
 kill? What are you carrying such stuff about for?" 
 
 Adrian rang the bell for a knife. "To present you with 
 your due and proper portion. You will have friends and 
 relatives, and can't be saved from them, not even by 
 miracle. It is a habit which exhibits, perhaps, the un- 
 conscious inherent cynicism of the human mind, for 
 people who consider that they have reached the acme of 
 mundane felicity, to distribute this token of esteem to 
 their friends, with the object probably" (he took the 
 knife from a waiter and went to the table to slice the 
 cake) "of enabling those friends (these edifices require 
 very delicate incision — each particular currant and subtle 
 condiment hangs to its neighbour — a wedding-cake is 
 evidently the most highly civilized of cakes, and partakes 
 of the evils as well as the advantages of civilization!) — 
 I was saying, they send us these love-tokens, no doubt 
 (we shall have to weigh out the crumbs, if each is to 
 have his fair share) that we may the better estimate their 
 state of bliss by passing some hours in purgatory. This, 
 as far as I can apportion it without weights and scales, 
 is your share, my uncle!"
 
 266 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 He pushed the corner of the table bearing the cake 
 towards Hippias. 
 
 "Get away!" Hippias vehemently motioned, and started 
 from his chair. "I'll have nunc of it. I tell yonl It's 
 death! It'.- fifty times worse than that beastly compound 
 Christmas pudding] What fool has been doing this, then? 
 Who dares send me cake j Me! It's an insult." 
 
 "You are not compelled to eat any before dinner." 
 said Adrian, pointing the corner of the table after him, 
 ''but your share you must take, and appear to consume. 
 One who has done so much to bring about the marriage 
 cannot in conscience refuse his allotment of the fruits. 
 Maidens, I hear, first cook it under their pillows, and ex- 
 tract nuptial dreams therefrom — said to be of a lighter 
 class, taken that way. It's a capital cake, and, upon my 
 honour, you have helped to make it — you have indeed ! 
 So here it is." 
 
 The table again went at Hippias. He ran nimbly round 
 it, and flung himself on a sofa exhausted, crying: "There! 
 . . . My appetite's gone for to-day I" 
 
 "Then shall I tell Richard that you won't touch a 
 morsel of his cake?" said Adrian, leaning on his two hands 
 over the table and looking at his uncle. 
 
 "Eichard ?" 
 
 "Yes, your nephew: my cousin: Richard! Your com- 
 panion since you've been in town. He's married, you 
 know. Married this morning at Kensington parish 
 church, by licence, at half-past eleven of the clock, or 
 twenty to twelve. .Married, and gone to spend his honey- 
 moon in the Isle of Wight : a very delectable place for a 
 month's residence. I have to announce to you that, thanks 
 to your assistance, the experiment is launched, sir!" 
 
 "Richard married!" 
 
 There was something to think and to say in objection 
 to it, but the wits of poor Hippias was softened by the 
 shock. His hand travelled half-way to his forehead, 
 spread out to smooth the surface of that seat of reason, 
 and then fell. 
 
 "Surely you knew all about it? you were so anxious to 
 have him in town under your charge." 
 
 "Married?" Hippias jumped up — he had it. "Why, 
 he's \inder age! he's an infant."
 
 PROCESSION OF THE CAKE 267 
 
 "So he is. But the infant is not the less married. Fib 
 like a man and pay your fee — what does it matter? Any 
 one who is breeched can obtain a licence in our noble coun- 
 try. And the interests of morality demand that it should 
 not be difficult. Is it true — can you persuade anybody 
 that you have known nothing about it?" 
 
 "Ha! infamous joke! I wish, sir, you would play your 
 pranks on somebody else," said Hippias, sternly, as he 
 sank back on the sofa. "You've done me up for the day, 
 I can assure you." 
 
 Adrian sat down to instil belief by gentle degrees, and 
 put an artistic finish to the work. He had the gratification 
 of passing his uncle through varied contortions, and at 
 last Hippias perspired in conviction, and exclaimed, "This 
 accounts for his conduct to me. That boy must have a 
 cunning nothing short of infernal ! I feel ... I feel 
 it just here," he drew a hand along his midriff. 
 
 "I'm not equal to this world of fools," he added faintly, 
 and shut his eyes. "No, I can't dine. Eat? ha! . . . 
 no. Go without me!" 
 
 Shortly after Hippias went to bed, saying to himself, as 
 he undressed, "See what comes of our fine schemes ! Poor 
 Austin !" and as the pillow swelled over his ears, "I'm not 
 sure that a day's fast won't do me good." The Dyspepsy 
 had bought his philosophy at a heavy price ; he had a right 
 to use it. 
 
 Adrian resumed the procession of the cake. 
 
 He sighted his melancholy uncle Algernon hunting an 
 appetite in the Row, and looking as if the hope ahead of 
 him were also one-legged. The Captain did not pass with- 
 out querying the ungainly parcel. 
 
 "I hope I carry it ostentatiously enough ?" said Adrian. 
 "Enclosed is wherewithal to quiet the alarm of the land. 
 Now may the maids and wives of Merry England sleep se- 
 cure. I had half a mind to fix it on a pole, and engage a 
 band to parade it. This is our dear Richard's wedding- 
 cake. Married at half-past eleven this morning, by li- 
 cence, at the Kensington parish church; his own ring 
 being lost he employed the ring of his beautiful bride's 
 lachrymose landlady, she standing adjacent by the altar. 
 His farewell to you as a bachelor, and hers as a maid, you
 
 268 THE ORDEAL OF III CHARD FEVEREL 
 
 can. claim on the spot, if you think proper, and digest ac- 
 cording to your powers." 
 
 Algernon let off steam in a whistle. "Thompson, the 
 solicitor's daughter!" he said. "I met them the other day, 
 somewhere about here. He introduced me to her. A 
 pretty little baggage." 
 
 "No." Adrian set him right. " 'Tis a Miss Desborough, 
 a Roman Catholic dairymaid. Reminds one of pastoral 
 England in the time of the Plantagenets! He's quite 
 equal to introducing her as Thompson's daughter, and 
 himself as Beelzebub's son. However, the wild animal is 
 in Hymen's chains, and the cake is cut. Will you have 
 your morsel?" 
 
 "Oh, by all means! — not now." Algernon had an un- 
 wonted air of reflection. — "Father know it?" 
 
 "Not yet. He will to-night by nine o'clock." 
 
 "Then I must see him by seven. Don't say you met 
 me." He nodded, and pricked his horse. 
 
 "Wants money!" said Adrian, putting the combustible 
 he carried once more in motion. 
 
 The women were the crowning joy of his contemplative 
 mind. He had reserved them for his final discharge. Dear 
 demonstrative creatures ! Dyspepsia would not weaken 
 their poignant outcries, or self-interest check their faint- 
 ing fits. On the generic woman one could calculate. Well 
 might The Pilgrim's Scrip say of her that, "She is always 
 at Nature's breast"; not intending it as a compliment. 
 Each woman is Eve throughout the ages; whereas the 
 Pilgrim would have us believe that the Adam in men has 
 become warier, if not wiser; and weak as he is, has learnt 
 a lesson from time. Probably the Pilgrim's meaning may 
 be taken to be, that Man grows, and Woman does not. 
 
 At any rate, Adrian hoped for such natural choruses as 
 you hear in the nursery when a bauble is lost. He was 
 awake to Mrs. Doria's maternal predestinations, and 
 guessed that Clare stood ready with the best form of filial 
 obedience. They were only a poor couple to gratify his 
 Mephistophelian humour, to be sure, but Mrs. Doria was 
 equal to twenty, and they would proclaim the diverse ways 
 with which maidenhood and womanhood took disappoint- 
 ment, while the surrounding Forey girls and other females 
 of the family assembly were expected to develop the finer
 
 PROCESSION" OF THE CAKE 269 
 
 shades and tapering edges of an agitation to which no 
 woman could be cold. 
 
 All went well. He managed cleverly to leave the cake 
 unchallenged in a conspicuous part of the drawing-room, 
 and stepped gaily down to dinner. Much of the conver- 
 sation adverted to Eichard. Mrs. Doria asked him if he 
 had seen the youth, or heard of him. 
 
 "Seen him? no! Heard of him? yes!" said Adrian. "I 
 have heard of him. I heard that he was sublimely happy, 
 and had eaten such a breakfast that dinner was impos- 
 sible; claret and cold chicken, cake and" 
 
 "Cake at breakfast!" they all interjected. 
 
 "That seems to be his fancy just now." 
 
 "What an extraordinary taste!" 
 
 "You know, he is educated on a System." 
 
 One fast young male Forey allied the System and the 
 cake in a miserable pun. Adrian, a hater of puns, looked 
 at him, and held the table silent, as if he were going to 
 speak ; but he said nothing, and the young gentleman van- 
 ished from the conversation in a blush, extinguished by his 
 own spark. 
 
 Mrs. Doria peevishly exclaimed, "Oh! fish-cake, I sup- 
 pose ! I wish he understood a little better the obligations 
 of relationship." 
 
 "Whether he understands them, I can't say," observed 
 Adrian, "but I assure you he is very energetic in extend- 
 ing them." 
 
 The wise youth talked innuendoes whenever he had an 
 opportunity, that his dear relative might be rendered suffi- 
 ciently inflammable by and by at the aspect of the cake; 
 but he was not thought more than commonly mysterious 
 and deep. 
 
 "Was his appointment at the house of those Grandison 
 people?" Mrs. Doria asked, with a hostile upper-lip. _ 
 
 Adrian warmed the blindfolded parties by replying, 
 "Do they keep a beadle at the door?" 
 
 Mrs. Doria's animosity to Mrs. Grandison made her 
 treat this as a piece of satirical ingenuousness. "I dare- 
 say they do," she said. 
 
 "And a curate on hand?" 
 
 "Oh, I should think a dozen!" 
 
 Old Mr. Forey advised his punning grandson Clarence
 
 270 THE ORDKAI, OF RICHARD FEYFRFL 
 
 to give that house a wide berth, whore he might be dis- 
 posed of and dished-up at a moment's notice, and the 
 scent ran off at a jest. 
 
 The Foreys pave pood dinners, and with the old gentle- 
 man the excellent old fashion remained in permanence of 
 trooping off the ladies as soon as they had taken their 
 sustenance and just, exchanged a smile with the flowers 
 and the di^-crt. when they rose to fade with a beautiful 
 accord, and the gallant males breathed under easier waist- 
 coats, and settled to the business of the table, sure that 
 an hour for unbosoming and imbibing was their own. 
 Adrian took a chair by Brandon Forey, a barrister of 
 standing. 
 
 "I want to ask you," he said, "whether an infant in 
 law can legally bind himself." 
 
 "If he's old enough to affix his signature to an instru- 
 ment, I suppose he can," yawned Brandon. 
 
 "Is he responsible for his acts?" 
 
 "I've no doubt we could hang him." 
 
 "Then what he could do for himself, you could do for 
 him?" 
 
 "Not quite so much ; pretty near." 
 
 "For instance, he can marry?" 
 
 "That's not a criminal case, you know." 
 
 "And the marriage is valid?" 
 
 "You can dispute it." 
 
 "Yes, and the Greeks and the Trojans can fight. It 
 holds then?" 
 
 "Both water and fire!" • 
 
 The patriarch of the table sang out to Adrian that he 
 stopped the vigorous circulation of the claret. 
 
 "Dear me, sir!" said Adrian, "I beg pardon. The cir- 
 cumstances must excuse me. The fact is, my cousin 
 Richard got married to a dairymaid this morning, and I 
 wanted to know whether it held in law." 
 
 It was amusing to watch the manly coolness with which 
 the announcement was taken. Nothing was heard more 
 energetic than, "Deuce he has!" and, "A dairymaid!" 
 
 "I thought it better to let the ladies dine in peace," 
 Adrian continued. "I wanted to be able to console my 
 aunt" 
 
 "Well, but — well, but," the old gentleman, much the
 
 PKOCESSION" OF THE CAKE 271 
 
 most excited, puffed — "eh, Brandon? He's a boy, this 
 young ass ! Do you mean to tell me a boy can go and 
 marry when he pleases, and any trull he pleases, and the 
 marriage is good? If I thought that I'd turn every 
 woman off my premises. I would! from the housekeeper 
 to the scullery-maid. I'd have no woman near him till — 
 till" 
 
 "Till the young greenhorn was grey, sir?" suggested 
 Brandon. 
 
 "Till he knew what women are made of, sir!" the old 
 gentleman finished his sentence vehemently. "What, d'ye 
 think, will Feverel say to it, Mr. Adrian?" 
 
 "He has been trying the very System you have proposed, 
 sir — one that does not reckon on the powerful action of 
 curiosity on the juvenile intelligence. I'm afraid it's the 
 very worst way of solving the problem." 
 
 "Of course it is," said Clarence. "None but a fool !" 
 
 "At your age," Adrian relieved his embarrassment, "it 
 is natural, my dear Clarence, that you should consider 
 the idea of an isolated or imprisoned manhood something 
 monstrous, and we do not expect you to see what amount 
 of wisdom it contains. You follow one extreme, and we 
 the other. I don't say that a middle course exists. The 
 history of mankind shows our painful efforts to find one, 
 but they have invariably resolved themselves into ascet- 
 icism, or laxity, acting and reacting. The moral question 
 is, if a naughty little man, by reason of his naughtiness, 
 releases himself from foolishness, does a foolish little man, 
 by reason of his foolishness, save himself from naughti- 
 ness ?" 
 
 A discussion, peculiar to men of the world, succeeded 
 the laugh at Mr. Clarence. Then coffee was handed round 
 and the footman informed Adrian, in a low voice, that 
 Mrs. Doria Forey particularly wished to speak with him. 
 Adrian preferred not to go in alone. "Very well," he 
 said, and sipped his coffee. They talked on, sounding the 
 depths of law in Brandon Forey, and receiving nought 
 but hollow echoes from that profound cavity. He would 
 not^ affirm that the marriage was invalid: he would not 
 affirm that it could not be annulled. He thought not: 
 still he thought it would be worth trying. A con-
 
 272 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 eummatcd and a non-consummated union were two 
 dilTorent things. . . . 
 
 "Dear me!" said Adrian, "does the Law recognize that? 
 Why, that's almost human!" 
 
 Another message was brought to Adrian that Mrs. 
 Doria Forey very particularly wished to speak with him. 
 
 "What can be the matter?" he exclaimed, pleased to 
 have his faith in woman strengthened. The cake had ex- 
 ploded, no doubt. 
 
 So it proved, when the gentlemen joined the fair society. 
 All the younger ladies stood about the table, whereon the 
 cake stood displayed, gaps being left for those sitting to 
 feast their vision, and intrude the comments and specula- 
 tions continually arising from fresh shocks of wonder at 
 the unaccountable apparition. Entering with the half- 
 guilty air of men who know they have come from a grosser 
 atmosphere, the gallant males also ranged themselves 
 round the common object of curiosity. 
 
 "Here! Adrian!" Mrs. Doria cried. "Where is Adrian? 
 Pray, come here. Tell me! Where did this cake come 
 from? Whose is it? What does it do here? You know 
 all about it, for you brought it. Clare saw you bring it 
 into the room. What does it mean? I insist upon a 
 direct answer. Now do not make me impatient, Adrian." 
 
 Certainly Mrs. Doria was equal to twenty. By her con- 
 centrated rapidity and volcanic complexion it was evident 
 that suspicion had kindled. 
 
 "I was really bound to bring it," Adrian protested. 
 
 "Answer me!" 
 
 The wise youth bowed : "Categorically. This cake came 
 from the house of a person, a female, of the name of 
 Berry. It belongs to you partly, partly to me, partly to 
 Clare, and to the rest of our family, on the principle of 
 equal division : for which purpose it is present. . . ." 
 
 "Yes! Speak!" 
 
 "It means, my dear aunt, what that kind of cake usually 
 does mean." 
 
 "This, then, is the Breakfast! And the ring! Adrian! 
 where is Richard ?" 
 
 Mrs. Doria still clung to unbelief in the monstrous 
 horror. 
 
 But when Adrian told her that Richard had left town,
 
 PKOCESSION" OF THE CAKE 273 
 
 her struggling hope sank. "The wretched boy has ruined 
 himself!" she said, and sat down trembling. 
 
 Oh! that System! The delicate vituperations gentle 
 ladies use instead of oaths, Mrs. Doria showered on that 
 System. She hesitated not to say that her brother had got 
 what he deserved. Opinionated, morbid, weak, justice had 
 overtaken him. Now he would see! but at what a price! 
 at what a sacrifice! 
 
 Mrs. Doria commanded Adrian to confirm her fears. 
 
 Sadly the wise youth recapitulated Berry's words. "He 
 was married this morning at half-past eleven of the clock, 
 or twenty to twelve, by licence, at the Kensington parish 
 church." 
 
 "Then that was his appointment!" Mrs. Doria mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "That was the cake for breakfast !" breathed a second of 
 her sex. 
 
 "And it was his ring!" exclaimed a third. 
 
 The men were silent, and made long faces. 
 
 Clare stood cold and sedate. She and her mother 
 avoided each other's eyes. 
 
 "Is it that abominable country person, Adrian?" 
 
 "The happy damsel is, I regret to say, the Papist dairy- 
 maid," said Adrian, in sorrowful but deliberate accents. 
 
 Then arose a feminine hum, in the midst of which Mrs. 
 Doria cried, "Brandon !" She was a woman of energy. 
 Her thoughts resolved to action spontaneously. 
 
 "Brandon," she drew the barrister a little aside, "can 
 they not be followed, and separated ? I want your advice. 
 Cannot we separate them? A boy! it is really shameful 
 if he should be allowed to fall into the toils of a designing 
 creature to ruin himself irrevocably. Can we not, Bran- 
 don?" 
 
 The worthy barrister felt inclined to laugh, but he an- 
 swered her entreaties : "From what I hear of the young 
 groom I should imagine the office perilous." 
 
 "I'm speaking of law, Brandon. Can we not obtain an 
 order from one of your Courts to pursue them and sep- 
 arate them instantly?" 
 
 "This evening?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 Brandon was sorry to say she decidedly could not.
 
 274 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "You might call on one of your Judges, Brandon." 
 
 Brandon assured her that the Judges were a hard- 
 worked race, and to a man slept heavily after dinner. 
 
 "Will you do so to-morrow, the first thing in the morn- 
 ing? Will you promise me to do so, Brandon? — Or a 
 magistrate! A magistrate woidd send a policeman after 
 them. My dear Brandon! I beg — I beg you to assist us 
 in this dreadful extremity. It will be the death of my 
 poor brother. I believe he would forgive anything but 
 this. You have no idea what his notions are of blood." 
 
 Brandon tipped Adrian a significant nod to step in and 
 aid. 
 
 "What is it, aunt?" asked the wise youth. "You want 
 them followed and torn asunder by wild policemen?" 
 
 "To-morrow;" Brandon queerly interposed. 
 
 'Won't that be — just too late?" Adrian suggested. 
 
 Mrs. Doria sighed out her last spark of hope. 
 
 "You see," said Adrian. . . . 
 
 "Yes! yes!" Mrs. Doria did not require any of his 
 elucidations. "Pray be quiet, Adrian, and let me speak. 
 Brandon! it cannot be! it's quite impossible! Can you 
 stand there and tell me that boy is legally married ? I 
 never will believe it! The law cannot be so shamefully 
 bad as to permit a boy — a mere child — to do such absurd 
 things. Grandpapa!" she beckoned to the old gentleman. 
 "Grandpapa! pray do make Brandon speak. These law- 
 yers never will. He might stop it, if he would. If I were 
 a man, do you think I would stand here?" 
 
 "Well, my dear," the old gentleman toddled to compose 
 her, "I'm quite of your opinion. I believe he knows no 
 more than you or I. My belief is they none of them know 
 anything till they join issue and go into Court. I want 
 to see a few female lawyers." 
 
 "To encourage the bankrupt perruquier, sir?" said 
 Adrian. "They would have to keep a large supply of wiga 
 on hand." 
 
 "And you can jest, Adrian !" his aunt reproached him. 
 "But I will not be beaten. I know — I am firmly convinced 
 that no law would ever allow a boy to disgrace his family 
 and ruin himself like that, and nothing shall persuade me 
 that it is so. Now, tell me, Brandon, and pray do speak in 
 answer to my questions, and please to forget you are deal-
 
 PROCESSION OF THE CAKE 275 
 
 ing with a woman. Can my nephew be rescued from the 
 consequences of his folly ? Is what he has done legitimate ? 
 Is he bound for life by what he has done while a boy?" 
 
 "Well — a," Brandon breathed through his teeth. 
 "A — hm! the matter's so very delicate, you see, Helen." 
 
 "You're to forget that," Adrian remarked. 
 
 "A — hm! well!" pursued Brandon. "Perhaps if you 
 could arrest and divide them before nightfall, and make 
 affidavit of certain facts" . . . 
 
 "Yes ?" the eager woman hastened his lagging mouth. 
 
 "Well . . . hm! a . . .in that case . . . a . . . Or 
 if a lunatic, you could prove him to have been of unsound 
 mind." . . . 
 
 "Oh! there's no doubt of his madness on my mind, 
 Brandon." 
 
 "Yes! well! in that case ... Or if of different religious 
 persuasions" . . . 
 
 "She is a Catholic!" Mrs. Doria joyfully interjected. 
 
 "Yes! well! in that case . . . objections might be taken 
 to the form of the marriage . . . Might be proved tic 
 titious. ... Or if he's under, say, eighteen years." 
 
 "He can't be much more," cried Mrs. Doria. "I think," 
 she appeared to reflect, and then faltered imploringly to 
 Adrian, "What is Richard's age?" 
 
 The kind wise youth could not find it in his heart to 
 strike away the phantom straw she caught at. 
 
 "Oh! about that, I should fancy," he muttered, and 
 found it necessary at the same time to duck and turn h'S 
 head for concealment. Mrs. Doria surpassed his expecta- 
 tions. 
 
 "Yes! well, then . . ." Brandon was resuming with a 
 shrug, which was meant to say he still pledged himself to 
 nothing, when Clare's voice was heard from out the buzz- 
 ing circle of her cousins: "Richard is nineteen years and 
 six months old to-day, mama." 
 
 "Nonsense, child." 
 
 "He is, mama." Clare's voice was very steadfast. 
 
 "Nonsense, I tell you. How can you know?" 
 
 "Richard is one year and nine months older than me, 
 mama." 
 
 Mrs. Doria fought the fact by years and finally by 
 months. Clare was too strong for her.
 
 l>7.; THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Singular child!*' she mentally apostrophized the girl 
 who scornfully rejected straws while drowning. 
 
 "But there's the religion still!" she comforted herself, 
 and sat down to cogitate. 
 
 The men smiled and looked vacuous. 
 
 Music was proposed. There are times when soft music 
 hath not charms; when it is put to as base uses as Imperial 
 Caesar's dust and is taken to fill horrid pauses. Angelica 
 Forey thumped the piano, and sang: "I'm a laughing 
 Gitana, ha — ha! ha — ha!" Matilda Forey and her cousin 
 Mary Bransburne wedded their voices, and songfully in- 
 cited all young people to Haste to the bower that love has 
 built, and defy the wise ones of the world; but the wise 
 ones of the world were in a majority there, and very few 
 places of assembly will be found where they are not; so 
 the glowing appeal of the British ballad-monger passed 
 into the bosom of the emptiness he addressed. Clare was 
 asked to entertain the company. The singular child 
 calmly marched to the instrument, and turned over the 
 appropriate illustrations to the ballad-monger's reper- 
 tory. 
 
 Clare sang a little Irish air. Her duty done, she 
 marched from the piano. Mothers are rarely deceived by 
 their daughters in these matters; but Clare deceived her 
 mother; and Mrs. Doria only persisted in feeling an agony 
 of pity for her child, that she might the more warrantably 
 pity herself — a not uncommon form of the emotion, for 
 there is no juggler like that heart the ballad-monger puts 
 into our mouths so boldly. Remember that she saw years 
 of self-denial, years of a ripening scheme, rendered fruit- 
 less in a minute, and by the System which had almost 
 red'-ced her to the condition of constitutional hypocrite. 
 She had enough of bitterness to brood over, and some 
 excuse for self-pity. 
 
 Still, even when she was cooler, Mrs. Doria's energetic 
 nature prevented her from giving up. Straws were 
 straws, and the frailer they were the harder she clutched 
 them. 
 
 Sbe rose from her chair, and left the room, calling to 
 Adrian to follow her. 
 
 "Adrian," she said, turning upon him in the passage, 
 "you mentioned a house where this horrible cake . . .
 
 PROCESSION OF THE CAKE 277 
 
 where he was this morning. I desire you to take me to 
 that woman immediately." 
 
 The wise youth had not bargained for personal servi- 
 tude. He had hoped he should be in time for the last act 
 of the opera that night, after enjoying the comedy of 
 real life. 
 
 "My dear aunt" ... he was beginning to insinuate. 
 
 "Order a cab to be sent for, and get your hat," said Mrs. 
 Doria. 
 
 There was nothing for it but to obey. He stamped his 
 assent to the Pilgrim's dictum, that Women are practical 
 creatures, and now reflected on his own account, that rela- 
 tionship to a young fool may be a vexation and a nuisance. 
 However, Mrs. Doria compensated him. 
 
 What Mrs. Doria intended to do, the practical creature 
 did not plainly know; but her energy positively demanded 
 to be used in some way or other, and her instinct directed 
 her to the offender on whom she could use it in wrath. 
 She wanted somebody to be angry with, somebody to 
 abuse. She dared not abuse her brother to his face: him 
 she would have to console. Adrian was a fellow-hypocrite 
 to the System, and would, she was aware, bring her into 
 painfully delicate, albeit highly philosophic, ground by a 
 discussion of the case. So she drove to Bessy Berry simply 
 to inquire whither her nephew had flown. 
 
 When a soft woman, and that soft woman a sinner, is 
 matched with a woman of energy, she does not show much 
 fight, and she meets no mercy. Bessy Berry's creditor 
 came to her in female form that night. She then beheld 
 it in all its terrors. Hitherto it had appeared to her as p. 
 male, a disembodied spirit of her imagination possessing 
 male attributes, and the peculiar male characteristic of 
 being moved, and ultimately silenced, by tears. As 
 female, her creditor was terrible indeed. Still, had it not 
 been a late hour, Bessy Berry would have died rather 
 than speak openly that her babes had sped to make their 
 nest in the Isle of Wight. They had a long start, they 
 were out of the reach of pursuers, they were safe, and she 
 told what she had to tell. She told more than was wise 
 of her to tell. She made mention of her early service in 
 the family, and of her little pension. Alas ! her little 
 pension ! Her creditor had come expecting no payment —
 
 278 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 come, as creditors are wont in such moods, just to take 
 it out of her — to employ the familiar term. At once Mrs. 
 Doria pounced upon the pension. 
 
 "That, of course, you know is at an end," she said in 
 the calmest manner, and Berry did not plead for the little 
 bit of bread to her. She only asked a little consideration 
 for her feelings. 
 
 True admirers of women had better stand aside from 
 the scene. Undoubtedly it was very sad for Adrian to be 
 compelled to witness it. Mrs. Doria was not generous. 
 The Pilgrim may be wrong about the sex not growing; 
 but its fashion of conducting warfare we must allow to 
 be barbarous, and according to what is deemed the 
 pristine, or wild cat, method. Ruin, nothing short of it, 
 accompanied poor Berry to her bed that night, and her 
 character bled till morning on her pillow. 
 
 The scene over, Adrian reconducted Mrs. Doria to her 
 home. Mice had been at the cake during her absence 
 apparently. The ladies and gentlemen present put it on 
 the greedy mice, who were accused of having gorged and 
 gone to bed. 
 
 "I'm sure they're quite welcome," said Mrs. Doria. "It's 
 a farce, this marriage, and Adrian has quite come to my 
 way of thinking. I would not touch an atom of it. Why, 
 they were married in a married woman's ring! Can that 
 be legal, as you call it? Oh, I'm convinced! Don't tell 
 me. Austin will be in town to-morrow, and if he is true 
 to his principles, he will instantly adopt measures to 
 rescue his son from infamy. I want no legal advice. I 
 go upon common sense, common decency. This marriage 
 is false." 
 
 Mrs. Doria's fine scheme had become so much a part of 
 her life, that she could not give it up. She took Clare to 
 her bed, and caressed and wept over her, as she would not 
 have done hod she known the singular child, saying, "Poor 
 Richard! my dear poor boy! we must save him, Clare! we 
 must save him!" Of the two the mother showed the 
 greater want of iron on this occasion. Clare lay in her 
 arms rigid and emotionless, with one of her hands tight- 
 locked. All she said was: "I knew it in the morning, 
 mama." She slept clasping Richard's nuptial ring. 
 
 By this time all specially concerned in the System knew
 
 NURSING THE DEVIL 279 
 
 it. The honeymoon was shining placidly above them, is 
 not happiness like another circulating medium? When 
 we have a very great deal of it, some poor hearts are 
 aching for what is taken away from them. When we have 
 gone out and seized it on the highways, certain inscru- 
 table laws are sure to be at work to bring us to the criminal 
 bar, sooner or later. Who knows the honeymoon tha; 
 did not steal somebody's sweetness ? Richard Turpin went 
 forth, singing "Money or life" to the world: Eichard 
 Eeverel has done the same, substituting ''Happiness" 
 for "Money," frequently synonyms. The coin he wanted 
 he would have, and was just as much a highway robber 
 f„s his fellow Dick, so that those who have failed to 
 recognize him as a hero before, may now regard him 
 in that light. Meanwhile the world he has squeezed looks 
 exceedingly patient and beautiful. His coin chinks deli- 
 cious music to him. Nature and the order of things on 
 earth have no warmer admirer than a jolly brigand or 
 a young man made happy by the Jews. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 NURSING THE DEVIL 
 
 And now the author of the System was on trial under 
 the eyes of the lady who loved him. What so kind as 
 they? Yet are they very rigorous, those soft watchful 
 woman's eyes. If you are below the measure they have 
 made of you, you will feel it in the fulness of time. 
 She cannot but show you that she took you for a giant, 
 and has had to come down a bit. You feel yourself 
 strangely diminishing in those sweet mirrors, till at last 
 they drop on you complacently level. But, oh, beware, 
 vain man, of ever waxing enamoured of that wonderful 
 elongation of a male creature you saw reflected in her 
 adoring upcast orbs! Beware of assisting to delude her! 
 A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being 
 but a man, if you are surely that: she will haply learn 
 to acknowledge that no mortal tailor could have fitted 
 that figure she made of you respectably, and that prac-
 
 280 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 tically (though she sighs to think it) her ideal of you 
 was on the pattern of an overgrown charity-boy in the 
 regulation jacket and breech. For this she first scorns 
 the narrow capacities of the tailor, and then smiles at 
 herself. But shouldst thou, when the hour says plainly, 
 Be thyself, and the woman is willing to take thee as 
 thou art, shouldst thou still aspire to be that thing of 
 shanks and wrists, wilt thou not seem contemptible as 
 well as ridiculous? And when the fall comes, will it 
 not be flat on thy face, instead of to the common height 
 of men ? You may fall miles below her measure of you, 
 and be safe: nothing is damaged save an overgrown 
 charity-boy; but if you fall below the common height 
 of men, you must make up your mind to see her rustle 
 her gown, spy at the looking-glass, and transfer her 
 allegiance. The moral of which is, that if we pretend 
 to be what we are not, woman, for whose amusement the 
 farce is performed, will find us out and punish us for it. 
 And it is usually the end of a sentimental dalliance. 
 
 Had Sir Austin given vent to the pain and wrath it 
 was natural he should feel, he might have gone to un- 
 philosophic excesses, and, however much he lowered his 
 reputation as a sage, Lady Blandish would have excused 
 him: sbe would not have loved him less for seeing him 
 closer. But the poor gentleman tasked his soul and 
 stretched his muscles to act up to her conception of 
 h'm. He, a man of science in life, who was bound to 
 bo surprised by nothing in nature, it was not for him 
 to do more than lift his eyebrows and draw in his lips 
 at the news delivered by Ripton Thompson, that ill bird 
 at Raynham. 
 
 All he said, after Ripton had handed the letters and 
 carried his penitential headache to bed, was: "You see, 
 Emmeline, it is useless to base any system on a human 
 being." 
 
 A very philosophical remark for one who has been busily 
 at work building for nearly twenty years. Too philosophi- 
 cal to seem genuine. It revealed where the blow struck 
 sharpest. Richard was no longer the Richard of his crea- 
 tion — his pride and his joy — but simply a human being 
 with the rest. The bright star had sunk among the 
 masa.
 
 NURSING THE DEVIL 281 
 
 And yet, what had the young man done ? And in what 
 had the System failed? 
 
 The lady could not but ask herself this, while she con- 
 doled with the offended father. 
 
 "My friend," she said, tenderly taking his hand before 
 she retired, "I know how deeply you must be grieved. I 
 know what your disappointment must be. I do not beg of 
 you to forgive him now. You cannot doubt his love for 
 this young person, and according to his light, has he not 
 behaved honourably, and as you would have wished, rather 
 than bring her to shame? You will think of that. It 
 has been an accident — a misfortune — a terrible misfor- 
 tune" . . . 
 
 "The God of this world is in the machine — not out of 
 it," Sir Austin interrupted her, and pressed her hand to 
 get the good-night over. 
 
 At any other time her mind would have been arrested to 
 admire the phrase ; now it seemed perverse, vain, false, and 
 she was tempted to turn the meaning that was in it against 
 himself, much as she pitied him. 
 
 "You know, Emmeline," he added, "I believe very little 
 in the fortune, or misfortune, to which men attribute 
 their successes and reverses- They are useful impersona- 
 tions to novelists; but my opinion is sufficiently high of 
 flesh and blood to believe that we make our own history 
 without intervention. Accidents? — Terrible misfortunes? 
 — What are they? — Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night," she said, looking sad and troubled. 
 "When I said, 'misfortune,' I meant, of course, that he is 
 to blame, but — shall I leave you his letter to me?" 
 
 "I think I have enough to meditate upon," he replied, 
 coldly bowing. 
 
 "God bless you," she whispered. "And — may I say it? 
 do not shut your heart." 
 
 He assured her that he hoped not to do so, and the mo- 
 ment she was gone he set about shutting it as tight as 
 he could. 
 
 If, instead of saying, Base no system on a human being, 
 he had said, Never experimentalize with one, he would 
 have been nearer the truth of his own case. He had 
 experimented on humanity in the person of the son he 
 loved as his life, and at once, when the experiment ap-
 
 282 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 geared to have failed, all humanity's failings fell on the 
 .shi> id tiers of his son. Richard's parting laugh in the 
 
 train — it was explicable now: it sounded in his ears like 
 the mockery of this base nature of ours at every en- 
 deavor to exalt and chasten it. The young man had 
 plotted this. From step to step Sir Austin traced the 
 plot. The curious mask he had worn since his illness; 
 the selection of his incapable uncle Hippias for a com- 
 panion in preference to Adrian; it was an evident, well- 
 perfected plot. That hideous laugh would not be silenced. 
 Base, like the rest, treacherous, a creature of passions 
 using his abilities solely to gratify them — never surely 
 had humanity such chances as in him! A Manichacan 
 tendency, from which the sententious eulogist of nature 
 had been struggling for years (and which was partly at 
 the bottom of the System), now began to cloud and usurp 
 dominion of his mind. As he sat alone in the forlorn 
 deachhush of his library, he saw the devil. 
 
 How are we to know when we are at the head and foun- 
 tain of the fates of them wo love? 
 
 There by the springs of Richard's future, his father sat: 
 and the devil said to him: "Only be quiet: do nothing: 
 resolutely do nothing: your object now is to keep a brave 
 face to the world, so that all may know you superior to 
 this human nature that has deceived you. For it is the 
 shameless deception, not the marriage, that has wounded 
 
 you." 
 
 "Ay!" answered the baronet, "the shameless deception, 
 not the marriage: wicked and ruinous as it must be; a 
 destroyer of my tenderest hopes! my dearest schemes! 
 Not the marriage — the shameless deception!" and he 
 crumpled up his son's letter to him, and tossed it into 
 the tire. 
 
 How are we to distinguish the dark chief of the Mani- 
 chseans when he talks our own thoughts to us? 
 
 Further ho whispered, "And your System: — if you 
 would be brave to the world, have courage to cast_ the 
 dream of it out of you: relinquish an impossible project; 
 see it as it is — dead : too good for men !" 
 
 "Ay!" muttered the baronet: "all who would save them 
 perish on the Cross!" 
 
 And so he sat nursing the devil.
 
 NUESING THE DEVIL 283 
 
 By and by he took his lamp, and put on the old cloak 
 and cap, and went to gaze at Eipton. That exhausted 
 debauchee and youth without a destiny slept a dead sleep. 
 A handkerchief was bound about his forehead, and his 
 helpless sunken chin and snoring nose projected up the 
 pillow, made him look absurdly piteous. The baronet re- 
 membered how often he had compared his boy with this 
 one: his own bright boy! And where was the difference 
 between them? 
 
 "Mere outward gilding!" said his familiar. 
 
 "Yes," he responded, "I daresay this one never posi- 
 tively plotted to deceive his father: he followed his appe- 
 tites unchecked, and is internally the sounder of the 
 two." 
 
 Eipton, with his sunken chin and snoring nose under 
 the light of the lamp, stood for human nature, honest, 
 however abject. 
 
 "Miss Eandom, I fear very much, is a necessary estab- 
 lishment!" whispered the monitor. 
 
 "Does the evil in us demand its natural food, or it 
 corrupts the whole?" ejaculated Sir Austin. "And is no 
 angel of avail till that is drawn off? And is that our con- 
 flict — to see whether we can escape the contagion of its 
 embrace, and come uncorrupted out of that?" 
 
 "The world is wise in its way," said the voice. 
 
 "Though it look on itself through Eort wine?" he sug- 
 gested, remembering his lawyer Thompson. 
 
 "Wise in not seeking to be too wise," said the voice. 
 
 "And getting intoxicated on its drug of comfort!"' 
 
 "Human nature is weak." 
 
 "And Miss Eandom is an establishment, and Wild Oats 
 an institution!" 
 
 "It always has been so." 
 
 "And always will be?" 
 
 "So I fear! in spite of your very noble efforts." 
 
 "And leads — whither? And ends — where?" 
 
 Eichard's laugh, taken up by horrid reverberations, as 
 it were through the lengths of the Lower Halls, replied. 
 
 This colloquy of two voices in a brain was concluded by 
 Sir Austin asking again if there were no actual difference 
 between the flower of his hopes and yonder drunken weed, 
 and receiving 1 for answer that there was a decided dissimi-
 
 284 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD EEVEREL 
 
 larity in the smell of the couple; becoming cognizant of 
 which he retreated. 
 
 Sir Austin did not battle with the tempter. He took 
 him into his bosom at once, as if he had been ripe for 
 him, and received his suggestions and bowed to his dic- 
 tates. Because he suffered, and decreed that he would 
 suffer silently, and be the only sufferer, it seemed to him 
 that he was great-minded in his calamity. He had stood 
 against the world. The world had beaten him. What 
 then? He must shut his heart and mask his face; that 
 was all. To be far in advance of the mass, is as fruitless 
 to mankind, he reflected, as straggling in the rear. For 
 how do we know that they move behind us at all, or move 
 in our track % What we win for them is lost; and where 
 we are overthrown we lie! 
 
 It was thus that a fine mind and a fine heart at the 
 bounds of a nature not great, chose to colour his retro- 
 gression and countenance his shortcoming; and it was 
 thus that he set about ruining the work he had done. He 
 might well say, as he once did, that there are hours when 
 the clearest soul becomes a cunning fox. For a grief that 
 was private and peculiar, he unhesitatingly cast the blame 
 upon humanity; just as he had accused it in the period of 
 what he termed his own ordeal. How had he borne that? 
 By masking his face. And he prepared the ordeal for his 
 son by doing the same. This was by no means his idea 
 of a man's duty in tribulation, about which he could be 
 strenuously eloquent. But it was his instinct so to act, 
 and in times of trial great natures alone are not at the 
 mercy of their instincts. Moreover it would cost him 
 pain to mask his face; pain worse than that he endured 
 when there still remained an object for him to open his 
 heart to in proportion; and he always reposed upon the 
 Spartan comfort of bearing pain and being passive. "Do 
 nothing," said the devil he nursed; which meant in his 
 case, "Take me into you and don't cast me out." Ex- 
 cellent and sane is the outburst of wrath to men, when 
 it stops short of slaughter. For who that locks it up to 
 eat in solitary, can say that it is consumed? Sir Austin 
 had as weak a digestion for wrath, as poor Hippias for a 
 green duckling. Instead of eating it, it ate him. The 
 wild beast in him was not the less deadly because it did
 
 NURSING THE DEVIL 285 
 
 not roar, and the devil in him not the less active because 
 he resolved to do nothing. 
 
 He sat at the springs of Richard's future, in the forlorn 
 dead-hush of his library there, hearing the cinders click in 
 the extinguished fire, and that humming stillness in which 
 one may fancy one hears the midnight Fates busily stir- 
 ring their embryos. The lamp glowed mildly on the bust 
 of Chatham. 
 
 Toward morning a gentle knock fell at his door. Lady 
 Blandish glided in. With hasty step she came straight to 
 him, and took both his hands. 
 
 "My friend," she said, speaking tearfully, and trem- 
 bling, "I feared I should find you here. I could not sleep. 
 How is it with you ?" 
 
 "Well ! Emmeline, well !" he replied, torturing his brows 
 to fix the mask. 
 
 He wished it had been Adrian who had come to him. 
 He had an extraordinary longing for Adrian's society. 
 He knew that the wise youth would divine how to treat 
 him, and he mentally confessed to just enough weakness 
 to demand a certain kind of management. Besides, 
 Adrian, he had not a doubt, would accept him entirely 
 as he seemed, and not pester him in any way by trying to 
 unlock his heart; whereas a woman, he feared, would be 
 waxing too womanly, and swelling from tears and suppli- 
 cations to a scene, of all things abhorred by him the most. 
 So he rapped the floor with his foot, and gave the lady 
 no very welcome face when he said it was well with him. 
 
 She sat down by his side, still holding one hand firmly, 
 and softly detaining the other. 
 
 "Oh, my friend! may I believe you? May I speak to 
 you?" She leaned close to him. "You know my heart. 
 I have no better ambition than to be your friend. Surely 
 I divide your grief, and' may I not claim your confidence? 
 Who has wept more over your great and dreadful sorrows ? 
 I would not have come to you, but I do believe that sorrow 
 shared relieves the burden, and it is now that you may 
 feel a woman's aid, and something of what a woman 
 could be to you." . . . 
 
 "Be assured," he gravely said, "I thank you, Emmeline, 
 for your intentions." 
 
 "No, no! not for my intentions! And do not thank
 
 2S6 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 me. Think of him . . . think of your dear hoy. . . . 
 Our Richard, as we have called him. — Ohl do not think 
 it a foolish superstition of mine, but I have had a thought 
 this night that has kept me in torment till I rose to 
 speak to you. . . . Tell me first you have forgiven 
 him." 
 
 "A father bears no malice to his son, Emmeline." 
 
 "Your heart has forgiven him?" 
 
 "My heart has taken what he gave." 
 
 "And quite forgiven him?" 
 
 "You will hear no complaints of mine." 
 
 The lady paused despondingly, and looked at him in 
 a wistful manner, saying with a sigh, "Yes! I know how 
 noble you arc and different from others!" 
 
 He drew one of his hands from her relaxed hold. 
 
 "You ought to be in bed, Emmeline." 
 
 "I cannot sleep." 
 
 "Go, and talk to me another time." 
 
 ''No, it must be now. You have helped me when I strug- 
 gled to rise into a clearer world, and I think, humble as I 
 am, I can help you now. I have had a thought this night 
 that if you do not pray for him and bless him ... it will 
 end miserably. My friend, have you done so?" 
 
 He was stung and offended, and could hardly help show- 
 ing it in spite of his mask. 
 
 "Have you done so, Austin ?" 
 
 "This is assuredly a new way of committing fathers to 
 the follies of their sons, Emmeline!" 
 
 "No, not that. But will you pray for your boy, and bless 
 him, before the day comes?" 
 
 He restrained himself to pronounce his words calmly: — 
 "And I must do this, or it will end in misery? How else 
 can it end? Can I save him from the seed he has sown? 
 Consider, Emmeline, what you say. He has repeated his 
 cousin's sin. You see the end of that." . . . 
 
 "Oh, so different! This young person is not, is not of 
 the class poor Austin Wentworth allied himself to. In- 
 deed it is different. And he — be just and admit his noble- 
 ness. I fancied you did. This young person has great 
 beauty, she has the elements of good breeding, she — in- 
 deed I think, had she been in another position, you would 
 not have looked upon her unfavourably."
 
 NURSING THE DEVIL 287 
 
 "She may be too good for my son !" The baronet spoke 
 with sublime bitterness. 
 
 "No woman is too good for Richard, and you know it." 
 
 "Pass her." 
 
 "Yes, I will speak only of him. He met her by a fatal 
 accident. We thought his love dead, and so did he till he 
 saw her again. He met her, he thought we were plotting 
 against him, he thought he should lose her for ever, and in 
 the madness of an hour he did this." . . . 
 
 "My Emmeline pleads bravely for clandestine matches." 
 
 "Ah! do not trifle, my friend. Say : would you have had 
 him act as young men in his position generally do to 
 young women beneath them?" 
 
 Sir Austin did not like the question. It probed him 
 very severely. 
 
 "You mean," he said, "that fathers must fold their 
 arms, and either submit to infamous marriages, or have 
 these creatures ruined." 
 
 "I do not mean that," exclaimed the lady, striving for 
 what she did mean, and how to express it. "I mean that 
 ... he loved her. Is it not a madness at his age ? But 
 what I chiefly mean is — save him from the consequences. 
 No, you shall not withdraw your hand. Think of his 
 pride, his sensitiveness, his great wild nature — wild when 
 he is set wrong: think how intense it is, set upon love; 
 think, my friend, do not forget his love for you." 
 
 Sir Austin smiled an admirable smile of pity. 
 
 "That I should save him, or any one, from consequences, 
 is asking more than the order of things will allow to you, 
 Emmeline, and is not in the disposition of this world. I 
 cannot. Consequences are the natural offspring of acts. 
 My child, you are talking sentiment, which is the distrac- 
 tion of our modern age in everything — a phantasmal 
 vapour distorting the image of the life we live. You ask 
 me to give him a golden age in spite of himself. All that 
 could be done, by keeping him in the paths of virtue and 
 truth, I did. He is become a man, and as a man he must 
 reap his own sowing." 
 
 The baffled lady sighed. He sat so rigid: he spoke so 
 securely, as if wisdom were to him more than the love of 
 his son. And yet he did love his son. Feeling sure that 
 he loved his son while he spoke so loftily, she reverenced
 
 288 THE ORDEAL OF R 1 1 1 1 A RD FE VEREL 
 
 him still, bafllotl as she was, and sensible that she had been 
 quibbled with. 
 
 "All 1 ask of you is to open your heart to him," she 
 said. 
 
 He kept silent. 
 
 "Call him a man. — ho is, and must ever be the child of 
 yonr education, my friend." 
 
 ''You would console me, Emmeline, with the prospect 
 that, if he ruins himself, he spares the world of young 
 women. Yes, that is something!" 
 
 Closely she scanned the mask. It was impenetrable, 
 lie could meet, her eyes, and respond to the pressure of her 
 hand, and smile, and not show what he felt. Nor did he 
 deem it hypocritical to seek to maintain his elevation in 
 her soft soul, by simulating supreme philosophy over 
 ollended love. Nor did he know that he had an angel 
 with him then : a blind angel, and a weak one, but one 
 who struck upon his chance. 
 
 "Am I pardoned for coming to you?" she said, after a 
 pause. 
 
 "Surely I can read my Emmeline's intentions," he 
 gently replied. 
 
 "Very poor ones. I feel my weakness. I cannot utter 
 half I have been thinking. Oh, if I could!" 
 
 "You speak very well, Emmeline." 
 
 "At least, I am pardoned !" 
 
 "Surely so." 
 
 "And before I leave you, dear friend, shall I be for- 
 given? — may I beg it? — will you bless him?" 
 
 He was again silent. 
 
 "Pray for him, Austin! pray for him ere the night is 
 over." 
 
 As she spoke she slid down to his feet and pressed his 
 hand to her bosom. 
 
 The baronet was startled. In very dread of the soft fit 
 that wooed him, he pushed back his chair, and rose, and 
 went to the window. 
 
 "It's day already !" he said with assumed vivacity, 
 throwing open the shutters, and displaying the young 
 light on the lawn. 
 
 Lady Blandish dried her tears as she knelt, and then 
 joined him, and glanced up silently at Richard's moon
 
 NUBSING THE DEVIL 289 
 
 standing in wane toward the West. She hoped it was be- 
 cause of her having been premature in pleading so earn- 
 estly, that she had failed to move him, and she accused 
 herself more than the baronet. But in acting as she had 
 done, she had treated him. as no common man, and she 
 was compelled to perceive that his heart was at present 
 hardly superior to the hearts of ordinary men, however 
 composed his face might be, and apparently serene his 
 wisdom. From that moment she grew critical of him, and 
 began to study her idol — a process dangerous to idols. He, 
 now that she seemed to have relinquished the painful 
 subject, drew to her, and as one who wished to smooth a 
 foregone roughness, murmured: "God's rarest blessing is, 
 after all, a good woman! My Emmeline bears her sleep- 
 less night well. She does not shame the day." He gazed 
 down on her with a fondling tenderness. 
 
 "I could bear many, many!" she replied, meeting his 
 eyes, "and you would see me look better and better, if . . . 
 if only ..." but she had no encouragement to end the 
 sentence. 
 
 Perhaps he wanted some mute form of consolation ; per- 
 haps the handsome placid features of the dark-eyed dame 
 touched him: at any rate their Platonism was advanced 
 by his putting an arm about her. She felt the arm and 
 talked of the morning. 
 
 Thus proximate, they by and by both heard something 
 very like a groan behind them, and looking round, beheld 
 the Saurian eye. Lady Blandish smiled, but the baronet's 
 discomposure was not to be concealed. By a strange fatal- 
 ity every stage of their innocent loves was certain to have 
 a human beholder. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sure I beg pardon," Benson mumbled, arrest- 
 ing his head in a melancholy pendulosity. He was 
 ordered out of the room. 
 
 "And I think I shall follow him, and try to get forty 
 winks," said Lady Blandish. They parted with a quiet 
 squeeze of hands. 
 
 The baronet then called in Benson. 
 
 "Get me my breakfast as soon as you can," he said, 
 regardless of the aspect of injured conscience Benson 
 sombrely presented to him. "I am going to town early. 
 And, Benson," he added, "you will also go to town this
 
 290 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 afternoon, or to-morrow, if it suits you, and lake your 
 
 book with you to -Mr. Thompson. You will not return 
 
 here. A provision will be made for you. You can go." 
 
 The heavy butler essayed to speak, but the tremendous 
 
 blow and the baronet's gesture choked him. At the door 
 be made another effort which shook the rolls of his loose 
 skin pitiably. An impatient signal sent, him out dumb, — 
 and Raynham was quit of the one believer in the Great 
 Shaddock dogma. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 rnxgrrcsT of an EPICURE 
 
 It was the month of July. The Solent ran up green 
 waves before a full-blowing South-wester. Gay little 
 yachts bounded out like foam, and flashed their sails, light 
 as sea-nymphs. A crown of deep Summer blue topped the 
 flying mountains of cloud. 
 
 By an open window that looked on the brine through 
 nodding roses, our young bridal pair were at breakfast, 
 regaling worthily, both of them. Had the Scientific Hu- 
 manist observed them, he could not have contested the 
 fact, that as a couple who had set up to be father and 
 mother of Britons, they were doing their duty. Files of 
 egg-cups with disintegrated shells bore witness to it, and 
 they were still at work, hardly talking from rapidity of 
 exercise. Both wore dressed for an expedition. She had 
 her bonnet on, and he his yachting-hat. His sleeves were 
 turned over at tho wrists, and her gown showed its lining 
 on her lap. At times a chance word might spring a laugh, 
 but eating was the business of the hour, as I would have 
 you to know it always will be where Cupid is in earnest. 
 Tribute flowed in to them from the subject land. Neg- 
 lected lies Love's penny-whistle on which they played 
 so prettily and charmed the spheres to hear them. What 
 do they care for the spheres, who have one another? 
 Come, eggs! come, bread and butter! come, tea with 
 sugar in it and milk! and welcome, the jolly hours. That 
 is a fair interpretation of the music in them just now.
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICUKE 291 
 
 Yonder instrument was good only for the overture. After 
 all, what finer aspiration can lovers have, than to be free 
 man and woman in the heart of plenty ?' And is it not a 
 glorious level to have attained? Ah, wretched Scientific 
 Humanist! not to be by and mark the admirable sight of 
 these young creatures feeding. It would have been a spell 
 to exorcise the Manichee, methinks. 
 
 The mighty performance came to an end, and then, with 
 a flourish of his table-napkin, husband stood over wife, 
 who met him on the confident budding of her mouth. The 
 poetry of mortals is their daily prose. Is it not a glorious 
 level to have attained? A short, quick-blooded kiss, ra- 
 diant, fresh, and honest as Aurora, and then Richard 
 says without lack of cheer, "No letter to-day, my Lucy!" 
 whereat her sweet eyes dwell on him a little seriously, 
 but he cries, "Never mind! he'll be coming down himself 
 some morning. He has only to know her, and all's well! 
 eh?" and so saying he puts a hand beneath her chin, and 
 seems to frame her fair face in fancy, she smiling up to 
 be looked at. 
 
 "But one thing I do want to ask my darling," says Lucy, 
 and dropped into his bosom with hands of petition. "Take 
 me on board his yacht with him to-day — not leave me with 
 those people! Will he? I'm a good sailor, he knows!" 
 
 "The best afloat!" laughs Richard, hugging her, "but, 
 you know, you darling bit of a sailor, they don't allow 
 more than a certain number on board for the race, and if 
 they hear you've been with me, there'll be cries of foul 
 play! Besides, there's Lady Judith to talk to you about 
 Austin, and Lord Mountfalcon's compliments for you to 
 listen to, and Mr. Morton to take care of you." 
 
 Lucy's eyes fixed sideways an instant. 
 
 "I hope I don't frown and blush as I did?" she said, 
 screwing her pliable brows up to him winningly, and he 
 bent his cheek against hers, and murmured something 
 delicious. 
 
 "And we shall be separated for — how many hours? one, 
 two, three hours !" she pouted to his flatteries. 
 
 "And then I shall come on board to receive my bride's 
 congratulations." 
 
 "And then my husband will talk all the time to Lady 
 Judith."
 
 292 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ''And then I shall see my wife frowning and blushing at 
 Lord Mount falcon." 
 
 "Am I so foolish, Richard?" she forgot her trifling to 
 ask in an earnest way, and had another Aurorean kiss, 
 just brushing the dew on her lips, for answer. 
 
 After hiding a month in shyest shade, the pair of happy 
 sinners bad wandered forth one day to look on men and 
 marvel at them, and bad chanced to meet Mr. Morton of 
 Peer Hall, Austin Wentworth'a friend, and Ralph's uncle. 
 Mr. Morton had once been intimate with the baronet, but 
 hail given him up for many years as impracticable and 
 hopeless, for which reason he was the more inclined to re- 
 gard Richard's misdemeanour charitably, and to lay the 
 faults of the son on the father; and thinking society to be 
 the one thing requisite to the young man, he had in- 
 troduced him to the people he knew in the island ; among 
 others to the Lady Judith Felle, a fair young dame, who 
 introduced him to Lord Mountfalcon, a puissant noble- 
 man; who introduced him to the yachtsmen beginning to 
 congregate; so that in a few weeks he found himself in 
 the centre of a brilliant company, and for the first time 
 in his life tasted what it was to have free intercourse with 
 his fellow-creatures of both sexes. The son of a System 
 was, therefore, launched; not only through the surf, but 
 in deep waters. 
 
 Now the baronet had so far compromised between the 
 recurrence of his softer feelings and the suggestions of his 
 new familiar, that he had determined to act toward Rich- 
 ard with justness. The world called it magnanimity, and 
 even Lady Blandish had some thoughts of the same kind 
 when she heard that he had decreed to Richard a hand- 
 some allowance, and had scouted Mrs. Doria's proposal 
 for him to contest the legality of the marriage; but Sir 
 Austin knew well he was simply just in not withholding 
 money from a youth so situated. And here again the 
 world deceived him by embellishing his conduct. For 
 what is it to be just to whom we love! He knew it was 
 not magnanimous, but the cry of the world somehow 
 fortified him in the conceit that in dealing perfect justice 
 to his son he was doing all that was possible, because so 
 much more than common fathers would have done. He 
 had shut his heart.
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE 293 
 
 Consequently Richard did not want money. What he 
 wanted more, and did not get, was a word from his 
 father, and though he said nothing to sadden his young 
 bride, she felt how much it preyed upon him to be at 
 variance with the man whom, now that he had offended 
 him and gone against him, he would have fallen on his 
 knees to; the man who was as no other man to him. She 
 heard him of nights when she lay by his side, and the 
 darkness, and the broken mutterings, of those nights 
 clothed the figure of the strange stern man in her mind. 
 Not that it affected the appetites of the pretty pair. We 
 must not expect that of Cupid enthroned and in condition; 
 under the influence of sea-air, too. The files of egg-cups 
 laugh at such an idea. Still the worm did gnaw them. 
 Judge, then, of their delight when, on this pleasant morn- 
 ing, as they were issuing from the garden of their cottage 
 to go down to the sea, they caught sight of Tom Bakewell 
 rushing up the road with a portmanteau on his shoulders, 
 and, some distance behind him, discerned Adrian. 
 
 "It's all right!" shouted Richard, and ran off to meet 
 him, and never left his hand till he had hauled him up, 
 firing questions at him all the way, to where Lucy stood. 
 
 "Lucy! this is Adrian, my cousin." — "Isn't he an 
 angel?" his eyes seemed to add; while Lucy's clearly 
 answered, "That he is !" 
 
 The full-bodied angel ceremoniously bowed to her, and 
 acted with reserved unction the benefactor he saw in their 
 greetings. "I think we are not strangers," he was good 
 enough to remark, and very quickly let them know he had 
 not breakfasted; on hearing which they hurried him into 
 the house, and Lucy put herself in motion to have him 
 served. 
 
 "Dear old Rady," said Richard, tugging at his hand 
 again, "how glad I am you've come! I don't mind telling 
 you we've been horridly wretched." 
 
 "Six, seven, eight, nine eggs," was Adrian's comment 
 on a survey of the breakfast-table. 
 
 "Why wouldn't he write? Why didn't he answer one of 
 my letters? But here you are, so I don't mind now. He 
 wants to see us, does he? We'll go up to-night. I've a 
 match on at eleven; my little yacht — I've called her the 
 'Blandish' — against Fred Currie's 'Begum.' I shall beat,
 
 294 THE ORDEAL <>i RICHARD KKVKRKL 
 
 but whether I do or not, well so up to-night. What's the 
 news! What are they all doing?" 
 
 "My dear boy!" Adrian returned, sitting comfortably 
 down, "let me put myself a little more on an equal footing 
 with you before I undertake to reply. Half that number 
 of eggs will be sufficient for an unmarried man, and then 
 we'll talk. Tbey're all very well, as well as 1 can recollect 
 after the shaking my total vacuity has had this morning. 
 I came over by the first boat, and the sea, the sea has made 
 me love mother earth, and desire of her fruits." 
 
 Richard fretted restlessly opposite his cool relative. 
 
 "Adrian! what did he say when he heard of it? I want 
 to know exactly what words he said." 
 
 "Well says the sage, my son! 'Speech is the small 
 change of Silence.' Pie said less than I do." 
 
 "That's how he took it!" cried Richard, and plunged in 
 meditation. 
 
 Soon the table was cleared, and laid out afresh, and 
 Lucy preceded the maid bearing eggs on the tray, and sat 
 down unbonneted, and like a thorough-bred housewife, to 
 pour out the tea for him. 
 
 "Now, we'll commence." said Adrian, tapping his egg 
 with meditative cheerfulness; but his expression soon 
 changed to one of pain, all the more alarming for his 
 benevolent efforts to conceal it. Could it be possible the 
 egg was bad? oh, horror! Lucy watched him, and waited 
 in trepidation. 
 
 "This egg has boiled three minutes and three-quarters," 
 he observed, ceasing to contemplate it. 
 
 "Dear, dear!" said Lucy, "I boiled them myself exactly 
 that time. Richard likes them so. And you like them 
 hard, Mr. Ilarley?" 
 
 "On the contrary, I like them soft. Two minutes and a 
 half, or three-quarters at the outside. An egg should 
 never rashly ver^e upon hardness — never. Three minutes 
 is the excess of temerity."' 
 
 "If Richard had told me! If I had only known!" the 
 lovely little hostess interjected ruefully, biting her lip. 
 
 "We mustn't expect him to pay attention to such mat- 
 ters," said Adrian, trying to smile. 
 
 "IlatiLT it! there are more eggs in the house," cried 
 Richard, and pulled savagely at the bell.
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICUKE 295 
 
 Lucy jumped up, saying, "Oh, yes! I will go and boil 
 some exactly the time you like. Pray let me go, Mr. 
 Harley." 
 
 Adrian restrained her departure with a motion of his 
 hand. "No," he said, "I will be ruled by Richard's tastes, 
 and heaven grant me his digestion !" 
 
 Lucy threw a sad look at Richard, who stretched on a 
 sofa, and left the burden of the entertainment entirely to 
 her. The eggs were a melancholy beginning, but her 
 ardour to please Adrian would not be damped, and she 
 deeply admired his resignation. If she failed in pleasing 
 this glorious herald of peace, no matter by what small 
 misadventure, she apprehended calamity; so there sat this 
 fair dove with brows at work above her serious smiling 
 blue eyes, covertly studying every aspect of the plump-faced 
 epicure, that she might learn to propitiate him. "He shall 
 not think me timid and stupid," thought this brave girl, 
 and indeed Adrian was astonished to find that she could 
 both chat and be useful, as well as look ornamental. When 
 he had finished one egg, behold, two fresh ones came in, 
 boiled according to his prescription. She had quietly 
 given her orders to the maid, and he had them without 
 fuss. Possibly his look of dismay at the offending eggs 
 had not been altogether involuntary, and her woman's 
 instinct, inexperienced as she was, may have told her that 
 he had come prepared to be not very well satisfied with 
 anything in Love's cottage. There was mental faculty 
 in those pliable brows to see through, and combat, an 
 unwitting wise youth. 
 
 How much she had achieved already she partly divined 
 when Adrian said: "I think now I'm in case to answer 
 your questions, my dear boy — thanks to Mrs. Richard," 
 and he bowed to her his first direct acknowledgment of 
 her position. Lucy thrilled with pleasure. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Richard, and settled easily on his back. 
 
 "To begin, the Pilgrim has lost his Note-book, and has 
 been persuaded to offer a reward which shall maintain the 
 happy finder thereof in an asylum for life. Benson — 
 superlative Benson — has turned his shoulders upon Rayn- 
 ham. None know whither he has departed. It is believed 
 that the sole surviving member of the sect of the Shad- 
 dock-Dogmatists is under a total eclipse of Woman."
 
 / 
 
 29G THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Benson pone?" Richard exclaimed. "What a tre- 
 mendous time it seems since I left Raynham!" 
 
 "So it is, my dear boy. The honeymoon is Mahomet's 
 minute; or say, the Persian King's water-pail that you 
 read of in the story : You dip your head in it, and when 
 you draw it out, you discover that you have lived a life. 
 To resume: your uncle Algernon still roams in pursuit 
 of the lost one — I should say, hops. Your uncle Hippias 
 has a new and most perplexing symptom : a determination 
 of bride-cake to the nose. Ever since your generous 
 present to him, though he declares he never consumed a 
 morsel of it, he has been under the distressing illusion that 
 his nose is enormous, and I assure you he exhibits quite 
 a maidenly timidity in following it — through a doorway, 
 for instance. He complains of its terrible weight. I have 
 conceived that Benson invisible might be sitting on it. 
 His hand, and the doctors, are in hourly consultation with 
 it, but I fear it will not grow smaller. The Pilgrim has 
 begotten upon it a new Aphorism : that Size is a matter 
 of opinion." 
 
 "Poor uncle Hippy!" said Richard, "I wonder he doesn't 
 believe in magic. There's nothing supernatural to rival 
 the wonderful sensations he does believe in. Good God! 
 fancy coming to that !" 
 
 "I'm sure Pm very sorry," Lucy protested, "but I can't 
 help laughing." 
 
 Charming to the wise youth her pretty laughter 
 sounded. 
 
 "The Pilgrim has your notion, Richard. Whom does 
 he not forestall ? 'Confirmed dyspepsia is the apparatus 
 of illusions,' and he accuses the Ages that put faith in sor- 
 cery, of universal indigestion, which may have been the 
 case, owing to their infamous cookery. He says again, if 
 yen remember, that our own Age is travelling back to 
 darkness and ignorance through dyspepsia. He lays the 
 seat of wisdom in the centre of our system, Mrs. Richard : 
 for which reason you will understand how sensible I am 
 of the vast obligation I am under to you at the present 
 moment, for your especial care of mine." 
 
 Richard looked on at Lucy's little triumph, attributing 
 Adrian's subjugation to her beauty and sweetness. She 
 had latterly received a great many compliments on thajt
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICUEE 297 
 
 score, which she did not care to hear, and Adrian's hom- 
 age to a practical quality was far pleasanter to the young 
 wife, who shrewdly guessed that her beauty would not 
 help her much in the struggle she had now to maintain. 
 Adrian continuing to lecture on the excelling virtues of 
 wise cookery, a thought struck her: Where, where had she 
 tossed Mrs. Berry's book? 
 
 "So that's all about the home-people?" said Richard. 
 
 "All !" replied Adrian. "Or stay : you know Clare's 
 going to be married? Not? Your Aunt Helen" 
 
 "Oh, bother my Aunt Helen ! What do you think she had 
 the impertinence to write — but never mind ! Is it to Ralph ?" 
 
 "Your Aunt Helen, I was going to say, my dear boy, is 
 an extraordinary woman. It was from her originally that 
 the Pilgrim first learnt to call the female the practical 
 animal. He studies us all, you know. The Pilgrim's 
 Scrip is the abstract portraiture of his surrounding rela- 
 tives. Well, your Aunt Helen" 
 
 "Mrs. Doria Battledoria !" laughed Richard. 
 
 " being foiled in a little pet scheme of her own — 
 
 call it a System if you like — of some ten or fifteen years' 
 standing, with regard to Miss Clare!" 
 
 "The fair Shuttlecockiana !" 
 
 " instead of fretting like a man, and questioning 
 
 Providence, and turning herself and everybody else inside 
 out, and seeing the world upside down, what does the prac- 
 tical animal do ? She wanted to marry her to somebody 
 she couldn't marry her to, so she resolved instantly to 
 marry her to somebody she could marry her to : and as 
 old gentlemen enter into these transactions with the prac- 
 tical animal the most readily, she fixed upon an old 
 gentleman ; an unmarried old gentleman, a rich old gen- 
 tleman, and now a captive old gentleman. The ceremony 
 takes place in about a week from the present time. No 
 doubt you will receive your invitation in a day or two." 
 
 "And that cold, icy, wretched Clare has consented to 
 marry an old man !" groaned Richard. "I'll put a stop to 
 that when I go to town." 
 
 Richard got up and strode about the room. Then he 
 bethought him it was time to go on board and make prepa- 
 rations. 
 
 "I'm off," he said. "Adrian, you'll take her. She goes
 
 298 THE ORDEAL or RICHARD KKYEREL 
 
 in the Empress, Mount falcon's vessel. lie starts us. A 
 little Bchooner-yachl — such a beauty! I'll have one like 
 her some day. Good-bye, darling 1" he whispered to Lucy, 
 
 and his hand and eyes lingered on her, and hers on him, 
 seeking to make up for the priceless kiss they were de- 
 barred from. But she quickly looked away from him as 
 he held her: — Adrian stood silent: his brows were up, 
 and his mouth dubiously contracted, lie spoke at last. 
 
 "( io on the water S" 
 
 "Yes. It's only to St. Helen's. Short and sharp." 
 
 "Do you grudge me the nourishment my poor system 
 has just received, my son?" 
 
 "Oh, bother your system! Put on your hat, and come 
 along. I'll put you on board in my boat." 
 
 "Richard! I have already paid the penalty of them who 
 are condemned to come to an island. 1 will go with you 
 to the edge of the sea, and I will meet you there when you 
 return, and take up the Tale of the Tritons: but, though I 
 forfeit the pleasure of Mrs. Richard's company, I refuse 
 to quit the land." 
 
 "Yes, oh. Mr. Harley!" Lucy broke' from her husband, 
 "and 1 will stay with you, if you please. I don't want to 
 go among those people, and we can see it all from the 
 shore. Dearest! 1 don't want to go. You don't mind? 
 Of course, I will go if you wish, but I would so much 
 rather stay;" and she Lengthened her plea in her attitude 
 and look to melt the discontent she saw gathering. 
 
 Adrian protested that she had much hotter gu; that he 
 could amuse himself very well till their return, and so 
 forth; but she had schemes in her pretty head, and held 
 to it to be allowed to stay in spite of Lord Mount falcon's 
 disappointment, cited by Richard, and at the great 
 risk of vexing her darling, as she saw. Richard pished, 
 and glanced contemptuously at Adrian. He gave way 
 ungraciously. 
 
 "There, do as you like. Get your things ready to leave 
 this evening. A T o, I'm not angry." — Who could be? he 
 seemed as he looked up from her modest fondling to ask 
 Adrian, and seized the indemnity of a kiss on her fore- 
 head, which, however, did not immediately disperse the 
 shade of annoyance he felt. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "Such a day as this,
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICUEE 299 
 
 and a fellow refuses to come on the water! Well, come 
 along to the edge of the sea." Adrian's angelic quality- 
 had quite worn off to him. He never thought of devoting 
 himself to make the most of the material there was: but 
 somebody else did, and that fair somebody succeeded won- 
 derfully in a few short hours. She induced Adrian to 
 reflect that the baronet had only to see her, and the family 
 muddle would be smoothed at once. He came to it by 
 degrees; still the gradations were rapid. Her manner he 
 liked; she was certainly a nice picture: best of all, she 
 was sensible. He forgot the farmer's niece in her, she 
 was so very sensible. She appeared really to understand 
 that it was a woman's duty to know how to cook. 
 
 But the difficulty was, by what means the baronet could 
 be brought to consent to see her. He had not yet con- 
 sented to see his son, and Adrian, spurred by Lady 
 Blandish, had ventured something in coming down. He 
 was not inclined to venture more. The small debate in 
 his mind ended by his throwing the burden on time. 
 Time would bring the matter about. Christians as well 
 as Pagans are in the habit of phrasing this excuse for 
 folding their arms ; "forgetful," says The Pilgrim's Scrip, 
 "that the devil's imps enter into no such armistice." 
 
 As she loitered along the shore with her amusing com- 
 panion, Lucy had many things to think of. There was 
 her darling's match. The yachts were started by pistol- 
 shot by Lord Mountfalcon on board the Empress, and her 
 little heart beat after Kichard's straining sails. Then 
 there was the strangeness of walking with a relative of 
 Richard's, one who had lived by his side so long. And 
 the thought that perhaps this night she would have to 
 appear before the dreaded father of her husband. 
 
 "O Mr. Harley !" she said, "is it true — are we to go to- 
 night? And me," she faltered, "will he see me?" 
 
 "Ah! that is what I wanted to talk to you about," said 
 Adrian. "I made some reply to our dear boy which he has 
 slightly misinterpreted. Our second person plural is liable 
 to misconstruction by an ardent mind. I said 'see you,' 
 and he supposed — now, Mrs. Richard, I am sure you will 
 understand me. Just at present perhaps it would be advis- 
 able — when the father and son have settled their accounts, 
 the daughter-in-law can't be a debtor." . . .
 
 300 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD PEVEREL 
 
 Lucy tli row up her blue eyes. A half -cowardly delight 
 at the chance of a respite from the awful interview made 
 her quickly apprehensive. 
 
 "O Mr. Harleyl you think he should go alone first '." 
 
 "Well, that is my notion. But the fact is, he is such an 
 excellent husband that I fancy it will require more than 
 a man's power of persuasion to get him to go." 
 
 "But I will persuade him, Mr. Harlev." 
 
 "Perhaps, if you would ..." 
 
 "There is nothing I would not do for his happiness," 
 murmured Lucy. 
 
 The wise youth pressed her hand with lymphatic appro- 
 bation. They walked on till the yachts had rounded the 
 point. 
 
 "Is it to-night, Mr. Harley?" she asked with some 
 trouble in her voice now that her darling was out of 
 sight. 
 
 "I don't imagine your eloquence even will get him to 
 leave you to-night," Adrian replied gallantly. "Besides, I 
 must speak for myself. To achieve the passage to an 
 island is enough for one day. No necessity exists for any 
 hurry, except in the brain of that impetuous boy. You 
 must correct it, Mrs. Richard. Men are made to be man- 
 aged, and women are born managers. Now, if you were 
 to let him know that you don't want to go to-night, and 
 let him guess, after a day or two, that you would very 
 much rather . . . you might affect a peculiar repugnance. 
 By taking it on yourself, you see, this wild young man 
 will not require such frightful efforts of persuasion. Both 
 his father and he are exceedingly delicate subjects, and 
 his father unfortunately is not in a position to be managed 
 directly. It's a strange office to propose to you, but it 
 appears to devolve upon you to manage the father through 
 the son. Prodigal having made his peace, you, who have 
 done all the work from a distance, naturally come into the 
 circle of the paternal smile, knowing it due to you. I 
 see no other way. If Richard suspects that his father 
 objects for the present to welcome his daughter-in-law, 
 hostilities will be continued, the breach will be widened, 
 bad will grow to worse, and I see no end to it." 
 
 Adrian looked in her face, as much as to say: Now are 
 you capable of this piece of heroism? And it did seem
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE 301 
 
 hard to her that she should have to tell Richard she shrank 
 from any trial. But the proposition chimed in with her 
 fears and her wishes: she thought the wise youth very 
 wise : the poor child was not insensible to his flattery, and 
 the subtler flattery of making herself in some measure a 
 sacrifice to the home she had disturbed. She agreed to 
 simulate as Adrian had suggested. 
 
 Victory is the commonest heritage of the hero, and 
 when Richard came on shore proclaiming that the Blan- 
 dish had beaten the Begum by seven minutes and three- 
 quarters, he was hastily kissed and congratulated by his 
 bride with her fingers among the leaves of Dr. Kitchener, 
 and anxiously questioned about wine. 
 
 "Dearest ! Mr. Harley wants to stay with us a little, and 
 he thinks we ought not to go immediately — that is, before 
 he has had some letters, and I feel ... I would so much 
 rather ..." 
 
 "Ah! that's it, you coward!" said Richard. "Well, then, 
 to-morrow. We had a splendid race. Did you see us ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! I saw you and was sure my darling would 
 win." And again she threw on him the cold water of that 
 solicitude about wine. "Mr. Harley must have the best, 
 you know, and we never drink it, and I'm so silly, I don't 
 know good wine, and if you would send Tom where he can 
 get good wine. I have»seen to the dinner." 
 
 "So that's why you didn't come to meet me?" 
 
 "Pardon me, darling." 
 
 "Well, I do, but Mountfalcon doesn't, and Lady Judith 
 thinks you ought to have been there." 
 
 "Ah, but my heart was with you!" 
 
 Richard put his hand to feel for the little heart: her 
 eyelids softened, and she ran away. 
 
 It is to say much of the dinner that Adrian found no 
 fault with it, and was in perfect good humour at the con- 
 clusion of the service. He did not abuse the wine they 
 were able to procure for him, which was also much. The 
 coffee, too, had the honour of passing without comment. 
 These were sound first steps toward the conquest of an 
 epicure, and as yet Cupid did not grumble. 
 
 After coffee they strolled out to see the sun set from 
 Lady Judith's grounds. The wind had dropped. The 
 clouds had rolled from the zenith, and ranged in amphi-
 
 302 THE ORDEAL OF KICilAKD ILYEREL 
 
 theatre with distant flushed bodies over sea and land: 
 Titanic crimson head and chest rising from the wave 
 faced Hyperion falling. There hung Briareus with deep- 
 indented trunk and ravined brows, stretching all his hands 
 up to unattainable blue summits. North-west the range 
 had a rich white glow, as if shining to the moon, and 
 westward, streams of amber, melting into upper rose, shot 
 out from the dipping disk. 
 
 "What Sandoe calls the passion-flower of heaven," said 
 Richard under his breath to Adrian, who was serenely 
 chanting Greek hexameters, and answered, in the swing 
 of the ca'sura, "He might as well have said cauliflower." 
 
 Lady Judith, with a black lace veil tied over her head. 
 met them in the walk. She was tall and dark; dark- 
 haired, dark-eyed, sweet and persuasive in her accent and 
 manner. "A second edition of the Blandish," thinks 
 Adrian. She welcomed him as one who had claims on 
 her ail'ability. She kissed Lucy protectingly, and remark- 
 ing on the wonders of the evening, appropriated her hus- 
 band. Adrian and Lucy found themselves walking behind 
 them. 
 
 The sun was under. All the spaces of the sky were 
 alight, and Richard's fancy flamed. 
 
 "So you're not intoxicated with your immense triumph 
 this morning?" said Lady Judith. 
 
 "Don't laugh at me. When it's over I feel ashamed of 
 the trouble I've taken. Look at that glory! — I'm sure you 
 despise me for it." 
 
 "Was I not there to applaud you? I only think such 
 energies should be turned into some definitely useful chan- 
 nel. But you must not go into the Army." 
 
 "What else can I do?" 
 
 "You an; fit for so much that is better." 
 
 "I never can be anything like Austin." 
 
 "But I think you can do more." 
 
 "Well, I thank you for thinking it, Lady Judith. Some- 
 thing 1 will do. A man must deserve to live, as you 
 say." 
 
 "Sauces," Adrian was heard to articulate distinctly in 
 the rear, "Sauces are the top tree of this science. A 
 woman who has mastered sauces sits on the apex of 
 civilization."
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE 303 
 
 Briareus reddened duskily seaward. The West was all a 
 burning rose. 
 
 "How can men see such sights as those, and live idle?" 
 Eichard resumed. "I feel ashamed of asking my men to 
 work for me. — Or I feel so now." 
 
 "Not when you're racing the Begum, I think. There's 
 no necessity for you to turn democrat like Austin. Do 
 you write now?" 
 
 "No. What is writing like mine? It doesn't deceive 
 me. I know it's only the excuse I'm making to myself for 
 remaining idle. I haven't written a line since — lately." 
 
 "Because you are so happy." 
 
 "No, not because of that. Of course I'm very happy 
 ..." He did not finish. 
 
 Vague, shapeless ambition had replaced love in yonder 
 skies. No Scientific Humanist was by to study the nat- 
 ural development, and guide him. This lady would hardly 
 be deemed a very proper guide to the undirected energies 
 of the youth, yet they had established relations of that 
 nature. She was five years older than he, and a woman, 
 which may explain her serene presumption. 
 
 The cloud-giants had broken up: a brawny shoulder 
 smouldered over the sea. 
 
 "We'll work together in town, at all events," said Rich- 
 ard. "Why can't we go about together at night and find 
 out people who want help?" 
 
 Lady Judith smiled, and only corrected his nonsense 
 by saying, "I think we mustn't be too romantic. You will 
 become a knight-errant, I suppose. You have the charac- 
 teristics of one." 
 
 "Especially at breakfast," Adrian's unnecessarily em- 
 phatic gastronomical lessons to the young wife here came 
 in. 
 
 "You must be our champion," continued Lady Judith: 
 "the rescuer and succourer of distressed dames and dam- 
 sels. We want one badly." 
 
 "You do," said Richard, earnestly: "from what I hear: 
 from what I know!" His thoughts flew off with him as 
 knight-errant hailed shrilly at exceeding critical moments 
 by distressed dames and damsels. Images of airy towers 
 hung around. His fancy performed miraculous feats. 
 The towers crumbled. The stars grew larger, seemed to
 
 304 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD EEVEREL 
 
 throb with lustre. Hi* fancy crumbled with the towers 
 of the air, his heart gave a leap, he turned to Lucy. 
 
 "My darlingl what have you been doing?" And as if 
 to compensate her for his little knight-errant infidelity, he 
 pressed very tenderly to her. 
 
 "We have been engaged in a charming conversation on 
 domestic cookery," interposed Adrian. 
 
 "Cookery! such an evening as this?" His face was a 
 handsome likeness of Hippias at the presentation of bride- 
 cake. 
 
 "Dearest! you know it's very useful," Lucy mirthfully 
 
 pleaded. 
 
 "Indeed I quite agree with you, child," said Lady 
 Judith, "and I think you have the laugh of us. 1 cer- 
 tainly will learn to cook some day." 
 
 'Woman's mission, in so many words," ejaculated 
 Adrian. 
 
 "And pray, what is man's?" 
 
 "To taste thereof, and pronounce thereupon." 
 
 "Let us give it up to them," said Lady Judith to Rich- 
 ard. "You and I never will make so delightful and beau- 
 tifully balanced a world of it." 
 
 Richard appeared to have grown perfectly willing to 
 give everything up to the fair face, his bridal Hesper. 
 
 Next day Lucy had to act the coward anew, and. as she 
 did so, her heart sank to see how painfully it affected him 
 that she should hesitate to go with him to his father. He 
 was patient, gentle; he sat down by her side to appeal to 
 her reason, and used all the arguments he could think of 
 to persuade her. 
 
 "If we go together and make him see us both : if he sees 
 he has nothing to be ashamed of in you— rather everything 
 to be proud of; if you are only near him, you will not have 
 to speak a word, and Em certain — as certain as that I live 
 — that in a week we shall be settled happily at Rayn- 
 hain. I know my father so well, Lucy. Nobody knows 
 him but I." 
 
 Lucy asked whether Mr. Harley did not. 
 
 "Adrian? Not a bit. Adrian only knows a part of 
 people, Lucy; and not the best part." 
 
 Lucy was disposed to think more highly of the object of 
 her conquest.
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE 305 
 
 "Is it lie that has been frightening you, Lucy?" 
 
 "No, no, Richard; oh, dear no;" she cried, and looked 
 at him more tenderly because she was not quite truthful. 
 
 "He doesn't know my father at all," said Richard. But 
 Lucy had another opinion of the wise youth, and secretly 
 maintained it. She could not be won to imagine the bar- 
 onet a man of human mould, generous, forgiving, full of 
 passionate love at heart, as Richard tried to picture him, 
 and thought him, now that he beheld him again through 
 Adrian's embassy. To her he was that awful figure, 
 shrouded by the midnight. "Why are you so harsh ?" she 
 had heard Richard cry more than once. She was sure 
 that Adrian must be right. 
 
 "Well, I tell you I won't go without you," said Richard, 
 and Lucy begged for a little more time. 
 
 Cupid now began to grumble, and with cause. Adrian 
 positively refused to go on the water unless that element 
 were smooth as a plate. The South-west still joked bois- 
 terously at any comparison of the sort; the days were 
 magnificent; Richard had yachting engagements; and 
 Lucy always petitioned to stay to keep Adrian, company, 
 conceiving it her duty as hostess. Arguing with Adrian 
 was an absurd idea. If Richard hinted at his retaining 
 Lucy, the wise youth would remark: "It's a wholesome 
 interlude to your extremely Cupidinous behaviour, my 
 dear boy." 
 
 Richard asked his wife what they could possibly find to 
 talk about. 
 
 "All manner of things," said Lucy; "not only cookery. 
 He is so amusing, though he does make fun of The 
 Pilgrim's Scrip, and I think he ought not. And then, 
 do you know, darling — you won't think me vain ? — I think 
 he is beginning to like me a little." 
 
 Richard laughed at the humble mind of his Beauty. 
 
 "Doesn't everybody like you, admire you? Doesn't 
 Lord Mountf alcon, and Mr. Morton, and Lady Judith ?" 
 
 "But he is one of your family, Richard." 
 
 "And they all will, if she isn't a coward." 
 
 "Ah, no!" she sighs, and is chidden. 
 
 The conquest of an epicure, or any young wife's con- 
 quest beyond her husband, however loyally devised for 
 their mutual happiness, may be costly to her. Richard
 
 306 THE ORDEAL OF RICH AIM) IT.YEREL 
 
 in his hours of excitement was thrown very much with 
 Lady Judith. lie consulted her regarding what he termed 
 Lucy's cowardice. Lady -Judith said: "I think she's 
 wrong, but you must learn to humour little women.' 
 
 "Then would you advise me to go up alone?" he asked, 
 with a cloudy forehead. 
 
 "What else can you do? Be reconciled yourself as 
 quickly as you can. You can't drag her like a captive, 
 you know?" 
 
 It is not pleasant for a young husband, fancying his 
 bride the peerless flower of Creation, to learn that ho 
 must humour a little woman in her. It was revolting 
 to Richard. 
 
 "What I fear," he said, "is, that my father will make it 
 smooth with me, and not acknowledge her: so that when- 
 ever I go to him, I shall have to leave her, and tit for tat — 
 an abominable existence, like a ball on a billiard-table. 
 I won't bear that ignominy. And this I know, I know! 
 she might prevent it at once, if she would only be brave, 
 and face it. You, you, Lady Judith, you wouldn't be 
 a coward?" 
 
 "Where my old lord tells me to go, I go," the lady coldly 
 replied. "There's not much merit in that. Pray, don't 
 cite me. Women are born cowards, you know." 
 
 "Rut I lovu the women who are not cowards." 
 
 "The little thing — your wife has not refused to go?" 
 
 "Xo — but tears! Who can stand tears?" 
 
 Lucy had come to drop them. Unaccustomed to have 
 his will thwarted, and urgent where he saw the thing to 
 do so clearly, the young husband had spoken strong 
 words: and she, who knew that she would have given her 
 life by inches for him; who knew that she was playing a 
 part for his happiness, and hiding for his sake the nature 
 that was worthy his esteem; the poor little martyr had 
 been weak a moment. 
 
 She had Adrian's support. The wise youth was very 
 comfortable. lie liked the air of the Island, and he liked 
 being petted. "A nice little woman! a very nice little 
 woman!" Tom Bakewell heard him murmur to himself 
 according to a habit he had; and his air of rather suc- 
 culent patronage as he walked or sat beside the innocent 
 Reauty, with his head thrown back and a smile that
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE 307 
 
 seemed always to be in secret communion with his marked 
 abdominal prominence, showed that she was gaining part 
 of what she played for. Wise youths who buy their loves, 
 are not unwilling, when opportunity offers, to try and 
 obtain the commodity for nothing. Examinations of her 
 hand, as for some occult purpose, and unctuous pattings 
 of the same, were not infrequent. Adrian waxed now 
 and then Anacreontic in his compliments. Lucy would 
 say : "That's worse than Lord Mountfalcon." 
 
 "Better English than the noble lord deigns to employ — 
 allow that?" quoth Adrian. 
 
 "He is very kind," said Lucy. 
 
 "To all save to our noble vernacular," added Adrian. 
 "He seems to scent a rival to his dignity there." 
 
 It may be that Adrian scented a rival to his lymphatic 
 emotions. 
 
 "We are at our ease here in excellent society," he wrote 
 to Lady Blandish. "I am bound to confess that the Huron 
 has a happy fortune, or a superlative instinct. Blindfold 
 he has seized upon a suitable mate. She can look at a 
 lord, and cook for an epicure. Besides Dr. Kitchener, 
 she reads and comments on The Pilgrim's Scrip The 
 Love' chapter, of course, takes her fancy. That picture 
 of Woman, 'Drawn by Reverence and coloured by Love,' 
 she thinks beautiful, and repeats it, tossing up pretty 
 eyes. Also the lover's petition: 'Give me purity to be 
 worthy the good in her, and grant Iter patience to reach 
 the good in me.' 'Tis quite taking to hear her lisp it. Be 
 sure that I am repeating the petition! I make her read 
 me her choice passages. She has not a bad voice. 
 
 "The Lady Judith I spoke of is Austin's Miss Menteith, 
 married to the incapable old Lord Felle, or Fellow, as the 
 wits here call him. Lord Mountfalcon is his cousin, and 
 her — what ? She has been trying to find out, but they have 
 both got over their perplexity, and act respectively the bad 
 man reproved and the chaste counsellor; a position in 
 which our young couple found them, and haply diverted 
 its perils. They had quite taken them in hand. Lady 
 Judith undertakes to cure the fair Papist of a pretty, 
 modest trick of frowning and blushing when addressed, 
 and his lordship directs the exuberant energies of the 
 original man. 'Tis thus we fulfil our destinies, and are
 
 30S THE OBDEAI OF IMCIIARD FEVERE] 
 
 content. Sometimes they change pupils; my lord educates 
 the little dame, and my lady the hope of Raynham. Joy 
 and blessings unto all! as the German poet sings. Lady 
 Judith accepted the hand of her decrepit lord that she 
 might be of potent service to her fellow-creatures. Austin, 
 you know, had great hopes of her. 
 
 "I have for the first time in my career a field of lords 
 to study. I think it is not without meaning that I am 
 introduced to it by a yeoman's niece. The language of 
 the two social extremes is similar. I find it to consist 
 in an instinctively lavish use of vowels and adjectives. 
 My lord and Farmer Blaize speak the same tongue, only 
 my lord's has lost its backbone, and is limp, though fluent. 
 Their pursuits are identical ; but that one has money, or, 
 as the Pilgrim terms it, vantage, and the other has not. 
 Their ideas seem to have a special relationship in the 
 peculiarity of stopping where they have begun. Young 
 Tom Blaize with vantage would be Lord Mountfalcon. 
 Even in the character of their parasites I see a resem- 
 blance, though I am bound to confess that the Hon. Peter 
 Brayder, who is my lord's parasite, is by no means noxious. 
 
 "This sounds dreadfully democratic. Pray, don't be 
 alarmed. The discovery of the affinity between the two 
 extremes of the Royal British Oak has made me thrice 
 conservative. I see now that the national love of a lord 
 is less subservience) than a form of self-love; putting a gold- 
 lace hat on one's image, as it were, to bow to it. I see, 
 too, the admirable wisdom of our system: — could there be 
 a finer balance of power than in a community where men 
 intellectually nil, have lawful vantage and a gold-lace hat 
 on? How soothing it is to intellect — that noble rebel, as 
 the Pilgrim has it — to stand, and bow, and know itself 
 superior! This exquisite compensation maintains the 
 balance: whereas that period anticipated by the PlLORIM, 
 when science shall have produced an intellectual aristoc- 
 racy, is indeed horrible to contemplate. For what despot- 
 ism is so black as one the mind cannot challenge? 'Twill 
 be an iron Age. Wherefore, madam, I cry, and shall 
 continue to cry, 'Vive Lord Mountfalcon! long may he 
 sip his Burgundy! long may the bacon-fed carry him on 
 their shoulders!' 
 
 "Mr. Morton (who does me the honour to call me Young
 
 CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE 309 
 
 Mephisto, and Socrates missed) leaves to-morrow to get 
 Master Ralph out of a scrape. Our Richard has just been 
 elected member of a Club for the promotion of nausea. Is 
 he happy? you ask. As much so as one who has had the 
 misfortune to obtain what he wanted can be. Speed is 
 his passion. He races from point to point. In emulation 
 of Leander and Don Juan, he swam, I hear, to the op- 
 posite shores the other day, or some world-shaking feat 
 of the sort: himself the Hero whom he went to meet: or, 
 as they who pun say, his Hero was a Bet. A pretty little 
 domestic episode occurred this morning. He finds her 
 abstracted in the fire of his caresses : she turns shy and 
 seeks solitude : green jealousy takes hold of him : he lies 
 in wait, and discovers her with his new rival — a veteran 
 edition of the culinary Doctor! Blind to the Doctor's 
 great national services, deaf to her wild music, he grasps 
 the intruder, dismembers him, and performs upon him the 
 treatment he has recommended for dressed cucumber. 
 Tears and shrieks accompany the descent of the gastro- 
 nome. Down she rushes to secure the cherished fragments: 
 he follows: they find him. true to his character, alighted 
 and straggling over a bed of blooming flowers. Yet ere 
 a fairer flower can gather him, a heel black as Pluto 
 stamps him into earth, flowers and all : — happy burial ! 
 Pathetic tribute to his merit is watering his grave, when 
 by saunters my Lord Mountfalcon. 'What's the mattah?' 
 says his lordship, soothing his moustache. They break 
 apart, and 'tis left to me to explain from the window. My 
 lord looks shocked, Richard is angry with her for having 
 to be ashamed of himself, Beauty dries her eyes, and after 
 a pause of general foolishness, the business of life is re- 
 sumed. I may add that the Doctor has just been dug up, 
 and we are busy, in the enemy's absence, renewing old 
 iEson with enchanted threads. By the way, a Papist 
 priest has blest them." 
 
 A month had passed when Adrian wrote this letter. He 
 was very comfortable; so of course he thought Time was 
 doing his duty. Not a word did he say of Richard's re- 
 turn, and for some reason or other neither Richard nor 
 Lucy spoke of it now. 
 
 Lady Blandish wrote back: "His father thinks he has 
 refused to come to him. By your utter silence on the
 
 310 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FKVKREL 
 
 subject, I fear that it must bo so. Make him come. Bring 
 him by force. Insist on his coming. Is he mad? He 
 must come at once." 
 
 To this Adrian replied, after a contemplative comfort- 
 able lapse of a day or two, which might be laid to his 
 efforts to adopt the lady'a advice, "The point is that the 
 half man declines to come without the whole man. The 
 terrible question of sex is our obstruction." 
 
 Lady Blandish was in despair. She had no positive 
 assurance that the baronet would see his son ; the mask 
 put them all in the dark; but she thought she saw in Sir 
 Austin irritation that the offender, at least when the 
 opening to come and make his peace seemed to be before 
 him, should let days and weeks go by. She saw through 
 the mask sufficiently not to have any hope of his consent- 
 ing to receive the couple at present ; she was sure that 
 his equanimity was fictitious; but she pierced no farther, 
 or she might have started and asked herself, Is this the 
 heart of a woman? 
 
 The lady at last wrote to Richard. She said: "Come 
 instantly, and come alone." Then Richard, against his 
 judgment, gave way. "My father is not the man I thought 
 him!" he exclaimed sadly, and Lucy felt his eyes saying 
 to her : "And you, too, are not the woman I thought you." 
 Nothing could the poor little heart reply but strain to his 
 bosom and sleeplessly pray in his arms all the night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 CLARE'S MARRIAGE 
 
 Throe weeks after Richard arrived in town, his cousin 
 Clare was married, under the blessings of her energetic 
 mother, and with the approbation of her kinsfolk, to the 
 husband that had been expeditiously chosen for her. The 
 gentleman, though something more than twice the age of 
 his bride, had no idea of approaching senility for many 
 long connubial years to come. Backed by his tailor and 
 his hairdresser, he presented no such bad figure at the 
 altar, and none would have thought that he was an ancient
 
 CLARE'S MARRIAGE 311 
 
 admirer of his bride's mama, as certainly none knew he 
 had lately proposed for Mrs. Doria before there was any 
 question of her daughter. These things were secrets; and 
 the elastic and happy appearance of Mr. John Todhunter 
 did not betray them at the altar. Perhaps he would rather 
 have married the mother. He was a man of property, 
 well born, tolerably well educated, and had, when Mrs. 
 Doria rejected him for the first time, the reputation of 
 being a fool — which a wealthy man may have in his 
 youth ; but as he lived on, and did not squander his money 
 — amassed it, on the contrary, and did not seek to go into 
 Parliament, and did other negative wise things, the 
 world's opinion, as usual, veered completely round, and 
 John Todhunter was esteemed a shrewd, sensible man — 
 only not brilliant; that he was brilliant could not be said 
 of him. In fact, the man could hardly talk, and it was 
 a fortunate provision that no impromptu deliveries were 
 required of him in the marriage-service. 
 
 Mrs. Doria had her own reasons for being in a hurry. 
 She had discovered something of the strange impassive 
 nature of her child; not from any confession of Clare's, 
 but from signs a mother can read when her eyes are not 
 resolutely shut. She saw with alarm and anguish that 
 Clare had fallen into the pit she had been digging for 
 her so laboriously. In vain she entreated the baronet to 
 break the disgraceful, and, as she said, illegal alliance 
 his son had contracted. Sir Austin would not even stop 
 the little pension to poor Berry. "At least you will do 
 that, Austin," she begged pathetically. "You will show 
 your sense of that horrid woman's conduct ?" He refused 
 to offer up any victim to console her. Then Mrs. Doria 
 told him her thoughts, — and when an outraged energetic 
 lady is finally brought to exhibit these painfully hoarded 
 treasures, she does not use half words as a medium. His 
 System, and his conduct generally were denounced to 
 him, without analysis. She let him understand that the 
 world laughed at him; and he heard this from her at a 
 time when his mask was still soft and liable to be acted 
 on by his nerves. "You are weak, Austin ! weak, I tell you !" 
 she said, and, like all angry and self-interested people, 
 prophecy came easy to her. In her heart she accused him 
 of her own fault, in imputing to him the wreck of her
 
 312 THE OKDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 project. The baronet allowed her to revel in the proclama- 
 tion of a dire future, and quietly counselled her to keep 
 apart from him, which his sister assured him she would do. 
 
 But to bo passive in calamity is the province of no 
 woman. Mark the race at any hour. "What revolution 
 and hubbub does not that little instrument, the needle, 
 avert from us!" says Tin: Pii.ckim's Scrip. Alas, that in 
 calamity women cannot stitch! Now that she saw Clare 
 wanted other than iron, it struck her she must have a 
 husband, and be made secure as a woman and a wife. 
 This seemed the thing to do: and, as she had forced the 
 iron down Clare's throat, so she forced the husband, and 
 Clare gulped at the latter as she had at the former. On 
 the very day that Mrs. Doria had this new track shaped 
 out before her, John Todhuntcr called at the Foreys'. 
 "Old John!" sang out Mrs. Doria, "show him up to me. 
 I want to see him particularly." He sat with her alone. 
 He was a man multitudes of women would have married — 
 whom will they not? — and who would have married any 
 presentable woman : but women do want asking, and John 
 never had the word. The rape of such men is left to the 
 practical animal. So John sat alone with his old flame. 
 He had become resigned to her perpetual lamentation and 
 living Suttee for his defunct rival. But, ha! what meant 
 those soft glances now — addressed to him? His tailor 
 and his hairdresser gave youth to John, but they had not 
 the art to bestow upon him distinction, and an undis- 
 tinguished man what woman looks at? John was an in- 
 distinguishable man. For that reason he was dry wood to 
 a soft glance. 
 
 And now she said: "It is time you should marry; and 
 you are the man to be the guide and helper of a young 
 woman, John. You are well preserved — younger than 
 most of the young men of our day. You are eminently 
 domestic, a good son, and will be a good husband and 
 good father. Some one you must marry. — What do you 
 think of Claro for a wife for you?" 
 
 At first John Todhunter thought it would be very much 
 like his marrying a baby. However, he listened to it, and 
 that was enough for Mrs. Doria. 
 
 She went down to John's mother, and consulted with 
 her on the propriety of the scheme of wedding her daugh-
 
 CLARE'S MARRIAGE 313 
 
 ter to John in accordance with his proposition. Mrs. 
 Todhunter's jealousy of any disturbing- force in the in- 
 fluence she held over her son Mrs. Doria knew to be one 
 of the causes of John's remaining constant to the im- 
 pression she had aforetime produced on him. She spoke 
 so kindly of John, and laid so much stress on the in- 
 grained obedience and passive disposition of her daughter, 
 that Mrs. Todhunter was led to admit she did think it 
 almost time John should be seeking a mate, and that he — 
 all things considered — would hardly find a fitter one. And 
 this, John Todhunter — old John no more — heard to his 
 amazement when, a day or two subsequently, he instanced 
 the probable disapproval of his mother. 
 
 The match was arranged. Mrs. Doria did the wooing. 
 It consisted in telling Clare that she had come to years 
 when marriage was desirable, and that she had fallen into 
 habits of moping which might have the worse effect on 
 her future life, as it had on her present health and ap- 
 pearance, and which a husband would cure. Richard was 
 told by Mrs. Doria that Clare had instantaneously con- 
 sented to accept Mr. John Todhunter as lord of her days, 
 and with more than obedience — with alacrity. At all 
 events, when Richard spoke to Clare, the strange passive 
 creature did not admit constraint on her inclinations. 
 Mrs. Doria allowed Richard to speak to her. She laughed 
 at his futile endeavours to undo her work, and the boyish 
 sentiments he uttered on the subject. "Let us see, child," 
 she said, "let us see which turns out the best; a marriage 
 of passion, or a marriage of common sense." 
 
 Heroic efforts were not wanting to arrest the union. 
 Richard made repeated journeys to Hounslow, where 
 Ralph was quartered, and if Ralph could have been per- 
 suaded to carry off a young lady who did not love him, 
 from the bridegroom her mother averred she did love, 
 Mrs. Doria might have been defeated. But Ralph in his 
 cavalry quarters was cooler than Ralph in the Bursley 
 meadows. "Women are oddities, Dick," he remarked, 
 running a finger right and left along his upper lip. "Best 
 leave them to their own freaks. She's a dear girl, though 
 she doesn't talk : I like her for that. If she cared for me 
 I'd go the race. She never did. It's no use asking a girl 
 twice. She knows whether she cares a fig for a fellow."
 
 314 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 The hero quitted him with some contempt. As Ralph 
 Morton was a young man, and he had determined that 
 John Todhnnter was an old man, he Bought another 
 private interview with Clare, and getting her alone, said: 
 "Clare. 1 ve come to you for the last time. Will you marry 
 Ralph Morton?" 
 
 To which Clare replied, "I cannot marry two husbands, 
 
 Richard." 
 
 "Will you refuse to marry this old man?" 
 "I must do as mama wishes." 
 
 "Then you're going to marry an old man — a man you 
 don't love, and can't love ! Oh, good God ! do you know 
 what you're doing?" He flung about in a fnr.v. "Do you 
 know what it is? Clare!" he caught her two hands 
 violently, "have you any idea of the horror you're going 
 to commit?" 
 
 She shrank a little at his vehemence, but neither blushed 
 nor stammered : answering: "I see nothing wrong in doing 
 what mama thinks right, Richard." 
 
 "Your mother! I tell you it's an infamy, Clare! It's a 
 miserable sin! I tell you, if I had done such a thing I 
 would not live an hour after it. And coldly to prepare for 
 it! to be busy about your dresses! They told me when I 
 came in that you were with the milliner. To be smiling 
 over the horrible outrage! decorating yourself!" . . . 
 
 "Dear Richard," said Clare, "you will make mo very 
 unhappy." 
 
 "That one of my blood should be so debased!" he cried. 
 brushing angrily at his face. "Unhappy! I beg you to 
 feel for yourself, Clare. But I suppose," and he said it 
 scornfully, "girls don't feel this sort of shame." 
 She grew a trifle paler. 
 
 "Next to mama, 1 would wish to please you, dear 
 Richard." 
 
 "Have you no will of your own ?" he exclaimed. 
 She looked at him softly; a look he interpreted for the 
 meekness he detested in her. 
 
 "No, I believe you have none!" he added. "And what 
 can I do? 1 can't step forward and stop this accursed 
 marriage. If you would but say a word 1 would save you; 
 but you tie my hands. And they expect me to stand by 
 and see it done!"
 
 CLARE'S MARRIAGE 315 
 
 "Will you not be there, Richard ?" said Clare, following 
 the question with her soft eyes. It was the same voice 
 that had so thrilled him on his marriage morn. 
 
 "Oh, my darling Clare !" he cried in the kindest way he 
 had ever used to her, "if you knew how I feel this !" and 
 now as he wept she wept, and came insensibly into his 
 arms. "My darling Clare!" he repeated. 
 
 She said nothing, but seemed to shudder, weeping. 
 
 "You will do it, Clare? You will be sacrificed? So 
 lovely as you are, too! . . . Clare! you cannot be quite 
 blind. If I dared speak to you, and tell you all. . . . 
 Look up. Can you still consent?" 
 
 "I must not disobey mama," Clare murmured, without 
 looking up from the nest her cheek had made on his 
 bosom. 
 
 "Then kiss me for the last time," said Richard. "I'll 
 never kiss you after it, Clare." 
 
 He bent his head to meet her mouth, and she threw her 
 arms wildly round him, and kissed him convulsively, and 
 clung to his lips, shutting her eyes, her face suffused with 
 a burning red. 
 
 Then he left her, unaware of the meaning of those pas- 
 sionate kisses. 
 
 Argument with Mrs. Doria was like firing paper-pellets 
 against a stone wall. To her indeed the young married 
 hero spoke almost indecorously, and that which his deli- 
 cacy withheld him from speaking to Clare. He could pro- 
 voke nothing more responsive from the practical animal 
 than "Pooh-pooh! Tush, tush! and Fiddlededee!" 
 
 "Really," Mrs. Doria said to her intimates, "that boy's 
 education acts like a disease on him. He cannot regard 
 anything sensibly. He is for ever in some mad excess 
 of his fancy, and what he will come to at last heaven 
 only knows! I sincerely pray that Austin will be able 
 to bear it." 
 
 Threats of prayer, however, that harp upon their sin- 
 cerity, are not very well worth having. Mrs. Doria had 
 embarked in a practical controversy, as it were, with her 
 brother. Doubtless she did trust he would be able to bear 
 his sorrows to come, but one who has uttered prophecy can 
 barely help hoping to see it fulfilled: she had prophesied 
 much grief to the baronet.
 
 316 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Poor John Todhunter, who would rather have married 
 the mother, and had none of your heroic notions about 
 the sacred necessity for love in marriage, moved as one 
 guiltless of offence, and deserving his happiness. Mrs. 
 Doria shielded him from the hero. To see him smile at 
 Clare's obedient figure, and try not to look paternal, was 
 touching. 
 
 Meantime Clare's marriage served one purpose. It com- 
 pletely occupied Richard's mind, and prevented him from 
 chafing at the vexation of not finding his father ready to 
 meet him when he came to town. A letter had awaited 
 Adrian at the hotel, which said, "Detain him till you hear 
 further from me. Take him about with you into every 
 form of society." No more than that. Adrian had to ex- 
 temporize, that the baronet had gone down to Wales on 
 pressing business, and would be back in a week or so. 
 For ulterior inventions and devices wherewith to keep the 
 young gentleman in town, He applied to Mrs. Doria. 
 "Leave him to me," said Mrs. Doria, "I'll manage him." 
 And she did. 
 
 "Who can say," asks The Pilgrim's Scrip, "when he is 
 not walking a puppet to some woman?" 
 
 Mrs. Doria would hear no good of Lucy. "I believe," 
 she observed, as Adrian ventured a shrugging protest in 
 her behalf,— -"it is my firm opinion, that a scullery-maid 
 would turn any of you men round her little finger — only 
 give her time and opportunity." By dwelling on the arts 
 of women, she reconciled it to her conscience to do her 
 best to divide the young husband from his wife till it 
 pleased his father they should live their unhallowed union 
 again. Without compunction, or a sense of incongruity, 
 she abused her brother and assisted the fulfilment of his 
 behests. 
 
 So the puppets were marshalled by Mrs. Doria, happy, 
 or sad, or indifferent. Quite against his set resolve and 
 the tide of his feelings, Richard found himself standing 
 behind Clare in the church — the very edifice that had wit- 
 nessed his own marriage, and heard, "I, Clare Doria, 
 take thee .John Pemberton," clearly pronounced. He 
 stood with black lirows dissecting the arts of the tailor 
 and hairdresser on unconscious John. The back, and 
 much of the middle, of Mr. Todhunter's head was bald;
 
 CLARE'S MARRIAGE 317 
 
 the back shone like an egg-shell, but across the middle 
 the artist had drawn two long dabs of hair from the 
 sides, and plastered them cunningly, so that all save wilful 
 eyes would have acknowledged the head to be covered. 
 The man's only pretension was to a respectable juvenility. 
 He had a good chest, stout limbs, a face inclined to be 
 jolly. Mrs. Doria had no cause to be put out of counte- 
 nance at all by the exterior of her son-in-law : nor was she. 
 Her splendid hair and gratified smile made a light in the 
 church. Playing puppets must be an immense pleasure to 
 the practical animal. The Forey bridesmaids, five in num- 
 ber, and one Miss Doria, their cousin, stood as girls do 
 stand at these sacrifices, whether happy, sad, or indiffer- 
 ent; a smile on their lips and tears in attendance. Old 
 Mrs. Todhunter, an exceedingly small ancient woman, was 
 also there. "I can't have my boy John married without 
 seeing it done," she said, and throughout the ceremony she 
 was muttering audible encomiums on her John's manly 
 behaviour. 
 
 The ring was affixed to Clare's finger; there was no 
 ring lost in this common-sense marriage. The instant the 
 clergyman bade him employ it, John drew the ring out, 
 and dropped it on the finger of the cold passive hand in 
 a business-like way, as one who had studied the matter. 
 Mrs. Doria glanced aside at Richard. Richard observed 
 Clare spread out her fingers that the operation might be 
 the more easily effected. 
 
 He did duty in the vestry a few minutes, and then said 
 to his aunt: 
 
 "Now I'll go." 
 
 "You'll come to the breakfast, child ? The Foreys" 
 
 He cut her short. "I've stood for the family, and I'll do 
 no more. I won't pretend to eat and make meny over it." 
 
 "Richard !" 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 She had attained her object and she wisely gave way. 
 
 "Well. Go and kiss Clare, and shake his hand. Pray, 
 pray be civil." 
 
 She turned to Adrian, and said: "He is going. You 
 must go with him, and find some means of keeping 
 him, or he'll be running off to that woman. Now, no 
 words — go !"
 
 318 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Richard bade Clare farewell. She put up her mouth to 
 him humbly, but he kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 "Do not cease to love me," she said in a quavering 
 whisper in his car. 
 
 Mr. Todhunter stood beaming and endangering the art 
 of the hairdresser with his pocket-handkerchief. Now he 
 positively was married, he thought he would rather have 
 the daughter than the mother, which is a reverse of the 
 order of human thankfulness at a gift of the Gods. 
 
 "Richard, my boy !" he said heartily, "congratulate me." 
 
 "I should be happy to, if I could," sedately replied the 
 hero, to the consternation of those around. Nodding to 
 the bridesmaids and bowing to the old lady, he passed out. 
 
 Adrian, who had been behind him, deputed to watch for 
 a possible unpleasantness, just hinted to John: "You 
 know, poor fellow, he has got into a mess with his 
 marriage." 
 
 "Oh! ah I yes!" kindly said John, "poor fellow!" 
 
 All the puppets then rolled otf to the breakfast. 
 
 Adrian hurried after Richard in an extremely discon- 
 tented state of mind. Not to be at the breakfast and see 
 the best of the fun, disgusted him. However, he remem- 
 bered that he was a philosopher, and the strong disgust 
 he felt was only expressed in concentrated cynicism on 
 every earthly matter engendered by the conversation. 
 They walked side by side into Kensington Gardens. The 
 hero was mouthing away to himself, talking by fits. 
 
 Presently he faced Adrian, crying: "And I might have 
 stopped it ! I see it now ! I might have stopped it by going 
 straight to him, and asking him if he dared marry a girl 
 who did not love him. And I never thought of it. Good 
 heavens! I feel this miserable affair on my conscience." 
 
 "Ah!" groaned Adrian. "An unpleasant cargo for the 
 conscience, that! I would rather carry anything on mine 
 than a married couple. Do you purpose going to him 
 now?" 
 
 The hero soliloquized: "He's not a bad sort of 
 man." ... 
 
 "Well, he's not a Cavalier." said Adrian, "and that s 
 why you wonder your aunt selected him, no doubt? He's 
 decidedly of the Roundhead type, with the Puritan ex- 
 tracted, or inoffensive, if latent."
 
 CLAEE'S MAEEIAGE 319 
 
 "There's the double infamy!" cried Eichard, "that a 
 man you can't call bad, should do this damned thing!" 
 
 "Well, it's hard we can't find a villain." 
 
 "He would have listened to me, I'm sure." 
 
 "Go to him now, Eichard, my son. Go to him now. It's 
 not yet too late. Who knows? If he really has a noble 
 elevated superior mind — though not a Cavalier in person, 
 he may be one at heart — he might, to please you, and since 
 you put such stress upon it, abstain . . . perhaps with 
 some loss of dignity, but never mind. And the request 
 might be singular, or seem so, but everything has hap- 
 pened before in this world, you know, my dear boy. And 
 what an infinite consolation it is for the eccentric, that 
 reflection !" 
 
 The hero was impervious to the wise youth. He stared 
 at him as if he were but a speck in the universe he 
 visioned. 
 
 It was provoking that Eichard should be Adrian's best 
 subject for cynical pastime, in the extraordinary hetero- 
 doxies he started, and his worst in the way he took it; 
 and the wise youth, against his will, had to feel as con- 
 scious of the young man's imaginative mental armour, as 
 he was of his muscular physical. 
 
 "The same sort of day!" mused Eichard, looking up. 
 "I suppose my father's right. We make our own fates, 
 and nature has nothing to do with it." 
 
 Adrian yawned. 
 
 "Some difference in the trees, though," Eichard con- 
 tinued abstractedly. 
 
 "Growing bald at the top," said Adrian. 
 
 "Will you believe that my aunt Helen compared the 
 conduct of that wretched slave Clare to Lucy's, who, she 
 had the cruel insolence to say, entangled me into mar- 
 riage?" the hero broke out loudly and rapidly. "You 
 know — I told you, Adrian — how I had to threaten and 
 insist, and how she pleaded, and implored me to wait." 
 
 "Ah ! hum !" mumbled Adrian. 
 
 "You remember my telling you?" Eichard was earnest 
 to hear her exonerated. 
 
 "Pleaded and implored, my dear boy ? Oh, no doubt she 
 did. Where's the lass that doesn't." 
 
 "Call my wife by another name, if you please."
 
 320 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "The generic title can't be cancelled because of your 
 having married one of the body, my son." 
 
 "She did all she could to persuade me to wait!" empha- 
 sized Richard. 
 
 Adrian shook his head with a deplorable smile. 
 
 "Come, come, my good Ricky; not all! not all!" 
 
 Richard bellowed: "What more could she have done?" 
 
 "She could have shaved her head, for instance." 
 
 This happy shaft did stick. With a furious exclama- 
 tion Richard shot in front, Adrian following him; and 
 asking him (merely to have his assumption verified), 
 whether he did not think she might have shaved her head? 
 and, presuming her to have done so, whether, in candour, 
 he did not think he would have waited — at least till she 
 looked less of a rank lunatic? 
 
 After a minute or so, the wise youth was but a fly buzz- 
 ing about Richard's head. Three weeks of separation from 
 Lucy, and an excitement deceased, caused him to have soft 
 yearnings for the dear lovely home-face. He told Adrian 
 it was his intention to go down that night. Adrian imme- 
 diately became serious. He was at a loss what to invent 
 to detain him, beyond the stale fiction that his father was 
 coming to-morrow. He rendered homage to the genius of 
 woman in these straits. "My aunt," he thought, "would 
 have the lie ready ; and not only that, but she would take 
 care it did its work." 
 
 At this juncture the voice of a cavalier in the Row 
 hailed them, proving to be the Honourable Peter Brayder, 
 Lord Mountfalcon's parasite. He greeted them very 
 cordially; and Richard, remembering some fun they had 
 in the Island, asked him to dine with them; postponing 
 his return till the next day. Lucy was his. It was even 
 sweet to dally with the delight of seeing her. 
 
 The Hon. Peter was one who did honour to the body he 
 belonged to. Though not so tall as a West of London foot- 
 man, he was as shapely; and he had a power of making his 
 voice insinuating, or arrogant, as it suited the exigencies 
 of his profession. He had not a rap of money in the 
 world; yet he rode a horse, lived high, expended largely. 
 The world said that the Hon. Peter was salaried by his 
 Lordship, and that, in common with that of Parasite, he 
 exercised the ancient companion profession. This the
 
 CLARE'S MARRIAGE 321 
 
 world said, and still smiled at the Hon. Peter ; for he was 
 an engaging fellow, and where he went not Lord Mount- 
 falcon would not go. 
 
 They had a quiet little hotel dinner, ordered by Adrian, 
 and made a square at the table, Ripton Thompson being 
 the fourth. Richard sent down to his office to fetch him, 
 and the two friends shook hands for the first time since 
 the great deed had been executed. Deep was the Old Dog's 
 delight to hear the praises of his Beauty sounded by such 
 aristocratic lips as the Hon. Peter Brayder's. All through 
 the dinner he was throwing out hints and small queries 
 to get a fuller account of her; and when the claret had 
 circulated, he spoke a word or two himself, and heard the 
 Hon. Peter eulogize his taste, and wish him a bride as 
 beautiful; at which Ripton blushed, and said, he had no 
 hope of that, and the Hon. Peter assured him marriage 
 did not break the mould. 
 
 After the wine this gentleman took his cigar on the 
 balcony, and found occasion to get some conversation with 
 Adrian alone. 
 
 "Our young friend here — made it all right with the 
 governor?" he asked carelessly. 
 
 "Oh yes !" said Adrian. But it struck him that Brayder 
 might be of assistance in showing Richard a little of the 
 "society in every form," required by his chief's prescript. 
 "That is," he continued, "we are not yet permitted an in- 
 terview with the august author of our being, and I have 
 rather a difficult post. 'Tis mine both to keep him here, 
 and also to find him the opportunity to measure himself 
 with his fellow-man. In other words, his father wants 
 him to see something of life before he enters upon house- 
 keeping. Now I am proud to confess that I'm hardly 
 equal to the task. The demi, or damnedmonde — if it's 
 that he wants him to observe — is one that I have not got 
 the walk to." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed Brayder. "You do the keeping, I 
 offer to parade the demi. I must say, though, it's a queer 
 notion of the old gentleman." 
 
 "It's the continuation of a philosophic plan," said 
 Adrian. 
 
 Brayder followed the curvings of the whiff of his cigar 
 with his eyes, and ejaculated, "Infernally philosophic!"
 
 322 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 '•Has Lord .Mount falcon Left the island?" Adrian in- 
 quired. 
 
 ".Mount? to toll the truth I don't know where he is. 
 Chasing some light craft. 1 suppose. That's poor Mount's 
 weakness. It's his ruin, poor fellow! He's so confound- 
 edly in earnest at tho game." 
 
 "He ought to know it by this time, if fame speaks true," 
 remarked Adrian. 
 
 ''He's a baby about women, and always will be," said 
 Brayder. "He's been once or twice wanting to marry 
 them. Now there's a woman — you've heard of Mrs. 
 Mount? All the world knows her. — If that woman hadn't 
 scandalized." — The young man joined them, and checked 
 the communication, Brayder winked to Adrian, and piti- 
 fully indicated the presence of an innocent. 
 
 "A married man, you know," said Adrian. 
 
 "Yes, yes! — we won't shock him," Brayder observed. 
 He appeared to study the young man while they talked. 
 
 Next morning Richard was surprised by a visit from his 
 aunt. Mrs. Doria took a seat by his side, and spoke as 
 follows : 
 
 "My dear nephew. Now you know I have always loved 
 you, and thought of your welfare as if you had been my 
 own child. More than that, I fear. Well, now, you are 
 thinking of returning to — to that place — are you not? 
 Yes. It is as I thought. Very well now, let me speak to 
 you. You are in a much more dangerous position than 
 you imagine. I don't deny your father's affection for you. 
 It would be absurd to deny it. But you are of an age 
 now to appreciate his character. Whatever you may do 
 he will always give you money. That you are sure of; 
 that you know. Very well. But you are one to want 
 more than money: you want his love. Richard, I am 
 convinced you will never be happy, whatever base pleas- 
 ures you may be led into, if he should withhold his love 
 from you. Now, child, you know you have grievously 
 offended him. I wish not to animadvert on your conduct. 
 — You fancied yourself in love, and so on, and you were 
 rash. The less said of it the better now. But you must 
 now- it is your duty now to do something — to do every- 
 thing that liea in your power to show him you repent. No 
 interruptions! Listen to me. You must consider him.
 
 CLARE'S MARRIAGE 323 
 
 Austin is not like other men. Austin requires the most 
 delicate management. You must — whether you feel it or 
 no — present an appearance of contrition. I counsel it for 
 the good of all. He is just like a woman, and where his 
 feelings are offended he wants utter subservience. He has 
 you in town, and he does not see you : — now you know that 
 he and I are not in communication : we have likewise our 
 differences : — Well, he has you in town, and he holds aloof : 
 — he is trying you, my dear Richard. No: he is not at 
 Raynham : I do not know where he is. He is trying you, 
 child, and you must be patient. You must convince him 
 that you do not care utterly for your own gratification. 
 If this person — I wish to speak of her with respect, for 
 your sake — well, if she loves you at all — if, I say, she loves 
 you one atom, she will repeat my solicitations for you to 
 stay and patiently wait here till he consents to see you. I 
 tell you candidly, it's your only chance of ever getting 
 him to receive her. That you should know. And now, 
 Richard, I may add that there is something else you should 
 know. You should know that it depends entirely upon 
 your conduct now, whether you are to see your father's 
 heart for ever divided from you, and a new family at 
 Raynham. You do not understand? I will explain. 
 Brothers and sisters are excellent things for young peo- 
 ple, but a new brood of them can hardly be acceptable to 
 a young man. In fact, they are, and must be, aliens. I 
 only tell you what I have heard on good authority. Don't 
 you understand now ? Foolish boy ! if you do not humour 
 him, he will marry her. Oh ! I am sure of it. I know it. 
 And this you will drive him to. I do not warn you on the 
 score of your prospects, but of your feelings. I should 
 regard such a contingency, Richard, as a final division be- 
 tween you. Think of the scandal! but alas, that is the 
 least of the evils." 
 
 It was Mrs. Doria's object to produce an impression, 
 and avoid an argument. She therefore left him as soon 
 as she had, as she supposed, made her mark on the young 
 man. Richard was very silent during the speech, and 
 save for an exclamation or so, had listened attentively. 
 He pondered on what his aunt said. He loved Lady 
 Blandish, and yet he did not wish to see her Lady Feverel. 
 Mrs. Doria laid painful stress on the scandal, and though
 
 324 Till: ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 he did not give his mind to this, he thought of it. He 
 thought of his mother. Where was she? But most his 
 thoughts recurred to his father, and something akin to 
 jealousy slowly awakened his heart to him. He had 
 given him up, and had not latterly felt extremely filial; 
 hut he could not bear the idea of a division in the love 
 of which he had ever been the idol and sole object. And 
 such a man, too! so good! so generous! If it was jealousy 
 that roused the young man's heart to his father, the 
 better part of love was also revived in it. He thought of 
 old days: of his father's forbearance, his own wilfulness. 
 He looked on himself, and what he had done, with the 
 eyes of such a man. He determined to do all he could 
 to regain his favour. 
 
 Mrs. Doria learnt from Adrian in the evening that her 
 nephew intended waiting in town another week. 
 
 'That will do," smiled Mrs. Doria. "He will be more 
 patient at the end of a week." 
 
 "Oh! does patience beget patience?" said Adrian. "I 
 was not aware it was a propagating virtue. I surrender 
 him to you. I shan't be able to hold him in after one 
 week more. I assure you, my dear aunt, he's already" . . . 
 
 "Thank you, no explanation," Mrs. Doria begged. 
 
 When Richard saw her next, he was informed that she 
 had received a most satisfactory letter from Mrs. John 
 Todhunter: quite a glowing account of John's behaviour: 
 but on Richard's desiring to know the words Olare had 
 written, Mrs. Doria objected to be explicit, and shot into 
 worldly gossip. 
 
 "Clare seldom glows," said Richard. 
 
 "No, I mean for har," his aunt remarked. "Don't look 
 like your father, child." 
 
 "I should like to have seen the letter," said Richard. 
 
 Mrs. Doria did not propose to show it.
 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND 325 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND 
 
 A lady driving a pair of greys was noticed by Richard 
 in his rides and walks. She passed him rather obviously 
 and often. She was very handsome; a bold beauty, with 
 shining black hair, red lips, and eyes not afraid of men. 
 The hair was brushed from her temples, leaving one of 
 those fine reckless outlines which the action of driving, 
 and the pace, admirably set off. She took his fancy. He 
 liked the air of petulant gallantry about her, and mused 
 upon the picture, rare to him, of a glorious dashing 
 woman. He thought, too, she looked at him. He was 
 not at the time inclined to be vain, or he might have been 
 sure she did. Once it struck him she nodded slightly. 
 
 He asked Adrian one day in the park — who she was. 
 
 "I don't know her," said Adrian. "Probably a superior 
 priestess of Paphos." 
 
 "Now that's my idea of Bellona," Richard exclaimed. 
 "Not the fury they paint, but a spirited, dauntless, eager- 
 looking creature like that." 
 
 "Bellona?" returned the wise youth. "I don't think 
 her hair was black. Red, wasn't it? I shouldn't compare 
 her to Bellona; though, no doubt, she's as ready to spill 
 blood. Look at her! She does seem to scent carnage. I 
 see your idea. No; I should liken her to Diana emerged 
 from the tutorship of Master Endymion, and at nice play 
 among the gods. Depend upon it — they tell us nothing of 
 the matter — Olympus shrouds the story — but you may be 
 certain that when she left the pretty shepherd she had 
 greater vogue than Venus up aloft." 
 
 Brayder joined them. 
 
 "See Mrs. Mount go by?" he said. 
 
 "Oh, that's Mrs. Mount!" cried Adrian. 
 
 "Who's Mrs. Mount?" Richard inquired. 
 
 "A sister to Miss Random, my dear boy." 
 
 "Like to know her?" drawled the Hon. Peter. 
 
 Richard replied indifferently, "No," and Mrs. Mount 
 passed out of sight and out of the conversation.
 
 32G THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 The young man wrote submissive letters to his father. 
 "I have remained here waiting to see you now five weeks," 
 he wrote. "I have written to von three letters, and you do 
 not reply to them. Let me tell you again how sincerely I 
 desire and pray that you will come, or permit me to come 
 to you and throw myself at your feet, and beg my forgive- 
 ness, and hers. She as earnestly implores it. Indeed, I 
 am very wretched, sir. Believe me, there is nothing I 
 would not do to regain your esteem and the love I fear 
 I have unhappily forfeited. I will remain another week 
 in the hope of hearing from you, or seeing you. I beg 
 of you, sir, not to drive me mad. Whatever you ask of 
 me I will consent to." 
 
 "Nothing he would not do!" the baronet commented as 
 he read. "There is nothing he would not do! He will 
 remain another week and give me that final chance! And 
 it is I who drive him mad! Already he is beginning to 
 cast his retribution on my shoulders." 
 
 Sir Austin had really gone down to Wales to be out of 
 the way. A Shaddock-Dogmatist does not meet misfortune 
 without hearing of it, and the author of The Pilgrim's 
 Scrip in trouble found London too hot for him. He 
 quitted London to take refuge among the mountains; 
 living there in solitary commune with a virgin Note-book. 
 
 Some indefinite scheme was in his head in this treat- 
 ment of his son. Had he construed it, it would have 
 looked ugly; and it settled to a vague principle that the 
 young man should be tried and tested. 
 
 "Let him learn to deny himself something. Let him live 
 with his equals for a term. If he loves me he will read 
 my wishes." Thus he explained his principle to Lady 
 Blandish. 
 
 The lady wrote: "You speak of a term. Till when? 
 May I name one to him? It is the dreadful uncertainty 
 that reduces him to despair. That, and nothing else. 
 Pray be explicit." 
 
 In return, he distantly indicated Richard's majority. 
 
 How could Lady Blandish go and ask the young man 
 to wait a year away from his wife? Her instinct began 
 to open a wide eye on the idol she worshipped. 
 
 When people do not themselves know what they mean, 
 they succeed in deceiving and imposing upon others.
 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND 327 
 
 Not only was Lady Blandish mystified; Mrs. Doria, who 
 pierced into the recesses of everybody's mind, and had 
 always been in the habit of reading off her brother from 
 infancy, and had never known herself to be once wrong 
 about him, she confessed she was quite at a loss to com- 
 prehend Austin's principle. "For principle he has," said 
 Mrs. Doria; "he never acts without one. But what it is, 
 I cannot at present perceive. If he would write, and 
 command the boy to await his return, all would be clear. 
 He allows us to go and fetch him, and then leaves us 
 all in a quandary. It must be some woman's influence. 
 That is the only way to account for it." 
 
 "Singular!" interjected Adrian, "what pride women 
 have in their sex! Well, I have to tell you, my dear 
 aunt, that the day after to-morrow I hand my charge over 
 to your keeping. I can't hold him in an hour longer. 
 I've had to leash him with lies till my invention's ex- 
 hausted. I petition to have them put down to the chief's 
 account, but when the stream runs dry I can do no more. 
 The last was, that I had heard from him desiring me 
 to have the South-west bedroom ready for him on Tues- 
 day proximate. 'So!' says my son, Til wait till then,' 
 and from the gigantic effort he exhibited in coming to it, 
 I doubt any human power's getting him to wait longer." 
 
 "We must, we must detain him," said Mrs. Doria. "If 
 we do not, I am convinced Austin will do something rash 
 that he will for ever repent. He will marry that woman, 
 Adrian. Mark my words. Now with any other young 
 man ! . . . But Richard's education ! that ridiculous 
 System! . . . Has he no distraction? nothing to amuse 
 him?" 
 
 "Poor boy! I suppose he wants his own particular 
 playfellow." 
 
 The wise youth had to bow to a reproof. 
 
 "I tell you, Adrian, he will marry that woman." 
 
 "My dear aunt! Can a chaste man do aught more 
 commendable ?" 
 
 "Has the boy no object we can induce him to follow ? — 
 If he had but a profession!" 
 
 "What say you to the regeneration of the streets of 
 London, and the profession of moral-scavenger, aunt? 
 I assure you I have served a month's apprenticeship with
 
 328 THE ORDKAL OF RICHARD FKVKKEL 
 
 him. We sally forth on the tenth hour of the night. A 
 female passes. I hear him groan. 'Is she one of them, 
 Adrian?' I am compelled to admit she is not the saint 
 he deems it the portion of every creature wearing petti- 
 coats to be. Another groan ; an evident internal, 'It 
 cannot be — and yet!' . . . that we hear on the stage. 
 Rollings of eyes: impious questionings of the Creator of 
 the universe; savage muttcrings against brutal males; 
 and then we meet a second young person, and repeat the 
 performance — of which I am rather tired. It would be 
 all very well, but he turns upon me, and lectures me 
 because I don't hire a house, and furnish it for all the 
 women one meets to live in in purity. Now that's too 
 much to ask of a quiet man. Master Thompson has 
 latterly relieved me, I'm happy to say." 
 
 Mrs. Doria thought her thoughts. 
 
 "Has Austin written to you since you were in town :" 
 
 "Not an Aphorism!" returned Adrian. 
 
 "I must see Richard to-morrow morning," Mrs. Doria 
 ended the colloquy by saying. 
 
 The result of her interview with her nephew was, that 
 Richard made no allusion to a departure on the Tuesday; 
 and for many days afterward he appeared to have an 
 absorbing business on his hands: but what it was Adrian 
 did not then learn, and his admiration of Mrs. Doria's 
 genius for management rose to a very high pitch. 
 
 On a morning in October they had an early visitor in 
 the person of the Hon. Peter, whom they had not seen 
 for a week or more. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, flourishing his cane in his most 
 affable manner, "I've come to propose to you to join us 
 in a little dinner-party at Richmond. Nobody's in town, 
 you know. London's as dead as a stock-fish. Nothing 
 but the scrapings to offer you. But the weather's fine: 
 I flatter myself you'll find the company agreeable. What 
 says my friend Feverel V 
 
 Richard begged to be excused. 
 
 "No, no: positively you must come," said the Hon. 
 Peter. "I've had some trouble to get them together to 
 relieve the dulness of your incarceration. Richmond's 
 within the rules of your prison. You can be back by
 
 A DINNEE-PAETY AT EICHMOND 329 
 
 night. Moonlight on the water — lovely woman. We've 
 engaged a city-barge to pull us back. Eight oars — I'm 
 not sure it isn't sixteen. Come — the word!" 
 
 Adrian was for going. Eichard said he had an appoint- 
 ment with Eipton. 
 
 "You're in for another rick, you two," said Adrian. 
 "Arrange that we go. You haven't seen the cockney's 
 Paradise. Abjure Blazes, and taste of peace, my son." 
 
 After some persuasion, Eichard yawned wearily, and 
 got up, and threw aside the care that was on him, saying, 
 "Very well. Just as you like. We'll take old Eip with us." 
 
 Adrian consulted Brayder's eye at this. The Hon. 
 Peter briskly declared he should be delighted to have 
 Feverel's friend, and offered to take them all down in 
 his drag. 
 
 "If you don't get a match on to swim there with the 
 tide — eh, Feverel, my boy?" 
 
 Eichard replied that he had given up that sort of 
 thing, at which Brayder communicated a queer glance 
 to Adrian, and applauded the youth. 
 
 Eichmond was under a still October sun. The pleasant 
 landscape, bathed in Autumn, stretched from the foot of 
 the hill to a red horizon haze. The day was like none 
 that Eichard vividly remembered. It touched no link in 
 the chain of his recollection. It was quiet, and belonged 
 to the spirit of the season. 
 
 Adrian had divined the character of the scrapings they 
 were to meet. Brayder introduced them to one or two of 
 the men, hastily and in rather an undervoice, as a thing to 
 get over. They made their bow to the first knot of ladies 
 they encountered. Propriety was observed strictly, even 
 to severity. The general talk was of the weather. Here 
 and there a lady would seize a button-hole or any little 
 bit of the habiliments, of the man she was addressing; 
 and if it came to her to chide him, she did it with more 
 than a forefinger. This, however, was only here and 
 there, and a privilege of intimacy. 
 
 Where ladies are gathered together, the Queen of the 
 assemblage may be known by her Court of males. The 
 Queen of the present gathering leaned against a corner of 
 the open window, surrounded by a stalwart Court, in whom 
 a practised eye would have discerned guardsmen, and
 
 330 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Ripton, with a Bulking of the heart, apprehended lords. 
 They were fine men, offering inanimate homage. The 
 trim of their whiskerage, the cut of their coats, the high- 
 bred indolence in their aspect, eclipsed Kipton's sense of 
 self-esteem. But they kindly looked over him. Occasion- 
 ally one committed a momentary outrage on him with an 
 eye-glass, seeming to cry out in a voice of scathing scorn, 
 "Who's this?" and Ripton got closer to his hero to justify 
 his humble pretensions to existence and an identity in 
 the shadow of him. Richard gazed about. Heroes do 
 not always know what to say or do; and the cold bath 
 before dinner in strange company is one of the instances. 
 He had recognized his superb Bellona in the lady by the 
 garden window. For Brayder the men had nods and 
 jokes, the ladies a pretty playfulness. He was very busy, 
 passing between the groups, chatting, laughing, taking 
 the feminine taps he received, and sometimes returning 
 them in sly whispers. Adrian sat down and crossed his 
 legs, looking amused and benignant. 
 
 "Whose dinner is it?" Ripton heard a mignonne beauty 
 ask of a cavalier. 
 
 "Mount's, I suppose," was the answer. 
 
 "Where is he? Why don't he come?" 
 
 "An atFaire, I fancy." 
 
 "There he is again! How shamefully he treats Mrs. 
 Mount!" 
 
 "She don't seem to cry over it." 
 
 Mrs. Mount was flashing her teeth and eyes with 
 laughter at one of her Court, who appeared to be Fool. 
 
 Dinner was announced. The ladies proclaimed extrava- 
 gant appetites. Brayder posted his three friends. Ripton 
 found himself under the lee of a dame with a bosom. On 
 the other side of him was the mignonne. Adrian was at 
 the lower end of the table. Ladies were in profusion, and 
 he had his share. Brayder drew Richard from seat to 
 seat. A happy man had established himself next to Mrs. 
 Mount. Him Brayder hailed to take the head of the 
 table. The happy man objected, Brayder continued ur- 
 gent, the lady tenderly insisted, the happy man grimaced, 
 dropped into the post of honour, strove to look placable. 
 Richard usurped his chair, and was not badly welcomed 
 by his neighbour.
 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND 331 
 
 Then the dinner commenced, and had all the attention 
 of the company, till the flying of the first champagne-cork 
 gave the signal, and a hum began to spread. Sparkling 
 wine, that looseneth the tongue, and displayeth the verity, 
 hath also the quality of colouring it. The ladies laughed 
 high ; Richard only thought them gay and natural. They 
 flung back in their chairs and laughed to tears; Ripton 
 thought only of the pleasure he had in their society. The 
 champagne-corks continued a regular file-firing. 
 
 "Where have you been lately? I haven't seen you in 
 the park," said Mrs. Mount to Richard. 
 
 "No," he replied, "I've not been there." The question 
 seemed odd: she spoke so simply that it did not impress 
 him. He emptied his glass, and had it filled again. 
 
 The Hon. Peter did most of the open talking, which 
 related to horses, yachting, opera, and sport generally: 
 who was ruined, by what horse, or by what woman. He 
 told one or two of Richard's feats. Fair smiles rewarded 
 the hero. 
 
 "Do you bet?" said Mrs. Mount. 
 
 "Only on myself," returned Richard. 
 
 "Bravo!" cried his Bellona, and her eye sent a linger- 
 ing delirious sparkle across her brimming glass at him. 
 
 "I'm sure you're a safe one to back," she added, and 
 seemed to scan his points approvingly. 
 
 Richard's cheeks mounted bloom. 
 
 "Don't you adore champagne?" quoth the dame with 
 a bosom to Ripton. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" answered Ripton, with more candour than 
 accuracy, "I always drink it." 
 
 "Do you indeed?" said the enraptured bosom, ogling 
 him. "You would be a friend, now! I hope you don't 
 object to a lady joining you now and then. Champagne's 
 my folly." 
 
 A laugh was circling among the ladies of whom Adrian 
 was the centre ; first low, and as he continued some narra- 
 tion, peals resounded, till those excluded from the fun de- 
 manded the cue, and ladies leaned behind gentlemen to 
 take it up, and formed an electric chain of laughter. 
 Each one, as her ear received it, caught up her handker- 
 chief, and laughed, and looked shocked afterwards, or 
 looked shocked and then spouted laughter. The anecdote
 
 332 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 might have been communicated to the bewildered cav- 
 aliers, but coming to a lady of a demurer cast, she looked 
 shocked without laughing, and reproved the female table, 
 in whoso breasts it was consigned to burial: but here 
 and there a man's head was seen bent, and a lady's mouth 
 moved, though her face was not turned toward him, and 
 a man's broad laugh was presently heard, while the lady 
 gazed unconsciously before her, and preserved her gravity 
 if she could escape any other lady's eyes; failing in 
 which, handkerchiefs w T ere simultaneously seized, and a 
 second chime arose, till the tickling force subsided to a 
 few chance bursts. 
 
 What nonsense it is that my father writes about women ! 
 thought Richard. He says they can't laugh, and don't 
 understand humour. It comes, he reflected, of his shutting 
 himself from the world. And the idea that he was seeing 
 the world, and feeling wiser, flattered him. He talked 
 fluently to his dangerous Bellona. He gave her some 
 reminiscences of Adrian's whimsies. 
 
 "Oh!" said she, "that's your tutor, is it!" She eyed 
 the young man as if she thought he must go far and fast. 
 
 Ripton felt a push. "Look at that," said the bosom, 
 fuming \itter disgust. He was directed to see a manly 
 arm round the waist of the mignonne. "Now that's what 
 I don't like in company," the bosom inflated to observe 
 with sufficient emphasis. "She always will allow it with 
 everybody. Give her a nudge." 
 
 Ripton protested that he dared not; upon which she 
 said, "Then I will"; and inclined her sumptuous bust 
 across his lap, breathing wine in his face, and gave the 
 nudge. The mignonne turned an inquiring eye on Rip- 
 ton; a mischievous spark shot from it. She laughed, 
 and said: "Aren't you satisfied with the old bird?" 
 
 "Impudence!" muttered the bosom, growing grander 
 and rodder. 
 
 "Do, do fill her glass, and keep her quiet — she drinks 
 port when there's no more champagne," said the mi- 
 gnonne. 
 
 The bosom revenged herself by whispering to Ripton 
 scandal of the mignonne, and between them he was en- 
 abled to form a corrector estimate of the company, and 
 quite recovered from his original awe: so much so as
 
 A DINNEE-PAETY AT EICHMOND 333 
 
 to feel a touch of jealousy at seeing his lively little 
 neighbour still held in absolute possession. 
 
 Mrs. Mount did not come out much; but there was a 
 deferential manner in the bearing of the men toward her, 
 which those haughty creatures accord not save to clever 
 women; and she contrived to hold the talk with three or 
 four at the head of the table while she still had passages 
 aside with Eichard. 
 
 The port and claret went very well after the champagne. 
 The ladies here did not ignominiously surrender the field 
 to the gentlemen; they maintained their position with 
 honour. Silver was seen far out on Thames. The wine 
 ebbed, and the laughter. Sentiment and cigars took up 
 the wondrous tale. 
 
 "Oh, what a lovely night !" said the ladies, looking above. 
 
 "Charming," said the gentlemen, looking below. 
 
 The faint-smelling cool Autumn air was pleasant after 
 the feast. Fragrant weeds burned bright about the garden. 
 
 "We are split into couples," said Adrian to Richard, 
 who was standing alone, eying the landscape. " 'Tis the 
 influence of the moon! Apparently we are in Cyprus. 
 How has my son enjoyed himself? How likes he the 
 society of Aspasia? I feel like a wise Greek to-night." 
 
 Adrian was jolly, and rolled comfortably as he talked. 
 Eipton had been carried off by the sentimental bosom. 
 He came up to them and whispered: "By Jove, Eicky! 
 do you know what sort of women these are?" 
 
 Eichard said he thought them a nice sort. 
 
 "Puritan!" exclaimed Adrian, slapping Eipton on the 
 back. "Why didn't you get tipsy, sir? _ Don't you ever 
 intoxicate yourself except at lawful marriages ? Eeveal to 
 us what you have done with the portly dame?" 
 
 Eipton endured his bantering that he might hang about 
 Eichard, and watch over him. He was jealous of his 
 innocent Beauty's husband being in proximity with such 
 women. Murmuring couples passed them to and fro. 
 
 "By Jove, Eicky!" Eipton favoured his friend with 
 another hard whisper, "there's a woman smoking!" 
 
 "And why not, O Eiptonus?" said Adrian. "Art un- 
 aware that woman cosmopolitan is woman consummate? 
 and dost grumble to pay the small price for the splendid 
 gem ?"
 
 334 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Well, I don't like women to smoke," said plain Ripton. 
 
 "Why mayn't they do what men do?" the hero cried 
 impetuously. "I hate that contemptible narrow-minded- 
 ness. It's that makes the ruin and horrors I see. Why 
 mayn't they do what men do? I like the women who 
 are brave enough not to be hypocrites. By heaven! if 
 these women are bad, I like them better than a set of 
 hypocritical creatures who are all show, and deceive you 
 in the end." 
 
 "Bravo!" shouted Adrian. "There speaks the regener- 
 ator." 
 
 Ripton, as usual, was crushed by his leader. He had 
 no argument. He still thought women ought not to 
 smoke; and he thought of one far away, lonely by the 
 sea, who was perfect without being cosmopolitan. 
 
 The Pilgrim's Scrip remarks that: "Young men take 
 joy in nothing so much as the thinking women Angels: 
 and nothing sours men of experience more than knowing 
 that all are not quite so." 
 
 The Aphorist would have pardoned Ripton Thompson 
 his first Random extravagance, had he perceived the 
 simple warm-hearted worship of feminine goodness Rich- 
 ard's young bride had inspired in the breast of the youth. 
 It might possibly have taught him to put deeper trust in 
 our nature. 
 
 Ripton thought of her, and had a feeling of sadness. 
 He wandered about the grounds by himself, went through 
 an open postern, and threw himself down among some 
 bushes on the slope of the hill. Lying there, and medi- 
 tating, he became aware of voices conversing. 
 
 "What does he want?" said a woman's voice. "It's 
 another of his villanies, I know. Upon my honour, Bray- 
 der, when I think of what I have to reproach him for. I 
 think I must go mad, or kill him." 
 
 "Tragic!" said the Hon. Peter. "Haven't you revenged 
 yourself, Bella, pretty often? Best deal openly. This 
 is a commercial transaction. Von ask for money, and 
 you are to have it — on the conditions: double the sum, 
 and debts paid." 
 
 "He applies to me!" 
 
 "You know, my dear Bella, it has long been all up 
 between you. 1 think .Mount has behaved very well, eon-
 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND 335 
 
 sidering all he knows. He's not easily hoodwinked, you 
 know. He resigns himself to his fate, and follows other 
 game." 
 
 "Then the condition is, that I am to seduce this young 
 man ?" 
 
 "My dear Bella! you strike your bird like a hawk. I 
 didn't say seduce. Hold him in — play with him. Amuse 
 him." 
 
 "I don't understand half-measures." 
 
 "Women seldom do." 
 
 "How I hate you, Brayder!" 
 
 "I thank your ladyship." 
 
 The two walked farther. Ripton had heard some little 
 of the colloquy. He left the spot in a serious mood, ap- 
 prehensive of something dark to the people he loved, 
 though he had no idea of what the Hon. Peter's stipulation 
 involved. 
 
 On the voyage back to town, Richard was again selected 
 to sit by Mrs. Mount. Brayder and Adrian started the 
 jokes. The pair of parasites got on extremely well to- 
 gether. Soft fell the plash of the oars; softly the moon- 
 light curled around them ; softly the banks glided by. The 
 ladies were in a state of high sentiment. They sang 
 without request. All deemed the British ballad-monger an 
 appropriate interpreter of their emotions. After good 
 wine, and plenty thereof, fair throats will make men of 
 taste swallow that remarkable composer. Eyes, lips, 
 hearts; darts and smarts and sighs; beauty, duty; bosom, 
 blossom ; false one, farewell ! To this pathetic strain 
 they melted. Mrs. Mount, though strongly requested, 
 declined to sing. She preserved her state. Under the 
 tall aspens of Brentford-ait, and on they swept, the white 
 moon in their wake. Richard's hand lay open by his side. 
 Mrs. Mount's little white hand by misadventure fell into 
 it. It was not pressed, or soothed for its fall, or made 
 intimate with eloquent fingers. It lay there like a bit of 
 snow on the cold ground. A yellow leaf wavering down 
 from the aspens struck Richard's cheek, and he drew away 
 the very hand to throw back his hair and smooth his face, 
 and then folded his arms, unconscious of offence. He 
 was thinking ambitiously of his life: his blood was un- 
 troubled, his brain calmly working.
 
 336 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Which is the more perilous?" is a problem put by the 
 Pilgrim: "To meet the temptings of Eve, or to pique 
 her?" 
 
 Mrs. Mount stared at the young man as at a curiosity, 
 and turned to flirt with one of her Court. The Guardsmen 
 were mostly sentimental. One or two rattled, and one 
 was such a good-humoured fellow that Adrian could not 
 make him ridiculous. The others seemed to give them- 
 selves up to a silent waxing in length of limb. However 
 far they sat removed, everybody was entangled in their 
 legs. Pursuing his studies, Adrian came to the conclusion, 
 that the same close intellectual and moral affinity which 
 he had discovered to exist between our nobility and our 
 yeomanry, is to be observed between the Guardsman class, 
 and that of the corps de ballet: they both live by the 
 strength of their legs, where also their wits, if they do 
 not altogether reside there, are principally developed: 
 both are volage; wine, tobacco, and the moon, influence 
 both alike; and admitting the one marked difference that 
 does exist, it is, after all, pretty nearly the same thing to 
 be coquetting and sinning on two legs as on the point of 
 a toe. 
 
 A long Guardsman with a deep bass voice sang a doleful 
 song about the twining tendrils of the heart ruthlessly 
 torn, but required urgent persuasions and heavy trumpet- 
 ing of his lungs to get to the end: before he had ac- 
 complished it, Adrian had contrived to raise a laugh in 
 his neighbourhood, so that the company was divided, and 
 the camp split: jollity returned to one-half, while senti- 
 ment held the other. Ripton, blotted behind the bosom, 
 was only lucky in securing a higher degree of heat than 
 was possible for the rest. "Are you cold ?" she would ask, 
 smiling charitably. 
 
 "I am," said the mignonne, as if to excuse her conduct. 
 
 "You always appear to be," the fat one sniffed and 
 snapped. 
 
 "Won't you warm two, Mrs. Mortimer?" said the 
 naughty little woman. 
 
 Disdain prevented any further notice of her. Those 
 familiar with the ladies enjoyed their sparring, which was 
 frequent. The mignonne was heard to whisper: "That 
 poor fellow will certainly be stewed."
 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND 337 
 
 Very prettily the ladies took and gave warmth, for the 
 air on the water was chill and misty. Adrian had beside 
 him the demure one who had stopped the circulation of 
 his anecdote. She in nowise objected to the fair exchange, 
 but said "Hush !" betweenwhiles. 
 
 Past Kew and Hammersmith, on the cool smooth water ; 
 across Putney reach; through Battersea bridge; and the 
 City grew around them, and the shadows of great mill- 
 factories slept athwart the moonlight. 
 
 All the ladies prattled sweetly of a charming day when 
 they alighted on land. Several cavalie'rs crushed for the 
 honour of conducting Mrs. Mount to her home. 
 
 "My brougham's here; I shall go alone," said Mrs. 
 Mount. ''Some one arrange my shawL" 
 
 She turned her back to Richard, who had a view of a 
 delicate neck as he manipulated with the bearing of a 
 mailed knight. 
 
 "Which way are you going?" she asked carelessly, and, 
 to his reply as to the direction, said : "Then I can give you 
 a lift," and she took his arm with a matter-of-course air, 
 and walked up the stairs with him. 
 
 Ripton saw what had happened. He was going to fol- 
 low: the portly dame retained him, and desired him to 
 get her a cab. 
 
 "Oh, you happy fellow!" said the bright-eyed mignonne, 
 passing by. 
 
 Ripton procured the cab, and stuffed it full without 
 having to get into it himself. 
 
 "Try and let him come in too?" said the persecuting 
 creature, again passing. 
 
 "Take liberties with your men — you shan't with me," 
 retorted the angry bosom, and drove off. 
 
 "So she's been and gone and run away and left him 
 after all his trouble !" cried the pert little thing, peering 
 into Ripton's eyes. "Now you'll never be so foolish as to 
 pin your faith to fat women again. There! he shall be 
 made happy another time." She gave his nose a comical 
 tap, and tripped away with her possessor. 
 
 Ripton rather forgot his friend for some minutes : Ran- 
 dom thoughts laid hold of him. Cabs and carriages rattled 
 past. He was sure he had been among members of the 
 nobility that day, though when they went by him now
 
 338 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 they only recognized him with an effort of the eyelids. 
 He began to think of the day with exultation, as an event. 
 Recollections of the mignonne were captivating. "Blue 
 eyes — just what I like! And such a little impudent nose, 
 and red lips, pouting — the very thing I like! And her 
 hair! 1 darkish, I think — say brown. And so saucy, and 
 light on her feet. And kind she is, or she wouldn't have 
 talked to me like that." Thus, with a groaning soul, he 
 pictured her. His reason voluntarily consigned her to 
 the aristocracy as a natural appanage: but he did amor- 
 ously wish that Fortune had made a lord of him. 
 
 Then his mind reverted to Mrs. Mount, and the strange 
 bits of the conversation he had heard on the hill. He was 
 not one to suspect anybody positively. He was timid of 
 fixing a suspicion. It hovered indefinitely, and clouded 
 people, without stirring him to any resolve. Still the at- 
 tentions of the lady toward Richard were queer. lie en- 
 deavoured to imagine they were in the nature of things, 
 because Richard was so handsome that any woman must 
 take to him. "But he's married," said Ripton, "and he 
 mustn't go near these people if he's married." Not a 
 high morality, perhaps: better than none at all: better for 
 the world were it practised more. He thought of Richard 
 along with that sparkling dame, alone with her. The 
 adorable beauty of his dear bride, her pure heavenly face, 
 swam before him. Thinking of her, he lost sight of the 
 mignonne who had made him giddy. 
 
 He walked to Richard's hotel, and up and down the 
 street there, hoping every minute to hear his step; some- 
 times fancying he might have returned and gone to bed. 
 Two o'clock struck. Ripton could not go away. He was 
 sure he should not sleep if he did. At last the cold sent 
 him homeward, and leaving the street, on the moonlight 
 side of Piccadilly he mot his friend patrolling with his 
 head up and that swing of the feet proper to men who are 
 chanting verses. 
 
 "Old Rip!" cried Richard, cheerily. "What on earth 
 are you doing here at this hour of the morning?" 
 
 Ripton muttered of his pleasure at meeting him. "I 
 wanted to shake your hand before 1 went home." 
 
 Richard smiled on him in an amused kindly way. 
 "That all \ You may shake my hand any day, like a true
 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND 339 
 
 man as you are, old Rip ! I've been speaking about you. 
 Do you know, that — Mrs. Mount — never saw you all the 
 time at Richmond, or in the boat !" 
 
 "Oh!" Ripton said, well assured that he was a dwarf: 
 "you saw her safe home?" 
 
 "Yes. I've been there for the last couple of hours — 
 talking. She talks capitally : she's wonderfully clever. 
 She's very like a man, only much nicer. I like her." 
 
 "But, Richard, excuse me — I'm sure I don't mean to 
 offend you — but now you're married . . . perhaps you 
 couldn't help seeing her home, but I think you really in- 
 deed oughtn't to have gone upstairs." 
 
 Ripton delivered this opinion with a modest impressive- 
 ness. 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Richard. "You don't sup- 
 pose I care for any woman but my little darling down 
 there." He laughed. 
 
 "No; of course not. That's absurd. What I mean is, 
 that people perhaps will — you know, they do — they say 
 all manner of things, and that makes unhappiness, and 
 . . . I do wish you were going home to-morrow, Ricky. I 
 mean, to your dear wife." Ripton blushed and looked 
 away as he spoke. 
 
 The hero gave one of his scornful glances. "So you're 
 anxious about my reputation. I hate that way of looking 
 on women. Because they have been once misled — look 
 how much weaker they are! — because the world has given 
 them an ill fame, you would treat them as contagious, 
 and keep away from them for the sake of your character !" 
 
 "It would be different with me," quoth Ripton. 
 
 "How?" asked the hero. 
 
 "Because I'm worse than you," was all the logical ex- 
 planation Ripton was capable of. 
 
 "I do hope you will go home soon," he added. 
 
 "Yes," said Richard, "and I, so do I hope so. But I've 
 work to do now. I dare not, I cannot, leave it. Lucy 
 would be the last to ask me; — you saw her letter yester- 
 day. Now listen to me, Rip. I want to make you be just 
 to women." 
 
 Then he read Ripton a lecture on erring women, speak- 
 ing of them as if he had known them and studied them 
 ■f-or years. Clever, beautiful, but betrayed by love, it was
 
 :u<> THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 the first duty of all true men to cherish and redeem them. 
 "We turn them into curses, Rip; these divine creatures." 
 And the world su Herod for it. That — that was the root 
 of all the evil in the world! 
 
 "I don't fuel anger or horror at these poor women, Rip! 
 It's strange. I knew what they were when we came homo 
 in the boat. But I do — it tears my heart to see a young 
 girl given over to an old man — a man she doesn't love. 
 That's shame! — Don't speak of it." 
 
 Forgetting to contest the premiss, that all betrayed 
 women are betrayed by love, Ripton was quite silenced. 
 He, like most young men, had pondered somewhat on this 
 matter, and was inclined to be sentimental when he was 
 not hungry. They walked in the moonlight by the railings 
 of the park. Richard harangued at leisure, while Ripton's 
 teeth chattered. Chivalry might be dead, but still there 
 was something to do, went the strain. The lady of the 
 day had not been thrown in the hero's path without an 
 object, he kaid; and he was sadly right there. He did not 
 express the thing clearly; nevertheless Ripton understood 
 him to mean, he intended to rescue that lady from further 
 transgressions, and show a certain scorn of the world. 
 That lady, and then other ladies unknown, were to be 
 rescued. Ripton was to help. He and Ripton were to be 
 the knights of this enterprise. When appealed to, Ripton 
 acquiesced, and shivered. Not only were they to be 
 knights, they would have to be Titans, for the powers of 
 the world, the spurious ruling Social Gods, would have to 
 be defied and overthrown. And Titan number one flung 
 up his handsome bold face as if to challenge base Jove on 
 the spot; and Titan number two strained the upper but- 
 ton of his coat to meet across his pocketdiandkerchief on 
 his chest, and warmed his fingers under his coat-tails. 
 The moon had fallen from her high seat and was in the 
 mists of the West, when he was allowed to seek his 
 blankets, and the cold acting on his friend's eloquence 
 made Ripton's flesh very contrite. The poor fellow had 
 thinner blood than the hero; but his heart was good. By 
 the time he had got a little warmth about him, his heart 
 gratefully strove to encourage him in the conception of 
 becoming a knight and a Titan; and so striving Ripton 
 fell asleep and dreamed.
 
 MRS. BERRY ON MATRIMONY 341 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 MRS. BERRY ON MATRIMONY 
 
 Behold the hero embarked in the redemption of an 
 erring beautiful woman. 
 
 "Alas!" writes the Pilgrim at this very time to Lady 
 Blandish, "I cannot get that legend of the Serpent from 
 me, the more I think. Has he not caught you, and ranked 
 you foremost in his legions? For see: till you were fash- 
 ioned, the fruits hung immobile on the boughs. They 
 swayed before us, glistening and cold. The hand must be 
 eager that plucked them. They did not come down to us, 
 and smile, and speak our language, and read our thoughts, 
 and know when to fly, when to follow ! how surely to 
 have us! 
 
 "Do but mark one of you standing openly in the track 
 of the Serpent. What shall be done with her? I fear the 
 world is wiser than its judges ! Turn from her, says the 
 world. By day the sons of the world do. It darkens, and 
 they dance together downward. Then comes there one of 
 the world's elect who deems old counsel devilish ; indiffer- 
 ence to the end of evil worse than its pursuit. He comes 
 to reclaim her. From deepest bane will he bring her back 
 to highest blessing. Is not that a bait already ? Poor fish ! 
 'tis wondrous flattering. The Serpent has slimed her so 
 to secure him! With slow weary steps he draws her into 
 light : she clings to him ; she is human ; part of his work, 
 and he loves it. As they mount upward, he looks on her 
 more, while she, it may be, looks above. What has touched 
 him? What has passed out of her, and into him? The 
 Serpent laughs below. At the gateways of the Sun they 
 fall together!" 
 
 This alliterative production was written without any 
 sense of the peril that makes prophecy. 
 
 It suited Sir Austin to write thus. It was a channel to 
 his acrimony moderated through his philosophy. The let-
 
 342 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ter was a reply to a vehement entreaty from Lady Blan- 
 dish for him to come up to Richard and forgive him 
 thoroughly: Richard's name was not mentioned in it. 
 
 "He tries to be more than he is," thought the lady: 
 and she began insensibly to conceive him less than he 
 was. 
 
 The baronet was conscious of a certain false gratifica- 
 tion in his son's apparent obedience to his wishes and 
 complete submission; a gratification he chose to accept as 
 his due, without dissecting or accounting for it. The in- 
 telligence reiterating that Richard waited, and still 
 waited; Richard's letters, and more his dumb abiding and 
 practical penitence; vindicated humanity sufficiently to 
 stop the course of virulent aphorisms. He could speak, we 
 have seen, in sorrow for this frail nature of ours, that he 
 had once stood forth to champion. "But how long will 
 this last?" he demanded, with the air of Hippias. He did 
 not reflect how long it had lasted. Indeed, his indigestion 
 of wrath had made of him a moral Dyspepsy. 
 
 It was not mere obedience that held Richard from the 
 arms of his young wife: nor was it this new knightly 
 enterprise he had presumed to undertake. Hero as he 
 was, a youth, open to the insane promptings of hot blood, 
 he was not a fool. There had been talk between him and 
 Mrs. Doria of his mother. Now that he had broken from 
 his father, his heart spoke for her. She lived, he knew: 
 he knew no more. Words painfully hovering along the 
 borders of plain speech had been communicated to him, 
 filling him with moody imaginings. If he thought of her, 
 the red was on his face, though he could not have said 
 why. But now, after canvassing the conduct of his 
 father, and throwing him aside as a terrible riddle, he 
 asked Mrs. Doria to tell him of his other parent. As 
 softly as she could she told the story. To her the shame 
 was past: she could weep for the poor lady. Richard 
 dropped no tears. Disgrace of this kind is always present 
 to a son, and, educated as he had been, these tidings were 
 a vivid fire in his brain. lie resolved to hunt her out, 
 and take her from the man. Here was work set to his 
 hand. All her dear husband did was right to Lucy. She 
 encouraged him to stay for that purpose, thinking it also 
 served another. There was Tom Bakewell to watch over
 
 MRS. BERRY ON MATRIMONY 343 
 
 Lucy: there was work for him to do. Whether it would 
 please his father he did not stop to consider. As to the 
 justice of the act, let us say nothing. 
 
 On Ripton devolved the humbler task of grubbing for 
 Sandoe's place of residence; and as he was unacquainted 
 with the name by which the poet now went in private, his 
 endeavours were not immediately successful. The friends 
 met in the evening at Lady Blandish's town-house, or at 
 the Foreys', where Mrs. Doria procured the reverer of the 
 Royal Martyr, and staunch conservative, a favourable 
 reception. Pity, deep pity for Richard's conduct Ripton 
 saw breathing out of Mrs. Doria. Algernon Feverel 
 treated his nephew with a sort of rough commiseration, as 
 a young fellow who had run off the road. 
 
 Pity was in Lady Blandish's eyes, though for a different 
 cause. She doubted if she did well in seconding his 
 father's unwise scheme — supposing him to have a scheme. 
 She saw the young husband encompassed by dangers at a 
 critical time. Not a word of Mrs. Mount had been 
 breathed to her, but the lady had some knowledge of life. 
 She touched on delicate verges to the baronet in her let- 
 ters, and he understood her well enough. ''If he loves 
 this person to whom he has bound himself, what fear for 
 him ? Or are you coming to think it something that bears 
 the name of love because we have to veil the rightful 
 appellation?" So he responded, remote among the moun- 
 tains. She tried very hard to speak plainly. Finally he 
 came to say, that he denied himself the pleasure of seeing 
 his son specially, that he for a time might be put to the 
 test the lady seemed to dread. This was almost too much 
 for Lady Blandish. Love's charity boy so loftily serene 
 now that she saw him half denuded — a thing of shanks 
 and wrists — was a trial for her true heart. 
 
 Going home at night Richard would laugh at the faces 
 made about his marriage. "We'll carry the day, Rip, my 
 Lucy and I ! or I'll do it alone — what there is to do." He 
 slightly adverted to a natural want of courage in women, 
 which Ripton took to indicate that his Beauty was de- 
 ficient in that quality. Up leapt the Old Dog; "I'm sure 
 there never was a braver creature upon earth, Richard! 
 She's as brave as she's lovely, I'll swear she is ! Look how 
 she behaved that day! How her voice sounded! She
 
 344 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 was trembling . . . Brave? She'd follow you into battle 
 Richard I" 
 
 And Richard rejoined: "Talk on, dear old Rip! She's 
 my darling love, whatever she is! And she is gloriously 
 lovely. No eyes are like hers. I'll go down to-morrow 
 morning the first thing." 
 
 Ripton only wondered the husband of such a treasure 
 could remain apart from it. So thought Richard for a 
 space. 
 
 "But if I go, Rip," he said despondently, "if I go for a 
 day even I shall have undone all my work with my father. 
 She says it herself — you saw it in her last letter." 
 
 "Yes," Ripton assented, and the words "Please remem- 
 ber me to dear Air. Thompson," fluttered about the Old 
 Dog's heart. 
 
 It came to pass that Mrs. Berry, having certain business 
 that led her through Kensington Gardens, spied a figure 
 that she had once dandled in long clothes, and helped make 
 a man of, if ever woman did. He was walking under the 
 trees beside a lady, talking to her, not indifferently. The 
 gentleman was her bridegroom and her babe. "I know 
 his back," said Mrs. Berry, as if she had branded a mark 
 on it in infancy. But the lady was not her bride. Mrs. 
 Berry diverged from the path, and got before them on the 
 left flank ; she stared, retreated, and came round upon the 
 right. There was that in the lady's face which Mrs. Berry 
 did not like. Her innermost question was, why he was 
 not walking with his own wife? She stopped in front of 
 them. They broke, and passed about her. The lady made 
 a laughing remark to him, whereat he turned to look, and 
 Mrs. Berry bobbed. She had to bob a second time, and 
 then he remembered the worthy creature, and hailed her 
 Penelope, shaking her hand so that he put her in counte- 
 nance again. Mrs. Berry was extremely agitated. He 
 dismissed her, promising to call upon her in the evening. 
 She heard the lady slip out something from a side of her 
 lip, and they both laughed as she toddled off to a shelter- 
 ing tree to wipe a corner of each eye. "I don't like the 
 looks of that woman," she said, and repeated it resolutely. 
 
 "Why doesn't he walk arm-in-arm with her?" was her 
 next inquiry. "Where's his wife?" succeeded it. After
 
 MRS. BERRY ON MATRIMONY 345 
 
 many interrogations of the sort, she arrived at naming 
 the lady a bold-faced thing; adding subsequently, brazen. 
 The lady had apparently shown Mrs. Berry that she wished 
 to get rid of her, and had checked the outpouring of her 
 emotions on the breast of her babe. "I know a lady when 
 I see one," said Mrs. Berry. "I haven't lived with 'em 
 for nothing; and if she's a lady bred and born, I wasn't 
 married in the church alive." 
 
 Then, if not a lady, what was she? Mrs. Berry desired 
 to know. "She's imitation lady, I'm sure she is!" Berry 
 vowed. "I say she don't look proper." 
 
 Establishing the lady to be a spurious article, however, 
 what was one to think of a married man in company with 
 such? "Oh no! it ain't that!" Mrs. Berry returned im- 
 mediately on the charitable tack. "Belike it's some one of 
 his acquaintance 've married her for her looks, and he've 
 just met her. . . . Why it'd be as bad as my Berry !" the 
 relinquished spouse of Berry ejaculated, in horror at the 
 idea of a second man being so monstrous in wickedness. 
 "Just coupled, too!" Mrs. Berry groaned on the sus- 
 picious side of the debate. "And such a sweet young 
 thing for his wife! But no, I'll never believe it. Not if 
 he tell me so himself! And men don't do that," she 
 whimpered. 
 
 Women are swift at coming to conclusions in these mat- 
 ters; soft women exceedingly swift: and soft women who 
 have been betrayed are rapid beyond measure. Mrs. 
 Berry had not cogitated long ere she pronounced distinctly 
 and without a shadow of dubiosity: "My opinion is — 
 married or not married, and wheresomever he pick her up 
 — she's nothin' more nor less than a Bella Donna !" as 
 which poisonous plant she forthwith registered the lady 
 in the botanical note-book of her brain. It would have 
 astonished Mrs. Mount to have heard her person so accu- 
 rately hit off at a glance. 
 
 In the evening Richard made good his promise, accom- 
 panied by Ripton. Mrs. Berry opened the door to them. 
 She could not wait to get him into the parlour. "You're 
 my own blessed babe; and I'm as good as your mother, — 
 though I didn't suck ye, bein' a maid !" she cried, falling 
 into his arms, while Richard did his best to support the 
 unexpected burden. Then reproaching him tenderly for
 
 346 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 his guile — at mention of which Ripton chuckled, deeming 
 it his own most honourable portion of the plot — Mrs. 
 Berry led them into the parlour, and revealed to Richard 
 who she was, and how she had tossed him, and hugged 
 him, and kissed him all over, when he was only that big — 
 showing him her stumpy fat arm. "I kissed ye from head 
 to tail, I did," said Mrs. Berry, "and you needn't be 
 ashamed of it. It's be hoped you'll never have nothin' 
 worse come t'ye, my dear I" 
 
 Richard assured her he was not a bit ashamed, but 
 warned her that she must not do it now, Mrs. Berry ad- 
 mitting it was out of the question now, and now that he 
 had a wife, moreover. The young men laughed, and Rip- 
 ton laughing over-loudly drew on himself Mrs. Berry's 
 attention: "But that Mr. Thompson there — however he 
 can look me in the face after his inn'cence! helping blind- 
 fold an old woman! — though I ain't sorry for what I did — 
 that I'm free for to say, and it's over, and blessed be all ! 
 Amen ! So now where is she and how is she, Mr. Richard, 
 my dear — it's only cuttin' off the 's' and you are as you 
 was. — Why didn't ye bring her with ye to see her old 
 Berry?" 
 
 Richard hurriedly explained that Lucy was still in the 
 Isle of Wight. 
 
 "Oh! and you've left her for a day or two?" said Mrs. 
 Berry. 
 
 "Good God! I wish it had been a day or two," cried 
 Richard. 
 
 "Ah! and how long have it been?" asked Mrs. Berry, 
 her heart beginning to beat at his manner of speaking. 
 
 "Don't talk about it," said Richard. 
 
 "Oh! you never been dudgeonin' already? Oh! you 
 haven't been peckin' at one another yet?" Mrs. Berry 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Ripton interposed to tell her such fears were unfounded. 
 
 "Then how long ha' you been divided?" 
 
 In a guilty voice Ripton stammered "since September." 
 
 "September!" breathed Mrs. Berry, counting on her 
 fingers, "September, October, Nov — two months and more ! 
 nigh three! A young married husband away from the 
 wife of his bosom nigh three months! Oh my! Oh my! 
 what do that mean?"
 
 MRS. BEERY ON MATRIMONY 347 
 
 "My father sent for me — I'm waiting to see him," said 
 Richard. A few more words helped Mrs. Berry to compre- 
 hend the condition of affairs. Then Mrs. Berry spread 
 her lap, flattened out her hands, fixed her eyes, and spoke. 
 
 "My dear young gentleman ! — I'd like to call ye my 
 darlin' babe! I'm going to speak as a mother to ye, 
 whether ye likes it or no; and what old Berry says, you 
 won't mind, for she's had ye when there was no con- 
 ventionals about ye, and she has the feelin's of a mother 
 to you, though humble her state. If there's one that 
 know matrimony it's me, my dear, though Berry did give 
 me no more but nine months of it: and I've known the 
 worst of matrimony, which, if you wants to be woful 
 wise, there it is for ye. For what have been my gain? 
 That man gave me nothin' but his name; and Bessy 
 Andrews was as good as Bessy Berry, though both is 'Bs/ 
 and says he, you was 'A,' and now you's 'B,' so you're my 
 A B, he says, write yourself down that, he says, the bad 
 man, with his jokes ! — Berry went to service." Mrs. 
 Berry's softness came upon her. "So I tell ye, Berry went 
 to service. He left the wife of his bosom forlorn and he 
 went to service; because he were al'ays an ambitious man, 
 and wasn't, so to speak, happy out of his uniform — which 
 was his livery — not even in my arms : and he let me know 
 it. He got among them kitchen sluts, which was my 
 mournin' ready made, and worse than a widow's cap to 
 me, which is no shame to wear, and some say becoming. 
 There's no man as ever lived known better than my Berry 
 how to show his legs to advantage, and gals look at 'em. 
 I don't wonder now that Berry was prostrated. His 
 temptations was strong, and his flesh was weak. Then 
 what I say is, that for a young married man — be he 
 whomsoever he may be — to be separated from the wife 
 of his bosom — a young sweet thing, and he an innocent 
 young gentleman ! — so to sunder, in their state, and be 
 kep' from each other, I say it's as bad as bad can be ! For 
 what is matrimony, my dears? We're told it's a holy 
 Ordnance. And why are ye so comfortable in matrimony ? 
 For that ye are not a sinnin'! And they that severs ye 
 they tempts ye to stray : and you learn too late the meanin' 
 o' them blessin's of the priest — as it was ordained. Sep- 
 arate — what comes ? Fust it's like the circulation of your
 
 348 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 blood a-stoppin' — all goes wrong. Then there's misunder- 
 standings — ye've both lost the key. Then, behold ye, 
 there's birds o' prey hoverin' over each on ye, and it's 
 whieh'll be snapped up fust. Then — Oh, dear! Oh, dear! 
 it be like the devil come into the world again." Mrs. 
 Berry struck her hands and moaned. "A day I'll give ye: 
 I'll go so far as a week : but there's the outside. Three 
 months dwellin' apart! That's not matrimony, it's di- 
 vorcirf! what can it be to her but widowhood? widowhood 
 with no cap to show for it! And what can it be to you, 
 my dear? Think! you been a bachelor three months! and 
 a bachelor man,'' Mrs. Berry shook her head most dole- 
 fully, "he ain't a widow woman. I don't go to compare 
 you to Berry, my dear young gentleman. Some men's 
 hearts is vagabonds born — they must go astray — it's their 
 natur' to. But all men are men, and I know the founda- 
 tion of 'em, by reason of my woe." 
 
 Mrs. Berry paused. Richard was humorously respect- 
 ful to the sermon. The truth in the good creature's 
 address was not to be disputed, or despised, notwithstand- 
 ing the inclination to laugh provoked by her quaint way of 
 putting it. Ripton nodded encouragingly at every sen- 
 tence, for he saw her drift, and wished to second it. 
 
 Seeking for an illustration of her meaning, Mrs. Berry 
 solemnly continued : "We all know what checked prespira- 
 tion is." But neither of the young gentlemen could resist 
 this. Out they burst in a roar of laughter. 
 
 "Laugh away," said Mrs. Berry. "I don't mind ye. I 
 say agin, we all do know what checked prespiration is. It 
 fly to the lungs, it gives ye mortal inflammation, and it 
 carries ye off. Then I say checked matrimony is as bad. 
 It fly to the heart, and it carries off the virtue that's in ye, 
 and you might as well bo dead! Them that is joined it's 
 their salvation not to separate! It don't so much matter 
 before it. That Mr. Thompson there — if he go astray, it 
 ain't from the blessed fold. He hurt himself alone — not 
 double, and belike treble, for who can say now what may 
 be? There's time for it. I'm for holding back young 
 people so that they knows their minds, howsomever they 
 rattles about their hearts. I ain't a speeder of matrimony, 
 and good's my reason ! but where it's been done — where 
 they're lawfully joined, and their bodies made one, I do
 
 MES. BEERY ON MATRIMONY 349 
 
 say this, that to put division between 'em then, it's to make 
 wanderin' comets of 'em — creatures without a objeck, and 
 no soul can say what they's good for but to rush about!" 
 
 Mrs. Berry here took a heavy breath, as one who has 
 said her utmost for the time being. 
 
 "My dear old girl," Eichard went up to her and, ap- 
 plauding her on the shoulder, "you're a very wise old 
 woman. But you mustn't speak to me as if I wanted to 
 stop here. I'm compelled to. I do it for her good chiefly." 
 
 "It's your father that's doin' it, my dear?" 
 
 "Well, I'm waiting his pleasure." 
 
 "A pretty pleasure ! puttin' a snake in the nest of young 
 turtle-doves! And why don't she come up to you?" 
 
 "Well, that you must ask her. The fact is, she's a little 
 timid girl — she wants me to see him first, and when I've 
 made all right, then she'll come." 
 
 "A little timid girl !" cried Mrs. Berry. "Oh, lor', how 
 she must ha' deceived ye to make ye think that ! Look at 
 that ring," she held out her finger, "he's a stranger: he's 
 not my lawful! You know what ye did to me, my dear. 
 Could 1 get my own wedding-ring back from her? 'No!' 
 says she, firm as a rock, 'he said, with this ring I thee 
 wed' — I think I see her now, with her pretty eyes and 
 lovesome locks — a darlin'! — And that ring she'd keep to, 
 come life, come death. And she must ha' been a rock for 
 me to give in to her in that. For what's the consequence ? 
 Here am I," Mrs. Berry smoothed down the back of her 
 hand mournfully, "here am I in a strange ring, that's like 
 a strange man holdin' of me, and me a-wearin' of it just to 
 
 seem decent, and feelin' all over no better than a b a 
 
 big — that nasty name I can't abide ! — I tell you, my dear, 
 she ain't soft, no! — except to the man of her heart; and 
 the best of women's too soft there — more's our sorrow!" 
 
 "Well, well!" said Eichard, who thought he knew. 
 
 "I agree with you, Mrs. Berry," Eipton struck in, "Mrs. 
 Eichard would do anything in the world her husband 
 asked her, I'm quite sure." 
 
 "Bless you for your good opinion, Mr. Thompson! 
 Why, see her! she ain't frail on her feet; she looks ye 
 straight in the eyes; she ain't one of your hang-down 
 misses. Look how she behaved at the ceremony!" 
 
 "Ah!" sighed Eipton.
 
 350 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "And if you'd ha' seen her when she spoke to mo about 
 my ring! Depend upon it, my dear Mr. Richard, if she 
 blinded you about the nerve she've got, it was somethin' 
 she thought she ought to do for your sake, and I wish I'd 
 been by to counsel her, poor blessed babe! — And how much 
 longer, now, can ye stay divided from that darlin"?" 
 
 Richard paced up and down. 
 
 "A father's will," urged Mrs. Berry, "that's a son's law; 
 but he mustn't go again' the laws of his nature to do it." 
 
 "Just be quiet at present — talk of other things, there's 
 a good woman," said Richard. 
 
 Mrs. Berry meekly folded her arms. 
 
 "How strange, now, our meetin' like this ! meetin' at all, 
 too!" she remarked contemplatively. "It's them advertise- 
 ments! They brings people together from the ends of the 
 earth, for good or for bad. I often say, there's more lucky 
 accidents, or unlucky ones, since advertisements was the 
 rule, than ever there was before. They make a number of 
 romances, depend upon it ! Do you walk much in the 
 Gardens, my dear?" 
 
 "Now and then," said Richard. 
 
 "Very pleasant it is there with the fine folks and flowers 
 and titled people," continued Mrs. Berry. "That was a 
 handsome woman vou was a-walkin' beside, this mornin'." 
 
 "Very," said Richard. 
 
 "She was a handsome woman ! or I should say, is, for her 
 day ain't past, and she know it. I thought at first — by her 
 back — it might ha' been your aunt, Mrs. Forey; for she do 
 step out well and hold up her shoulders: straight as a 
 dart she be! But when I come to see her face — Oh, dear 
 me! says I, this ain't one of the family. They none of 'em 
 got such bold faces — nor no lady as I know have. But 
 she's a fine woman — that nobody can gainsay." 
 
 Mrs. Berry talked further of the fine woman. It was a 
 liberty she took to speak in this disrespectful tone of her, 
 and Mrs. Berry was quite aware that she was laying her- 
 self open to rebuke. She had her end in view. No rebuke 
 was uttered, and during her talk she observed intercourse 
 passing between the eyes of the young men. 
 
 "Look here, Penelope," Richard stopped her at last. 
 "Will it, make you comfortable if I tell you I'll obey the 
 laws of my nature and go down at the end of the week?"
 
 MRS. BERRY ON MATRIMONY 351 
 
 "I'll thank the Lord of heaven if you do!" she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "Very well, then — be happy — I will. Now listen. I 
 want you to keep your rooms for me — those she had. I 
 expect, in a day or two, to bring a lady here" 
 
 "A lady?" faltered Mrs. Berry. 
 
 "Yes. A lady." 
 
 "May I make so bold as to ask what lady?" 
 
 "You may not. Not now. Of course you will know." 
 
 Mrs. Berry's short neck made the best imitation it could 
 of an offended swan's action. She was very angry. She 
 said she did not like so many ladies, which natural objec- 
 tion Richard met by saying that there was only one lady. 
 
 "And Mrs. Berry," he added, dropping his voice. "You 
 will treat her as you did my dear girl, for she will require 
 not only shelter but kindness. I would rather leave her 
 with you than with any one. She has been very unfortu- 
 nate." 
 
 His serious air and habitual tone of command fasci- 
 nated the softness of Berry, and it was not until he had 
 gone that she spoke out. "Unfort'nate ! He's going to 
 bring me an unfort'nate female ! Oh ! not from my babe 
 can I bear that! Never will I have her here! I see it. 
 It's that bold-faced woman he's got mixed up in, and 
 she've been and made the young man think he'll go for to 
 reform her. It's one o' their arts — that is; and he's too 
 innocent a young man to mean anythin' else. But I ain't 
 a house of Magdalens — no 1 and sooner than have her here 
 I'd have the roof fall over me, I would." 
 
 She sat down to eat her supper on the sublime resolve. 
 
 In love, Mrs. Berry's charity was all on the side of the 
 law, and this is the case with many of her sisters. The 
 Pilgrim sneers at them for it, and would have us credit 
 that it is their admirable instinct which, at the expense 
 of every virtue save one, preserves the artificial barrier 
 simply to impose upon us. Men, I presume, are hardly 
 fair judges, and should stand aside and mark. 
 
 Early next day Mrs. Berry bundled off to Richard's hotel 
 to let him know her determination. She did not find him 
 there. Returning homeward through the park, she beheld 
 him on horseback riding by the side of the identical lady. 
 The sight of this public exposure shocked her more than
 
 352 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 the secret walk under the trees. "You don't look near 
 your reform yet," Mrs. Berry apostrophized her. "You 
 don't look to me one that'd come the Fair Penitent till 
 you've left off bein' fair — if then you do, which some of 
 ye don't. Laugh away and show yer airs! Spite o' your 
 hat and feather, and your ridin' habit, you're a Bella 
 Donna." Setting her down again absolutely for such, 
 whatever it might signify, Mrs. Berry had a virtuous glow. 
 
 In the evening she heard the noise of wheels stopping 
 at the door. "Never!" she rose from her chair to exclaim. 
 "He ain't rided her out in the mornin', and been and made 
 a Magdalen of her afore dark?" 
 
 A lady veiled w r as brought into the house by Richard. 
 Mrs. Berry feebly tried to bar his progress in the passage. 
 He pushed past her, and conducted the lady into the par- 
 lour without speaking. Mrs. Berry did not follow. She 
 heard him murmur a few sentences within. Then he came 
 out. All her crest stood up, as she whispered vigorously, 
 "Mr. Richard! if that woman stay here, I go forth. My 
 house ain't a penitentiary for unfort'nate females, sir" 
 
 He frowned at her curiously; but as she was on the 
 point of renewing her indignant protest, he clapped his 
 hand across her month, and spoke words in her ear that 
 had awful import to her. She trembled, breathing low: 
 "My Cod, forgive me! Lady Feverel is it? Your mother, 
 Mr. Richard?" And her virtue was humbled. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 
 
 One may suppose that a prematurely aged, oily little 
 man; a poet in bad circumstances; a decrepit butterfly 
 chained to a disappointed inkstand, will not put out stren- 
 uous energies to retain his ancient paramour when a 
 robust young man comes imperatively to demand his 
 mother of him in her person. The colloquy was short 
 between Diaper Sandoe and Richard. The question was 
 referred to the poor spiritless lady, who, seeing that her 
 son made no question of it, cast herself on his hands.
 
 AN ENCHANTEESS 353 
 
 Small loss to her was Diaper; but he was the loss of 
 habit, and that is something to a woman who has lived. 
 The blood of her son had been running so long alien from 
 her that the sense of her motherhood smote her now with 
 strangeness, and Bichard's stern gentleness seemed like 
 dreadful justice come upon her. Her heart had almost 
 forgotten its maternal functions. She called him Sir, till 
 he bade her remember he was her son. Her voice sounded 
 to him like that of a broken-throated lamb, so painful 
 and weak it was, with the plaintive stop in the utterance. 
 When he kissed her, her skin was cold. Her thin hand 
 fell out of his when his grasp relaxed. "Can sin hunt 
 one like this?" he asked, bitterly reproaching himself for 
 the shame she had caused him to endure, and a deep 
 compassion filled his breast. 
 
 Poetic justice had been dealt to Diaper the poet. He 
 thought of all he had sacrificed for this woman — the com- 
 fortable quarters, the friend, the happy flights. He could 
 not but accuse her of unfaithfulness in leaving him in his 
 old age. Habit had legalized his union with her. He 
 wrote as pathetically of the break of habit as men feel 
 at the death of love; and when we are old and have no 
 fair hope tossing golden locks before us, a wound to this 
 our second nature is quite as sad. I know not even if it 
 be not actually sadder. 
 
 Day by day Eichard visited his mother. Lady Blandish 
 and Eipton alone were in the secret. Adrian let him do 
 as he pleased. He thought proper to tell him that the 
 public recognition he accorded to a particular lady was, 
 in the present state of the world, scarcely prudent. 
 
 " 'Tis a proof to me of your moral rectitude, my son, but 
 the world will not think so. No one character is sufficient 
 to coyer two — in a Protestant country especially. The 
 divinity that doth hedge a Bishop would have no chance 
 in contact with your Madam Danae. Drop the woman, 
 my son. Or permit me to speak what you would have her 
 hear." 
 
 Eichard listened to him with disgust. 
 
 "Well, you've had my doctorial warning," said Adrian, 
 and plunged back into his book. 
 
 When Lady Feverel had revived to take part in the con- 
 sultations Mrs. Berry perpetually opened on the subject of
 
 354 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Richard's matrimonial duty, another chain was cast about 
 him. "Do not, oh, do not offend your father!" was her 
 one repeated supplication. Sir Austin had grown to be a 
 vindictive phantom in her mind. She never wept but 
 win 'ii she said this. 
 
 So Mrs. I Jerry, to whom Richard had once made men- 
 tion of Lady Blandish as the only friend he had among 
 women, bundled off in her black-satin dress to obtain an 
 interview with her, and an ally. After coming to an un- 
 derstanding on the matter of the visit, and reiterating 
 many of her views concerning young married people, Mr6. 
 Berry said: "My lady, if I may speak so bold, I'd say 
 the sin that's bein' done is the sin o' the lookers-on. And 
 when everybody appear frightened by that young gentle- 
 man's father, I'll say — hopin' your pardon — they no cause 
 be frighted at all. For though it's nigh twenty year since 
 I knew him, and I knew him then just sixteen months — 
 no more — I'll say his heart's as soft as a woman's, which 
 I've cause for to know. And that's it. That's where 
 everybody's deceived by him, and I was. It's because he 
 keeps his face, and makes ye think you're dealin' with a 
 man of iron, and all the while there's a woman underneath. 
 And a man that's like a woman he's the puzzle o' life! 
 We can see through ourselves, my lady, and we can see 
 through men, but one o' that sort — he's like somethin' out 
 of nature. Then I say — hopin' be excused — what's to do 
 is for to treat him like a woman, and not for to let him 
 'ave his own way — which he don't know himself, and is 
 why nobody else do. Let that sweet young couple come 
 together, and bo wholesome in spite of him, I say; and 
 then give him time to come round, just like a woman; and 
 round he'll come, and give 'em his blessin', and we shall 
 know we've made him comfortable. He's angry because 
 matrimony have come between him and his son, and he, 
 woman-like, he's wantin' to treat what is as if it isn't. 
 But matrimony's a holier than him. It began long long 
 before him, and it's be hoped will endoor long's the time 
 after, if the world's not coming to rack — wishin' him no 
 harm." 
 
 \'ow Mrs. Berry only put Lady Bland ish's thoughts in 
 bad English. The lady took upon herself seriously to ad- 
 vise Richard to send for his wife. He wrote, bidding her
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 355 
 
 come. Lucy, however, had wits, and inexperienced wits 
 are as a little knowledge. In pursuance of her sage plan 
 to make the family feel her worth, and to conquer the 
 members of it one by one, she had got up a correspondence 
 with Adrian, whom it tickled. Adrian constantly assured 
 her all was going well: time would heal the wound if both 
 the offenders had the fortitude to be patient: he fancied 
 he saw signs of the baronet's relenting: they must do 
 nothing to arrest those favourable symptoms. Indeed the 
 wise youth was languidly seeking to produce them. He 
 wrote, and felt, as Lucy's benefactor. So Lucy replied to 
 her husband a cheerful rigmarole he could make nothing 
 of, save that she was happy in hope, and still had fears. 
 Then Mrs. Berry trained her fist to indite a letter to her 
 bride. Her bride answered it by saying she trusted to 
 time. "You poor marter," Mrs. Berry wrote back, "I 
 know what your sufferin's be. They is the only kind a 
 wife should never hide from her husband. He thinks all 
 sorts of things if she can abide being away. And you 
 trusting to time, why it's like trusting not to catch cold 
 out of your natural clothes." There was no shaking 
 Lucy's firmness. 
 
 Richard gave it up. He began to think that the life 
 lying behind him was the life of a fool. What had he 
 done in it? He had burnt a rick and got married! He 
 associated the two acts of his existence. Where was the 
 hero he was to have carved out of Tom Bakewell ! — a 
 wretch he had taught to lie and chicane: and for what? 
 Great heavens! how ignoble did a flash from the light 
 of his aspirations make his marriage appear! The young 
 man sought amusement. He allowed his aunt to drag 
 him into society, and sick of that he made late evening 
 calls on Mrs Mount, oblivious of the purpose he had in 
 visiting her at all. Her man-like conversation, which he 
 took for honesty, was a refreshing change on fair lips. 
 
 "Call me Bella: I'll call you Dick," said she. And it 
 came to be Bella and Dick between them. No mention of 
 Bella occurred in Richard's letters to Lucy. 
 
 Mrs. Mount spoke quite openly of herself. "I pretend 
 to be no better than I am," she said, "and I know I'm 
 no worse than many a woman who holds her head high." 
 To back this she told him stories of blooming dames of
 
 356 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 good repute, and poured a little social sewerage into his 
 ears. 
 
 Also she understood him. ''What you want, my dear 
 Dick, is something to do. You went and got married like 
 a — hum! — friends must be respectful. (Jo into the Army. 
 Try the turf. I can put you up to a trick or two — friends 
 should make themselves useful." 
 
 She told him what she liked in him. "You're the only 
 man I was ever alone with who don't talk to me of 1 
 and make me feel sick. I hate men who can't speak to 
 a woman sensibly. — Just wait a minute." She left him 
 and presently returned with, "Ah, Dick! old fellow! how 
 are you?" — arrayed like a cavalier, one arm stuck in her 
 side, her hat jauntily cocked, and a pretty oath on her lips 
 to give reality to the costume. "What do you think of me '. 
 Wasn't it a shame to make a woman of me when I was 
 born to be a man ?" 
 
 "I don't know that," said Richard, for the contrast in 
 her attire to those shooting eyes and lips, aired her sex 
 bewitchingly. 
 
 "What! you think I don't do it well?" 
 
 "Charming! but I can't forget ..." 
 
 "Now that is too bad !" she poiited. 
 
 Then she proposed that they should go out into the 
 mid-night streets arm-in-arm, and out they went and had 
 great fits of laughter at her impertinent manner of using 
 her eye-glass, and outrageous affectation of the supreme 
 dandy. 
 
 "They take up men, Dick, for going about in women's 
 clothes, and vice versaw, I suppose. You'll bail me, old 
 fellaa, if I have to make my bow to the beak, won't you ? 
 Say it,s becas I'm an honest woman and don't care to hide 
 the — a — unmentionables when I wear them — as the 
 t'others do," sprinkled with the dandy's famous invoca- 
 tions. 
 
 He began to conceive romance in that sort of fun. 
 
 "You're a wopper, my brave Dick! won't let any peeler 
 take me? by Jove!" 
 
 And he with many assxirances guaranteed to stand by 
 her, while she bent her thin fingers trying the muscle of 
 his arm, and reposed upon it more. There was delicacy 
 in her dandyism. She was a graceful cavalier.
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 357 
 
 "Sir Julius," as they named the dandy's attire, was fre- 
 quently called for on his evening visits to Mrs. Mount. 
 When he beheld Sir Julius he thought of the lady, and 
 "vice versaw," as Sir Julius was fond of exclaiming. 
 
 Was ever hero in this fashion wooed? 
 
 The woman now and then would peep through Sir 
 Julius. Or she would sit, and talk, and altogether forget 
 she was impersonating that worthy fop. 
 
 She never uttered an idea or a reflection, but Richard 
 thought her the cleverest woman he had ever met. 
 
 All kinds of problematic notions beset him. She was 
 cold as ice, she hated talk about love, and she was branded 
 by the world. 
 
 A rumour spread that reached Mrs. Doria's ears. She 
 rushed to Adrian first. The wise youth believed there was 
 nothing in it. She sailed down upon Richard. "Is this 
 true? that you have been seen going publicly about with 
 an infamous woman, Richard? Tell me! pray, relieve 
 me!" 
 
 Richard knew of no person answering to his aunt's de- 
 scription in whose company he could have been seen. 
 
 "Tell me, I say! Don't quibble. Do you know any 
 woman of bad character?" 
 
 The acquaintance of a lady very much misjudged and 
 ill-used by the world, Richard admitted to. 
 
 Urgent grave advice Mrs. Doria tendered her nephew, 
 both from the moral and the worldly point of view, men- 
 tally ejaculating all the while: "That ridiculous System! 
 That disgraceful marriage!" Sir Austin in his mountain 
 solitude was furnished with serious stuff to brood over. 
 
 The rumour came to Lady Blandish. She likewise lec- 
 tured Richard, and with her he condescended to argue. But 
 he found himself obliged to instance something he had 
 quite neglected. "Instead of her doing me harm, it's I 
 that will do her good." 
 
 Lady Blandish shook her head and held up her finger. 
 "This person must be very clever to have given you that 
 delusion, dear." 
 
 "She is clever. And the world treats her shamefully." 
 
 "She complains of her position to you ?" 
 
 "Not a word. But I will stand by her. She has no 
 friend but me."
 
 358 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "My poor boy! has she made you think that?'' 
 "How unjust you all are!" cried Richard. 
 "How mad and wicked is the man who can let him be 
 tempted so!" thought Lady Blandish. 
 
 He would pronounce no promise not to visit her, not to 
 address her publicly. The world that condemned her and 
 cast her out was no better — worse for its miserable hypoc- 
 risy. He knew the w^rld now, the young man said. 
 
 "My child! the world may be very bad. I am not going 
 to defend it. But you have some one else to think of. 
 Have you forgotten you have a wife, Richard?" 
 
 "Ay! you all speak of her now. There's my aunt: 
 'Remember you have a wife!' Do you think I love any 
 one but Lucy? poor little thing! Because I am married 
 am I to give up the society of women?" 
 "Of women!" 
 "Isn't she a woman?" 
 
 "Too much so!" sighed the defender of her sex. 
 Adrian became more emphatic in his warnings. Rich- 
 ard laughed at him. The wise youth sneered at Mrs. 
 Mount. The hero then favoured him with a warning 
 equal to his own in emphasis, and surpassing it in sin- 
 cerity. 
 
 "We won't quarrel, my dear boy," said Adrian. "I'm a 
 man of peace. Besides, we are not fairly proportioned for 
 a combat. Ride your steed to virtue's goal! All I say 
 is, that I think heMl upset you, and it's better to go a slow 
 pace and in companionship with the children of the sun. 
 You have a very nice little woman for a wife— well, good- 
 bye!" 
 
 To have his wife and the world thrown at his face, was 
 unendurable to Richard; he associated them somewhal 
 after the manner of the rick and the marriage. Charming 
 Sir Julius, always gay, always honest, dispersed his black 
 moods. 
 
 "Why, you're taller," Richard made the discovery. 
 "Of course I am. Don't you remember you said I was 
 such a little thing when 1 came out of my woman's shell?" 
 "And how have you done it?" 
 '( Irown to please you." 
 
 "Now, it' you can do that, you can do anything." 
 "And so I would do anything."
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 359 
 
 "You would?" 
 
 ''Honour!" 
 
 "Then" . . . his project recurred to him. But the in- 
 congruity of speaking seriously to Sir Julius struck him 
 dumb. 
 
 "Then what?" asked she. 
 
 "Then you're a gallant fellow." 
 
 "That all?" 
 
 "Isn't it enough?" 
 
 "Not quite. You were going to say something. I saw 
 it in your eyes." 
 
 "You saw that I admired you." 
 
 "Yes, but a man mustn't admire a man." 
 
 "I suppose I had an idea you were a woman." 
 
 "What ! when I had the heels of my boots raised half 
 an inch," Sir Julius turned one heel, and volleyed out 
 silver laughter. 
 
 "I don't come much above your shoulder even now," 
 she said, and proceeded to measure her height beside him 
 with arch up-glances. 
 
 "You must grow more." 
 
 " 'Fraid I can't, Dick! Bootmakers can't do it." 
 
 "I'll show you how," and he lifted Sir Julius lightly, 
 and bore the fair gentleman to the looking-glass, holding 
 him there exactly on a level with his head. "Will that 
 do?" 
 
 "Yes! Oh, but I can't stay here." 
 
 "Why can't you ?" 
 
 "Why can't I ?" 
 
 He should have known then — it was thundered at a 
 closed door in him, that he played with fire. But the 
 door being closed, he thought himself internally secure. 
 
 Their eyes met. He put her down instantly. 
 
 Sir Julius, charming as he was, lost his vogue. Seeing 
 that, the wily woman resumed her shell. The memory 
 of Sir Julius breathing about her still, doubled the fem- 
 inine attraction. 
 
 "I ought to have been an actress," she said. 
 
 Richard told her he found all natural women had a 
 similar wish. 
 
 "Yes! Ah! then! if I had been!" sighed Mrs. Mount, 
 gazing on the pattern of the carpet.
 
 3G0 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 He took her hand, and pressed it. 
 
 "You are not happy as you are?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 ''May I speak to you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her nearest eye, setting a dimple of her cheek in motion, 
 slid to the corner toward her ear, as she Bat with her 
 head sideways to him, listening. When he had gone, she 
 said to herself: "Old hypocrites talk in that way; but I 
 never heard of a young man doing it* and not making 
 love at the same time." 
 
 Their next meeting displayed her quieter: subdued as 
 one who had been set thinking. He lauded her fair 
 looks. "Don't make me thrice ashamed," she petitioned. 
 
 But it was not only that mood with her. Dauntless 
 defiance, that splendidly befitted her gallant outline and 
 gave a wildness to her bright bold eyes, when she would 
 call out: "Happy? who dares say I'm not happy? D'you 
 think if the world whips me I'll wince? D'you think I 
 care for what they say or do? Let them kill me! they 
 shall never get one cry out of me!" and flashing on the 
 young man as if he were the congregated enemy, add: 
 "There! now you know me!" — that was a mood that well 
 became her, and helped the work. She ought to have 
 been an actress. 
 
 "This must not go on," said Lady Blandish and Mrs. 
 Doria in unison. A common object brought them to- 
 gether. They confined their talk to it, and did not dis- 
 agree. Mrs. Doria engaged to go down to the baronet. 
 Both ladies knew it was a dangerous, likely to turn out 
 a disastrous, expedition. They agreed to it heeause it 
 was something to do, and doing anything is better than 
 doing nothing. "Do it," said the wise youth, when they 
 made him a third, "do it, if you want him to be a hermit 
 for life. You will bring back nothing but his dead body, 
 ladies — a Hellenic, rather than a Roman, triumph. He 
 will listen to you — he will accompany you to the station — 
 he will hand you into the carriage — and when you point 
 to his seat he will bow profoundly, and retire into his 
 congenial mists." 
 
 Adrian spoke their thoughts. They fretted; they re- 
 lapsed.
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 361 
 
 "Speak to him, you, Adrian," said Mrs. Doria. "Speak 
 to the boy solemnly. It would be almost better he should 
 go back to that little thing he has married." 
 
 "Almost?" Lady Blandish opened her eyes. "I have 
 been advising it for the last month and more." 
 
 "A choice of evils," said Mrs. Doria's sour-sweet face 
 and shake of the head. 
 
 Each lady saw a point of dissension, and mutually 
 agreed, with heroic effort, to avoid it by shutting their 
 mouths. What was more, they preserved the peace in 
 spite of Adrian's artifices. 
 
 "Well, I'll talk to him again," he said. "I'll try to 
 get the Engine on the conventional line." 
 
 "Command him!" exclaimed Mrs. Doria. 
 
 "Gentle means are, I think, the only means with Rich- 
 ard," said Lady Blandish. 
 
 Throwing banter aside, as much as he could, Adrian 
 spoke to Richard. "You want to reform this woman. 
 Her manner is open — fair and free — the traditional char- 
 acteristic. We won't stop to canvass how that particular 
 honesty of deportment that wins your approbation has 
 been gained. In her college it is not uncommon. Girls, 
 you know, are not like boys. At a certain age they can't 
 be quite natural. It's a bad sign if they don't blush, 
 and fib, and affect this and that. It wears off when 
 they're women. But a woman who speaks like a man, 
 and has all those excellent virtues you admire — where has 
 she learned the trick? She tells you. You don't surely 
 approve of the school? Well, what is there in it, then? 
 Reform her, of course. The task is worthy of your 
 energies. But, if you are appointed to do it, don't do 
 it publicly, and don't attempt it just now. May I ask 
 you whether your wife participates in this undertaking?" 
 
 Richard walked away from the interrogation. The wise 
 youth, who hated long unrelieved speeches and had healed 
 his conscience, said no more. 
 
 Dear tender Lucy! Poor darling! Richard's eyes 
 moistened. Her letters seemed- sadder latterly. Yet she 
 never called to him to come, or he would have gone. His 
 heart leapt up to her. He announced to Adrian that he 
 should wait no longer for his father. Adrian placidly 
 nodded.
 
 362 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVERKL 
 
 The enchantress observed thai lier knight had a clouded 
 brow ami an absent voice. 
 
 "Richard — I can't call you Diek now, I really don't 
 know why" — she said, "I want to beg a favour of you." 
 
 "Name it. I can still call you Bella, I suppose?" 
 
 "If you care to. What. 1 want to say is this: when you 
 meet me out — to cut it short — please not to recognize me." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Do you ask to be told that?" 
 
 "Certainly I do." 
 
 "Then look: I won't compromise you." 
 
 "I see no harm, Bella." 
 
 "No," she caressed his hand, "and there is none. I 
 know that. But," modest eyelids were drooped, "other 
 people do," struggling eyes were raised. 
 
 "What do we care for other people?" 
 
 "Nothing. 1 don't. Not that!" snapping her finger, 
 "I care for you, though." A prolonged look followed 
 the declaration. 
 
 "You're foolish, Bella." 
 
 "Not quite so giddy — that's all." 
 
 He did not combat it with his usual impetuosity. 
 Adrian's abrupt inquiry had sunk in his mind, as the wise 
 youth intended it should. He had instinctively refrained 
 from speaking to Lucy of this lady. But what a noble 
 creature the woman was! 
 
 So they met in the park; Mrs. Mount whipped past 
 hini; and secrecy added a new sense to their intimacy. 
 
 Adrian was gratified at the result produced by his 
 eloquence. 
 
 Though this lady never expressed an idea, Richard was 
 not mistaken in her cleverness. She could make evenings 
 pass gaily, and one was not the fellow to the other. She 
 could make you forget she was a woman, and then bring 
 the fact startlingly home to you. She could read men 
 with one quiver of her half-closed eyedashes. She could 
 catch the coming mood in a man, and tit herself to it. 
 What does a woman want with ideas, who can do thus 
 much? Keenness of perception, conformity, delicacy of 
 handling, these be al! the qualities necessary to parasites. 
 
 Love would have scared the youth: she banished it from 
 her tongue. It may also have been true that it sickened
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 363 
 
 her. She played or. his higher nature. She understood 
 spontaneously what would be most strange and taking to 
 him in a woman. Various as the Serpent of old Nile, 
 she acted fallen beauty, humorous indifference, reckless 
 daring, arrogance in ruin. And acting thus, what think 
 you? — She did it so well because she was growing half 
 in earnest. 
 
 "Richard! I am not what I was since I knew you. 
 You will not give me up quite?" 
 
 "Never, Bella." 
 
 "I am not so bad as I'm painted!" 
 
 "You are only unfortunate." 
 
 "Now that I know you I think so, and yet I am happier." 
 
 She told him her history when this soft horizon of re- 
 pentance seemed to throw heaven's twilight across it. 
 A woman's history, you know : certain chapters expunged. 
 It was dark enough to Richard. 
 
 "Did you love the man ?" he asked. "You say you love 
 no one now." 
 
 "Did I love him? He was a nobleman and I a trades- 
 man's daughter. No. I did not love him. I have lived 
 to learn it. And now I should hate him, if I did not 
 despise him." 
 
 "Can you be deceived in love?" said Richard, more to 
 himself than to her. 
 
 "Yes. When we're young we can be very easily de- 
 ceived. If there is such a thing as love, we discover it 
 after we have tossed about and roughed it. Then we find 
 the man, or the woman, that suits us: — and then it's too 
 late! we can't have him." 
 
 "Singular!" murmured Richard, "she says just what 
 my father said." 
 
 He spoke aloud: "I could forgive you if you had loved 
 him." 
 
 "Don't be harsh, grave judge! How is a girl to distin- 
 guish ?" 
 
 "You had some affection for him? He was the first?" 
 
 She chose to admit that. "Yes. And the first who talks 
 of love to a girl must be a fool if he doesn't blind 
 her." 
 
 "That makes what is called first love nonsense." 
 
 "Isn't it?"
 
 3G4 THE ORDEAL OK RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 He repelled the insinuation. "Because I know it is 
 not, Bella." 
 
 Nevertheless she had opened a wider view of the world 
 to him, and a colder. He thought poorly of girls. A 
 woman — a sensible, brave, beautiful woman seemed, on 
 comparison, infinitely nobler than those weak creatures. 
 
 She was best in her character of lovely rebel accusing 
 foul injustice. "What am I to do? You tell me to be 
 different. How can I? What am I to do? Will virtuous 
 people let me earn my bread ? I could not get a house- 
 maid's place! They wouldn't have me — I see their noses 
 smelling! Yes: I can go to the hospital and sing behind 
 a screen! Do you expect me to bury myself alive? Why, 
 man, I have blood: I can't become a stone. You say I 
 am honest, and I will be. Then let me tell you that I 
 have been used to luxuries, and I can't do without them. 
 I might have married men — lots would have had me. But 
 who marries one like me but a fool ? and I could not 
 marry a fool. The man I marry I must respect. He 
 could not respect me — I should know him to be a fool, 
 and I should be worse off than I am now. As 1 am now, 
 they may look as pious as they like — I laugh at them!" 
 
 And so forth: direr things. Imputations upon wives: 
 horrible exultation at the universal peccancy of husbands. 
 This lovely outcast almost made him think she had the 
 right on her side, so keenly her Parthian arrows pierced 
 the holy centres of society, and exposed its rottenness. 
 
 Mrs. Mount's house was discreetly conducted: nothing 
 ever occurred to shock him there. The young man would 
 ask himself where the difference was between her and the 
 women of society? How base, too, was the army of banded 
 hypocrites! He was ready to declare war against them on 
 her behalf. His casus belli, accurately worded, would have 
 read curiously. Because the world refused to lure the 
 lady to virtue with the offer of a housemaid's place, our 
 knight threw down his challenge. But the lady had scorn- 
 fully rebutted this prospect of a return to chastity. Then 
 the form of the challenge must !><■: Because the world 
 declined to support the lady in luxury for nothing! But 
 what did that mean? In other words: she was to receive 
 the devil's wages without rendering him her services. 
 Such an arrangement appears hardly fair on the world
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 365 
 
 or on the devil. Heroes will have to conquer both before 
 they will get them to subscribe to it. 
 
 Heroes, however, are not in the habit of wording their 
 declarations of war at all. Lance in rest they challenge 
 and they charge. Like women they trust to instinct, and 
 graft on it the muscle of men. Wide fly the leisurely- 
 remonstrating hosts : institutions are scattered, they know 
 not wherefore, heads are broken that have not the balm 
 of a reason why. 'Tis instinct strikes! Surely there is 
 something divine in instinct. 
 
 Still, war declared, where were these hosts? The hero 
 eoidd not charge down on the ladies and gentlemen in a 
 ballroom, and spoil the quadrille. He had sufficient ret- 
 icence to avoid sounding his challenge in the Law Courts; 
 nor could he well go into the Houses of Parliament with 
 a trumpet, though to come to a tussle with the nation's 
 direct representatives did seem the likelier method. It 
 was likewise out of the question that he should enter 
 every house and shop, and battle with its master in the 
 cause of Mrs. Mount. Where, then, was his enemy? 
 Everybody was his enemy, and everybody was nowhere. 
 Shall he convoke multitudes on Wimbledon Common? 
 Blue Policemen, and a distant dread of ridicule, bar all 
 his projects. Alas for the hero in our day! 
 
 Nothing teaches a strong arm its impotence so much as 
 knocking at empty air. 
 
 "What can I do for this poor woman?" cried Richard, 
 after fighting his phantom enemy till he was worn out. 
 
 "0 Rip! old Rip!" he addressed his friend, "I'm dis- 
 tracted. I wish I was dead! What good am I for? Mis- 
 erable ! selfish ! What have I done but make every soul 
 I know wretched about me? I follow my own inclina- 
 tions — I make people help me by lying as hard as they 
 can — and I'm a liar. And when I've got it I'm ashamed 
 of myself. And now when I do see something unselfish 
 for me to do, I come upon grins — I don't know where to 
 turn — how to act — and I laugh at myself like a devil!" 
 
 It was only friend Ripton's ear that was required, so 
 his words went for little: but Ripton did say he thought 
 there was small matter to be ashamed of in winning and 
 wearing the Beauty of Earth. Richard added his cus- 
 tomary comment of "Poor little thing!"
 
 366 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEEEL 
 
 He fought his duello with empty air till he was ex- 
 hausted. A last letter written to his father procured him 
 no reply. Then, said he, I have tried my utmost. I have 
 tried to be dutiful — my father won't listen to me. One 
 thing I can do — 1 can go down to my dear girl, and make 
 her happy, and save her at least from some of the con- 
 sequences of my rashness. 
 
 "There's nothing better for me!" he groaned. His great 
 ambition must be covered by a house-top : he and the eat 
 must warm themselves on the domestic hearth ! The hero 
 was not aware that his heart moved him to this. His 
 heart was not now in open communion with his mind. 
 
 Mrs. Mount heard that her friend was going — would go. 
 She knew he was going to his wife. Far from discourag- 
 ing him, she said nobly: "Go — I believe I have kept you. 
 Let us have an evening together, and then go: for good, 
 if you like. If not, then to meet again another time. 
 Forget me. I shan't forget you. You're the best fellow 
 I ever knew, Richard. You are, on my honour! I swear 
 I would not step in between you and your wife to cause 
 either of you a moment's unhappiness. When I can be 
 another woman I will, and I shall think of you then." 
 
 Lady Blandish heard from Adrian that Richard was 
 positively going to his wife. The wise youth modestly 
 veiled his own merit in bringing it about by saying: 'T 
 couldn't see that poor little woman left alone down there 
 any longer." 
 
 "Well! Yes!" said Mrs. Doria, to whom the modest 
 speech was repeated, "I suppose, poor boy, it's the best 
 he can do now." 
 
 Richard bade them adieu, and went to spend his last 
 evening with Mrs. Mount. 
 
 The enchantress received him in state. 
 
 "Do you know this dress? No? It's the dress I wore 
 when I first met you — not when I first saw you. I think 
 I remarked ymi, sir. before you deigned to cast an eye 
 upon humble me. Winn we first met we drank champagne 
 together, and 1 intend to celebrate our parting in the 
 same liquor. Will you liquor with me, <>ld boy?" 
 
 She was gay. She revived Sir Julius occasionally. He, 
 dispirited, left the talking all to her. 
 
 Mrs. .Mount kept a footman. At a late hour the man
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 367 
 
 of calves dressed the table for supper. It was a point of 
 honour for Richard to sit down to it and try to eat. 
 Drinking, thanks to the kindly mother nature, who loves 
 to see her children made fools of, is always an easier 
 matter. The footman was diligent; the champagne corks 
 feebly recalled the file-firing at Richmond. 
 
 "We'll drink to what we might have been, Dick," said 
 the enchantress. 
 
 Oh, the glorious wreck she looked. 
 
 His heart choked as he gulped the buzzing wine. 
 
 "What! down, my boy?" she cried. "They shall never 
 see me hoist signals of distress. We must all die, and the 
 secret of the thing is to die game, by Jove! Did you ever 
 hear of Laura Fenn ? a superb girl ! handsomer than your 
 humble servant — if you'll believe it — a 'Miss' in the bar- 
 gain, and as a consequence, I suppose, a much greater 
 rake. She was in the hunting-field. Her horse threw 
 her, and she fell plump on a stake. It went into her left 
 breast. All the fellows crowded round her, and one young 
 man, who was in love with her — he sits in the House of 
 Peers now — we used to call him 'Duck' because he was 
 such a dear — he dropped from his horse to his knees: 
 'Laura ! Laura ! my darling ! speak a word to me ! — the 
 last !' She turned over all white and bloody ! 'I — I shan't 
 be in at the death!' and gave up the ghost! Wasn't that 
 dying game? Here's to the example of Laura Fenn! 
 Why, what's the matter? See! it makes a man turn 
 pale to hear how a woman can die. Fill the glasses, 
 John. Why, you're as bad !" 
 
 "It's give me a turn, my lady," pleaded John, and the 
 man's hand was unsteady as he poured out the wine. 
 
 "You ought not to listen. Go, and drink some brandy." 
 
 John footman went from the room. 
 
 "My brave Dick ! Richard ! what a face you've got !" 
 
 He showed a deep frown on a colourless face. 
 
 "Can't you bear to hear of blood? You know, it was 
 only one naughty woman out of the world. The clergy- 
 man of the parish didn't refuse to give her decent burial. 
 We are Christians! Hurrah!" 
 
 She cheered, and laughed. A lurid splendour glanced 
 about her like lights from the pit. 
 
 "Pledge me, Dick! Drink, and recover yourself. Who
 
 3G8 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 minds? We must all die — the pood and the bad. Ashes 
 to ashes — dust to dust — and wine for living lips! That's 
 poetry — almost. Sentiment: 'May we never say die till 
 we've drunk our fill!' Not bad — eh? A little vulgar, 
 perhaps, by .love! I )o you think me horrid?" 
 
 "Where's the wine?" Richard shouted. He drank a 
 couple of glasses in succession, and stared about. Was 
 he in hell, with a lost soul raving to him? 
 
 "Nobly spoken! and nobly acted upon, my brave Dick! 
 Now we'll be companions. 'She wished that heaven had 
 made her such a man.' Ah, Dick! Dick! too late! too 
 late!" 
 
 Softly fell her voice. Her eyes threw slanting beams. 
 
 "Do you see this?" 
 
 She pointed to a symbolic golden anchor studded with 
 gems and coiled with a rope of hair in her bosom. It was 
 a gift of his. 
 
 "Do you know when I stole the lock? Foolish Dickl 
 you gave me an anchor without a rope. Come and see." 
 
 She rose from the table, and threw herself on the sofa. 
 
 "Don't you recognize your own hair! I should know 
 a thread of mine among a million." 
 
 Something of the strength of Samson went out of him 
 as he inspected his hair on the bosom of Delilah. 
 
 "And you knew nothing of it ! You hardly know it 
 now you see it! What couldn't a woman steal from you? 
 But you're not vain, and that's a protection. You're a 
 miracle, Dick: a man that's not vain! Sit here." She 
 curled up her feet to give him place on the sofa. "Now 
 let us talk like friends that part to meet no more. You 
 found a ship with fever on board, and you weren't afraid 
 to come alongside and keep her company. The fever isn't 
 catching, you see. Let us mingle our tears together. Ha ! 
 ha ! a man said that once to me. The hypocrite wanted 
 to catch the fever, but he was too old. How old are you, 
 Dick?" 
 
 Richard pushed a few months forward. 
 
 "Twenty-one? You just look it, you blooming boy. 
 Now tell me my age, Adonis! — Twenty — what?" 
 
 Richard had given the lady twenty-five years. 
 
 She laughed violently. "You don't pay compliments, 
 Dick. Best to be honest; guess again. You don't like
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 369 
 
 to ? Not twenty-five, or twenty-four, or twenty-three, or — 
 see how he begins to start ! — twenty-two. Just twenty-one, 
 my dear. I think my birthday's somewhere in next month. 
 Why, look at me, close — closer. Have I a wrinkle?" 
 
 "And when, in heaven's name!" ... he stopped short. 
 
 "I understand you. When did I commence for to live? 
 At the ripe age of sixteen I saw a nobleman in despair 
 because of my beauty. He vowed he'd die. I didn't 
 want him to do that. So to save the poor man for his 
 family, I ran away with him, and I dare say they didn't 
 appreciate the sacrifice, and he soon forgot to, if he 
 ever did. It's the way of the world!" 
 
 Richard seized some dead champagne, emptied the 
 bottle into a tumbler, and drank it off. 
 
 John footman entered to clear the table, and they 
 were left without further interruption. 
 
 "Bella! Bella!" Richard uttered in a deep sad voice, 
 as he walked the room. 
 
 She leaned on her arm, her hair crushed against a 
 reddened cheek, her eyes half-shut and dreamy. 
 
 "Bella!" he dropped beside her. "You are unhappy." 
 
 She blinked and yawned, as one who is awakened sud- 
 denly. "I think you spoke," said she. 
 
 "You are unhappy, Bella. You can't conceal it. Your 
 laugh sounds like madness. You must be unhappy. So 
 young, too ! Only twenty-one !" 
 
 "What does it matter? Who cares for me?" 
 
 The mighty pity falling from his eyes took in her 
 whole shape. She did not mistake it for tenderness, as 
 another would have done. 
 
 "Who cares for you, Bella? I do. What makes my 
 misery now, but to see you there, and know of no way 
 of helping you? Father of mercy! it seems too much to 
 have to stand by powerless while such ruin is going on !" 
 
 Her hand was shaken in his by the passion of torment 
 with which his frame quaked. 
 
 Involuntarily a tear started between her eyelids. She 
 glanced up at him quickly, then looked down, drew her 
 hand from his, and smoothed it, eying it. 
 
 "Bella! you have a father alive!" 
 
 "A linendraper, dear. He wears a white neck-cloth." 
 
 This article of apparel instantaneously changed the
 
 370 THE ORDEAL OF kit IIAKI) FEVEREL 
 
 tone of the conversation, for he, rising abruptly, nearly 
 squashed the lady's lap-dog, whose squeaks and howls were 
 piteous, and demanded the most fervent caresses of its 
 mistress. It was: "Oh, my poor pet Mumpsy, and he 
 didn't like a nasty great big Ugly heavy foot on his poor 
 soft silky — mum— mum — back, he didn't, and he soodn't 
 that he — mum — mum — soodn't; and he cried out and 
 knew the place to come to, and was oh so sorry for what 
 had happened to him — mum — mum — mum — and now he 
 was going to be made happy, his mistress make him 
 happy — mum — mum — mum — moo-o-o-o." 
 
 "Yes!" said Richard, savagely, from the other end of 
 the room, "you care for the happiness of your dog." 
 
 "A course se does," Mumpsy was simperingly assured 
 in the thick of his silky flanks. 
 
 Richard looked for his hat. Mumpsy was deposited 
 on the sofa in a twinkling. 
 
 "Now," said the lady, "you must come and beg Mumpsy'a 
 pardon, whether you meant to do it or no, because little 
 doggies can't tell that — how should they? And there's 
 poor Mumpsy thinking you're a great terrible rival that 
 tries to squash him all flat to nothing, on purpose, pre- 
 tending you didn't see; and he's trembling, poor dear 
 wee pet! And I may love my dog, sir, if I like; and I 
 do; and I won't have him ill-treated, for he's never been 
 jealous of you, and he is a darling, ten times truer than 
 men, and I love him fifty times better. So come to him 
 with me." 
 
 First a smile changed Richard's face; then laughing 
 a melancholy laugh, he surrendered to her humour, and 
 went through the form of begging Mumpsy 's pardon. 
 
 "The dear dog! I do believe he saw we were getting 
 dull," said she. 
 
 "And immolated himself intentionally? Noble animal!" 
 
 "Well, we'll act as if we thought so. Let us be gay, 
 Richard, and not part like ancient fogies. Where's your 
 fun ? You can rattle ; why don't you ? You haven't seen 
 me in one of my characters — not Sir Julius: wait a couple 
 of minutes." She ran out. 
 
 A white visage reappeared behind a spring of flame. 
 Tier black hair was scattered over her shoulders and fell 
 half across her brows. She moved slowly, and came up
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 371 
 
 to him, fastening weird eyes on him, pointing a finger 
 at the region of witches. Sepulchral cadences accom- 
 panied the representation. He did not listen, for he 
 was thinking what a deadly charming and exquisitely 
 horrid witch she was. Something in the way her under- 
 lids worked seemed to remind him of a forgotten picture; 
 but a veil hung on the picture. There could be no 
 analogy, for this was beautiful and devilish, and that, 
 if he remembered rightly, had the beauty of seraphs. 
 
 His reflections and her performance were stayed by a 
 shriek. The spirits of wine had run over the plate she 
 held to the floor. She had the coolness to put the plate 
 down on the table, while he stamped out the flame on 
 the carpet. Again she shrieked : she thought she was on 
 fire. He fell on his knees and clasped her skirts all 
 round, drawing his arms down them several times. 
 
 Still kneeling, he looked up, and asked, "Do you feel 
 safe now?" 
 
 She bent her face glaring down till the ends of her hair 
 touched his cheek. 
 
 Said she, "Do you?" 
 
 Was she a witch verily? There was sorcery in her 
 breath; sorcery in her hair: the ends of it stung him like 
 little snakes. 
 
 "How do I do it, Dick?" she flung back, laughing. 
 
 "Like you do everything, Bella," he said, and took a 
 breath. 
 
 "There ! I won't be a witch ; I won't be a witch : they 
 may burn me to a cinder, but I won't be a witch!" 
 
 She sang, throwing her hair about, and stamping her 
 feet. 
 
 "I suppose I look a figure. I must go and tidy my- 
 self." 
 
 "No, don't change. I like to see you so." He gazed 
 at her with a mixture of wonder and admiration. "I 
 can't think you the same person — not even when you 
 laugh." 
 
 "Richard," her tone was serious, "you were going to 
 speak to me of my parents." 
 
 "How wild and awful you looked, Bella!" 
 
 "My father, Richard, was a very respectable man." 
 
 "Bella, you'll haunt me like a ghost."
 
 372 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "My mother die] in my infancy, Richard." 
 
 "Don't put \\}> your hair, Bella." 
 
 "I was m only "child!" 
 
 Eer head shook sorrowfully at the glistening fire-irons. 
 He followed the abstracted intentness of her look, and 
 came upon her words. 
 
 "Ah, yes! speak of your father, Bella. Speak of him." 
 
 "Shall I haunt you, and come to your bedside, and cry, 
 "Tis time'?" 
 
 "Dear Bella! if you will tell me where he lives, I will 
 go to him. He shall receive you. He shall not refuse — 
 he shall forgive you." 
 
 "If I haunt you, you can't forget me, Richard." 
 
 "Let me go to your father. Bella — let me go to him 
 to-morrow. I'll give you my time. It's all I can give. O 
 Bella ! let me save you." 
 
 "So you like me best dishevelled, do you, you naughty 
 boy! Ha! ha!" and away she burst from him, and up 
 flew her hair, as she danced across the room, and fell at 
 full length on the sofa. 
 
 He felt giddy: bewitched. 
 
 "We'll talk of everyday things, Dick," she called to him 
 from the sofa. "It's our last evening. Our last? Heigho! 
 It makes me sentimental. How's that Mr. Ripson, Pip- 
 son, Nipson? — it's not complimentary, but I can't remem- 
 ber names of that sort. Why do you have friends of 
 that sort? He's not a gentleman. Better is he? Well, 
 he's rather too insignificant for me. Why do you sit 
 off there? Come to me instantly. There — I'll sit up, and 
 be proper, and you'll have plenty of room. Talk, Dick !" 
 
 He was rerieeting on the fact that her eyes were brown. 
 They had a haughty sparkle when she pleased, and when 
 she pleased a soft languor circled them. Excitement had 
 dyed her cheeks deep red. He was a youth, and she an 
 enchantress. He a hero; she a female will-o'-the-wisp. 
 
 The eyes were languid now, set in rosy colour. 
 
 "You will not leave me yet, Richard? not yet?" 
 
 He had no thought of departing. 
 
 "It's our last night — I suppose it's our last hour to- 
 gether in this world — and I don't want to meet you in 
 the next, for poor Dick will have to come to such a very, 
 very disagreeable place to make the visit."
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 373 
 
 He grasped her hand at this. 
 
 "Yes, he will! too true! can't be helped: they say I'm 
 handsome." 
 
 "You're lovely, Bella." 
 
 She drank in his homage. 
 
 "Well, we'll admit it. His Highness below likes lovely 
 women, I hear say. A gentleman of taste! You don't 
 know all my accomplishments yet, Richard." 
 
 "I shan't be astonished at anything new, Bella." 
 
 "Then hear, and wonder." Her voice trolled out some 
 lively roulades. "Don't you think he'll make me his 
 prima donna below? It's nonsense to tell me there's no 
 singing there. And the atmosphere will be favourable 
 to the voice. No damp, you know. You saw the piano 
 — why didn't you ask me to sing before? I can sing 
 Italian. I had a master — who made love to me. I for- 
 gave him because of the music-stool — men can't help it 
 on a music-stool, poor dears!" 
 
 She went to the piano, struck the notes, and sang — 
 
 " 'My heart, my heart — I think 'twill break.' 
 
 "Because I'm such a rake. I don't know any other 
 reason. No; I hate sentimental songs. Won't sing that. 
 Ta-tiddy-tiddy-iddy — a . . . e! How ridiculous those 
 women were, coming home from Richmond! 
 
 'Once the sweet romance of story 
 
 Clad thy moving form with grace; 
 Once the world and all its glory 
 
 Was but framework to thy face. 
 Ah, too fair! — what I remember, 
 
 Might my soul recall — but no ! 
 To the winds this wretched ember 
 
 Of a fire that falls so low!' 
 
 "Hum! don't much like that. Tum-te-tum-tum — ac- 
 canto al fuoco — heigho ! I don't want to show off, Dick — 
 or to break down — so I won't try that. 
 
 'Oh! but for thee, oh! but for thee, 
 
 I might have been a happy wife, 
 And nursed a baby on my knee, 
 
 And never blushed to give it life.'
 
 374 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "I used to sing thai when I was a girl, sweet Richard, 
 and didn't know at all. at all, what it meant. Mustn't 
 sing that sort of song in company. We're oh! so proper 
 — even we ! 
 
 'If I had a husband, what think you I'd do? 
 
 I'd make it my business to keep him a lover; 
 For when a young gentleman ceases to woo, 
 
 Some other amusement he'll quickly discover.' 
 
 "For such are young gentlemen made of — made of: 
 such are young gentlemen made of !" 
 
 After this trifling she sang a Spanish ballad sweetly. 
 He was in the mood when imagination intensely vivifies 
 everything. Mere suggestion of music sufficed. The lady 
 in the ballad had been wronged. Lo! it was the lady 
 before him; and soft horns blew; he smelt the languid 
 night-flowers; he saw the stars crowd large and close 
 above the arid plain: this lady leaning at her window 
 desolate, pouring out her abandoned heart. 
 
 Heroes know little what they owe to champagne. 
 
 The lady wandered to Venice. Thither he followed her 
 at a leap. In Venice she was not happy. He was pre- 
 pared for the misery of any woman anywhere. Rut, oh! 
 to be with her! To glide with phantom-motion through 
 throbbing street; past houses muffled in shadow and 
 gloomy legends; under storied bridges; past palaces 
 charged with full life in dead quietness; past grand old 
 towers, colossal squares, gleaming quays, and out, and on 
 with her, on into the silver infinity shaking over seas! 
 
 Was it the champagne? the music! or the poetry? 
 Something of the two former, perhaps: but most the 
 enchantress playing upon him. How many instruments 
 cannot clever women play upon at the same moment ! 
 And this enchantress was not too clever, or he might 
 have felt her touch. She was no longer absolutely bent 
 on winning him, or he might have seen a manoeuvre. 
 She liked him — liked none better. She wished him well. 
 Her pique was satisfied. Still he was handsome, and 
 he was going. What she liked him for, she rather — very 
 slightly — wished to do away with, or see if it could be 
 done away with: just as one wishes to catch a pretty
 
 AN ENCHANTRESS 375 
 
 butterfly, without hurting its patterned wings. No- harm 
 intended to the innocent insect, only one wants to inspect 
 it thoroughly, and enjoy the marvel of it, in one's tender 
 possession, and have the felicity of thinking one could 
 crush it, if one would. 
 
 He knew her what she was, this lady. In Seville, or in 
 Venice, the spot was on her. Sailing the pathways of 
 the moon it was not celestial light that illumined her 
 beauty. Her sin was there: but in dreaming to save, he 
 was soft to her sin — drowned it in deep mournfulness. _ 
 
 Silence, and the rustle of her dress, awoke him from his 
 musing. She swam wave-like to the sofa. She was at his 
 feet. 
 
 "I have been light and careless to-night, Richard. Of 
 course I meant it. I must be happy with my best friend 
 going to leave me." 
 
 Those witch underlids were working brightly. 
 
 "You will not forget me ? and I shall try ... try ... " 
 
 Her lips twitched. She thought him such a very hand- 
 some fellow. 
 
 "If I change — if I can change ... Oh ! if you could 
 know what a net I'm in, Richard!" 
 
 Now at those words, as he looked down on her haggard 
 loveliness, not divine sorrow but a devouring jealousy 
 sprang like fire to his breast', and set him rocking with 
 horrid pain. He bent closer to her pale beseeching face. 
 Her eyes still drew him down. 
 
 "Bella! No! no! promise me! swear it!" 
 
 "Lost, Richard! lost for ever! give me up!" 
 
 He cried: "I never will!" and strained her in his arms, 
 and kissed her passionately on the lips. 
 
 She was not acting now as she sidled and slunk her 
 half-averted head with a kind of maiden shame under 
 his arm, sighing heavily, weeping, clinging to him. It 
 was wicked truth. 
 
 Not a word of love between them! 
 
 Was ever hero in this fashion won?
 
 376 THE ORDEAL oh RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE LITTLE BIRD AND THE FALCON; A BERRY TO 
 
 THE RESCUE! 
 
 At a season when the pleasant South-western Island ha9 
 few attractions to other than invalids and hermits en- 
 amoured of wind and rain, the potent nobleman, Lord 
 Mountfalcon, still lingered there to the disgust of his 
 friends and special parasite. "Mount's in for it again," 
 they said among themselves. "Hang the women!" was 
 a natural sequence. For, don't you see, what a shame 
 it was of the women to be always kindling such a very 
 inflammable subject! All understood that Cupid had 
 twanged his bow, and transfixed a peer of Britain for 
 the fiftieth time: but none would perceive, though he 
 vouched for it with his most eloquent oaths, that this 
 was a totally different case from the antecedent ones. 
 So it had been sworn to them too frequently before. 
 He was as a man with mighty tidings, and no language: 
 intensely communicative, but inarticulate. Good round 
 oaths had formerly compassed and expounded his noble 
 emotions. They were now quite beyond the comprehen- 
 sion of blasphemy, even when emphasized, and by this 
 the poor lord divinely felt the case was different. There 
 is something impressive in a great human hulk writh- 
 ing under the unutterable torments of a mastery he can- 
 not contend with, or account for, or explain by means 
 of intelligible words. At first he took refuge in the 
 depths of his contempt for women. Cupid gave him 
 line. When he had come to vent his worst of them, the 
 fair face now stamped on his brain beamed the more 
 triumphantly: so the harpooned whale rose to the sur- 
 face, and after a few convulsions, surrendered his huge 
 length. My lord was in love with Richard's young wife. 
 He gave proofs of it by burying himself beside her. To 
 her, could she have seen it, he gave further proofs of a 
 real devotion, in affecting, and in her presence feeling, 
 nothing beyond a lively interest in her well-being. This 
 wonder, that when near her he should be cool and com-
 
 A BERRY TO THE RESCUE 377 
 
 posed, and when away from her wrapped in a tempest of 
 desires, was matter for what powers of cogitation the 
 heavy nobleman possessed. 
 
 The Hon. Peter, tired of his journeys to and fro, urged 
 him to press the business. Lord Mountfalcon was wiser, 
 or more scrupulous, than his parasite. Almost every 
 evening he saw Lucy. The inexperienced little wife 
 apprehended no harm in his visits. Moreover, Richard 
 had commended her to the care of Lord Mountfalcon, 
 and Lady Judith. Lady Judith had left the Island for 
 London : Lord Mountfalcon remained. There could be 
 no harm. If she had ever thought so, she no longer did. 
 Secretly, perhaps, she was nattered. Lord Mountfalcon 
 was as well educated as it is the fortune of the run of 
 titled elder sons to be : he could talk and instruct : he was 
 a lord: and he let her understand that he was wicked, 
 very wicked, and that she improved him. The heroine, in 
 common with the hero, has her ambition to be of use in 
 the world — to do some good; and the task of reclaiming 
 a bad man is extremely seductive to good women. Dear 
 to their tender bosoms as old china is a bad man they are 
 mending! Lord Mountfalcon had none of the arts of a 
 libertine: his gold, his title, and his person had hitherto 
 preserved him from having long to sigh in vain, or sigh 
 at all, possibly: the Hon. Peter did his villanies for him. 
 No alarm was given to Lucy's pure instinct, as might 
 have been the case had my lord been over-adept. It was 
 nice in her martyrdom to have a true friend to support 
 her, and really to be able to do something for that friend. 
 Too simple-minded to think much of his lordship's posi- 
 tion, she was yet a woman. "He, a great nobleman, does 
 not scorn to acknowledge me, and think something of me," 
 may have been one of the half-thoughts passing through 
 her now and then, as she reflected in self-defence on the 
 proud family she had married into. 
 
 January was watering and freezing old earth by turns, 
 when the Hon. Peter travelled down to the sun of his 
 purse with great news. He had no sooner broached his 
 lordship's immediate weakness, than Mountfalcon began 
 to plunge like a heavy dragoon in difficulties. He swore 
 by this and that he had come across an angel for his sins, 
 and would do her no hurt. The next moment he swore
 
 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 she must be his, though she cursed like a cat. His lord- 
 ship's illustrations were not choice. "I haven't advanced 
 an inch," he groaned. "Brayder! upon my soul, that little 
 woman could do anything with me. By heaven! \\\ marry 
 her to-morrow. Here I am, seeing her every day in the 
 week out or in, and what do you think she gets me to 
 talk about!? — history! Isn't it enough to make a fellow 
 mad '. and there am I lecturing like a prig, and by heaven! 
 while I'm at it I feel a pleasure in it; and when I leave 
 the house I should feel an immense gratification in shoot- 
 ing somebody. What do they say in town?" 
 
 "Not much," said Brayder, significantly. 
 
 "When's that fellow — her husband — coming down?" 
 
 "I rather hope we've settled him for life, Mount." 
 
 Nobleman and parasite exchanged looks. 
 
 "How d'ye mean?" 
 
 Brayder hummed an air, and broke it to say, "He's in 
 for Don Juan at a gallop, that's all." 
 
 "The deuce! Has Bella got him?" Mountfalcon asked 
 with eagerness. 
 
 Brayder handed my lord a letter. It was dated from 
 the Sussex coast, signed "Richard," and was worded thus: 
 
 "My beautiful Devil! — 
 
 "Since we're both devils together, and have found each 
 other out, come to me at once, or I shall be going some- 
 where in a hurry. Come, my bright hell-star! I ran 
 away from you, and now I ask you to come to me! You 
 have taught me how devils love, and I can't do without 
 you. Come an hour after you receive this." 
 
 Mountfalcon turned over the letter to see if there was 
 any more. "Complimentary love-epistle I" he remarked, 
 and rising from his chair and striding about, muttered, 
 "The dog! how infamously he treats his wife!" 
 
 "Very bad," said Brayder. 
 
 "How did you gel hold of this?" 
 
 "Strolled into Bella's dressing-room, waiting for her — 
 turned over her pincushion hap-hazard. You know her 
 trick." 
 
 "I5v ,l..ve! I think that girl does it on purpose. 'I bank 
 heaven, 1 haven't written her any letters for an age. Is 
 she going to him?" 
 
 "Not she! But it's odd, Mount! — did you ever know
 
 A BEERY TO THE RESCUE 379 
 
 her refuse money before ? She tore up the cheque in style, 
 and presented me the fragments with two or three of the 
 delicacies of language she learnt at your Academy. I 
 rather like to hear a woman swear. It embellishes her!" 
 
 Mountfalcon took counsel of his parasite as to the end 
 the letter could be made to serve. Both conscientiously 
 agreed that Richard's behaviour to his wife was infamous, 
 and that he at least deserved no mercy. "But," said his 
 lordship, "it won't do to show the letter. At first she'll 
 be swearing it's false, and then she'll stick to him closer. 
 I know the sluts." 
 
 "The rule of contrary," said Brayder, carelessly. "She 
 must see the trahison with her eyes. They believe their 
 eyes. There's your chance, Mount. You step in : you give 
 her revenge and consolation — two birds at one shot. 
 That's what they like." 
 
 "You're an ass, Brayder," the nobleman exclaimed. 
 "You're an infernal blackguard. You talk of this little 
 woman as if she and other women were all of a piece. I 
 don't see anything I gain by this confounded letter. Her 
 husband's a brute — that's clear." 
 
 "Will you leave it to me, Mount?" 
 
 'Be damned before I do !" muttered my lord. 
 
 "Thank you. Now see how this will end. You're too 
 soft, Mount. You'll be made a fool of." 
 
 "I tell you, Brayder, there's nothing to be done. If I 
 carry her off — I've been on the point of doing it every day 
 — what'll come of that? She'll look — I can't stand her 
 eyes — I shall be a fool — worse off with her than I am 
 now." 
 
 Mountfalcon yawned despondently. "And what do you 
 think?" he pursued. "Isn't it enough to make a fellow 
 gnash his teeth? She's" ... he mentioned something 
 in an underbreath, and turned red as he said it. 
 
 "Hm!" Brayder put up his mouth and rapped the 
 handle of his cane on his chin. "That's disagreeable, 
 Mount. You don't exactly want to act in that character. 
 You haven't got a diploma. Bother!" 
 
 "Do you think I love her a bit less?" broke out my 
 lord in a frenzy. "By heaven! I'd read to her by her 
 bedside, and talk that infernal history to her, if it pleased 
 her, all day and all night."
 
 380 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "You're evidently graduating for a midwife, Mount." 
 
 The nobleman appeared silently to accept the imputa- 
 tion. 
 
 "What do they say in town?" he asked again. 
 
 Brayder said the solo question was, whether it was 
 maid, wife, or widow. 
 
 "I'll go to her this evening," Mountfalcon resumed, 
 after — to judge by the cast of his face — reflecting deeply. 
 "I'll go to her this evening. She shall know what infernal 
 torment she makes me suffer." 
 
 "Do you mean to say she don't know it?" 
 
 "Hasn't an idea — thinks me a friend. And so, by 
 heaven ! I'll be to her." 
 
 "A — hm!" went the Honourable Peter. "This way to 
 the sign of the Green Man, ladies!" 
 
 "Do you want to be pitched out of the window, 
 Brayder?" 
 
 "Once was enough, Mount. The Salvage Man is strong. 
 I may have forgotten the trick of alighting on my feet. 
 There — there! I'll be sworn she's excessively innocent, 
 and thinks you a disinterested friend." 
 
 "I'll go to her this evening," Mountfalcon repeated. 
 "She shall know what damned misery it is to see her in 
 such a position. I can't hold out any longer. Deceit's 
 horrible to such a girl as that. I'd rather have her curs- 
 ing me than speaking and looking as she does. Dear little 
 girl ! — she's only a child. You haven't an idea how sensi- 
 ble that little woman is." 
 
 "Have you?" inquired the cunning one. 
 
 "My belief is, Brayder, that there are angels among 
 women," said Mountfalcon, evading his parasite's eye as 
 he spoke. 
 
 To the world. Lord Mountfalcon was the thoroughly 
 wicked man ; his parasite simply ingeniously dissipated. 
 Full many a man of God had thought it the easier task to 
 reclaim the Hon. Peter. 
 
 Lucy received her noble friend by firelight that evening, 
 and sat much in the shade. She offered to have the can- 
 dles brought in. He begged her to allow the room to 
 remain as it was. "I have something to say to you," he 
 observed with a certain solemnity. 
 
 "Yes — to me?" said Lucy, quickly.
 
 A BEERY TO THE RESCUE 381 
 
 Lord Mountfalcon knew he had a great deal to say, but 
 how to say it, and what it exactly was, he did not know. 
 
 "You conceal it admirably," he began, "but you must 
 be very lonely here — I fear, unhappy." 
 
 "I should have been lonely, but for your kindness, my 
 lord," said Lucy. "I am not unhappy." Her face was in 
 shade and could not belie her. 
 
 "Is there any help that one who would really be your 
 friend might give you, Mrs. Feverel ?" 
 
 "None indeed that I know of," Lucy replied. "Who 
 can help us to pay for our sins?" 
 
 "At least you may permit me to endeavour to pay my 
 debts, since you have helped me to wash out some of my 
 sins." 
 
 "Ah, my lord!" said Lucy, not displeased. It is sweet 
 for a woman to believe she has drawn the serpent's teeth. 
 
 "I tell you the truth," Lord Mountfalcon went on. 
 "What object could I have in deceiving you ? I know you 
 quite above flattery — so different from other women!" 
 
 "Oh, pray, do not say that," interposed Lucy. 
 
 "According to my experience, then." 
 
 "But you say you have met such — such very bad 
 women." 
 
 "I have. And now that I meet a good one, it is my 
 misfortune." 
 
 "Your misfortune, Lord Mountfalcon?" 
 
 'Yes, and I might say more." 
 
 His lordship held impressively mute. 
 
 "How strange men are !" thought Lucy. "He has some 
 unhappy secret." 
 
 Tom Bakewell, who had a habit of coming into the room 
 on various pretences during the nobleman's visits, put a 
 stop to the revelation, if his lordship intended to make 
 any. 
 
 When they were alone again, Lucy said, smiling: "Do 
 you know, I am always ashamed to ask you to begin to 
 read." 
 
 Mountfalcon stared. "To read? — oh! ha! yes!" he re- 
 membered his evening duties. "Very happy, I'm sure. 
 Let me see. Where were we?" 
 
 "The life of the Emperor Julian. But indeed I feel 
 quite ashamed to ask you to read, my lord. It's new to
 
 382 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 me; like a new world — hearing about Emperors, and 
 armies, and things that really have been on the earth we 
 walk upon. It fills my mind. But it must have eeased 
 to interest you, and I was thinking that I would not tease 
 you any more." 
 
 "Your pleasure is mine, Mrs. Feverel. 'Pon my honour, 
 I'd read till I was hoarse, to hear your remarks." 
 
 "Are you laughing at me?" 
 
 "Do I look so?" 
 
 Lord Mountfalcon had fine full eyes, and by merely 
 dropping the lids he could appear to endow them with 
 mental expression. 
 
 "No, you are not," said Lucy. "I must thank you for 
 your forbearance." 
 
 The nobleman went on his honour loudly. 
 
 Now it was an object of Lucy's to have him reading; 
 for his sake, for her sake, and for somebody else's sake; 
 which somebody else was probably considered first in the 
 matter. When ho was reading to her, he seemed to be 
 legitimizing his presence there; and though she had no 
 doubts or suspicions whatever, she was easier in her heart 
 while she had him employed in that office. So she rose 
 to fetch the book, laid it open on the table at his lordship's 
 elbow, and quietly waited to ring for candles when he 
 should be willing to commence. 
 
 That evening Lord Mountfalcon could not get himself 
 up to the farce, and he felt a pity for the strangely in- 
 nocent unprotected child with anguish hanging over her, 
 that withheld the words he wanted to speak, or insinuate. 
 He sat silent and did nothing. 
 
 "What I do not like him for," said Lucy, meditatively, 
 "is his changing his religion. He would have been such 
 a hero, but for that. I could have loved him." 
 
 'Who is it you could have loved, Mrs. Feverel?" Lord 
 Mountfalcon asked. 
 
 "The Emperor Julian." 
 
 "Oli! the Emperor Julian! Well, he was an apostate: 
 but then, you know, he meant what he was about. He 
 didn't even do it for a woman." 
 
 "For a woman!" cried Lucy. "What man would for a 
 woman?" 
 
 "I would."
 
 A BERRY TO THE RESCUE 383 
 
 "You, Lord Mountfalcon ?" 
 
 "Yes. I'd turn Catholic to-morrow." 
 
 "You make me very unhappy if you say that, my lord." 
 
 "Then I'll unsay it." 
 
 Lucy slightly shuddered. She put her hand upon the 
 bell to ring for lights. 
 
 "Do you reject a convert, Mrs. Feverel ?" said the noble- 
 man. 
 
 "Oh yes! yes! I do. One who does not give his con- 
 science I would not have." 
 
 "If he gives his heart and body, can he give more?" 
 
 Lucy's hand pressed the bell. She did not like the 
 doubtful light with one who was so unscrupulous. Lord 
 Mountfalcon had never spoken in this way before. He 
 spoke better, too. She missed the aristocratic twang in his 
 voice, and the hesitation for words, and the fluid lordliness 
 with which he rolled over difficulties in speech. 
 
 Simultaneously with the sounding of the bell the door 
 opened, and presented Tom Bakewell. There was a double 
 knock at the same instant at the street door. Lucy de- 
 layed to give orders. 
 
 "Can it be a letter, Tom? — so late?" she said, changing 
 colour. "Pray run and see." 
 
 "That an't a powst," Tom remarked, as he obeyed his 
 mistress. 
 
 "Are you very anxious for a letter, Mrs. Eeverel ?" Lord 
 Mountfalcon inquired. 
 
 "Oh, no — yes, I am, very!" said Lucy. Her quick ear 
 caught the tones of a voice she remembered. "That dear 
 old thing has come to see me," she cried, starting up. 
 
 Tom ushered a bunch of black satin into the room. 
 
 "Mrs. Berry !" said Lucy, running up to her and kissing 
 her. 
 
 "Me, my darlin' !" Mrs. Berry, breathless and rosy with 
 her journey, returned the salute. "Me truly it is, in fault 
 of a better, for I ain't one to stand by and give the devil 
 his licence — roamin'! and the salt sure enough have spilte 
 my bride-gown at the beginnin', which ain't the best sign. 
 Bless ye ! — Oh, here he is." She beheld a male figure in a 
 chair by the half light, and swung round to address him. 
 "You bad man!" she held aloft one of her fat fingers, 
 "I've come on ye like a bolt, I have, and goin' to make
 
 :;si THE ORDEAL OF UK 'HARD FEVEREL 
 
 ye do your duty, uaughty boy! But you're my darlin' 
 babe," she melted, as was her custom, "and I'll never meet 
 you and not give to ye the kiss of a mother." 
 
 Before Lord Mountfalcon could find time to expostulate 
 the soft woman had him by the neck, and was down among 
 his luxurious whiskers. 
 
 "Hal" She gave a smothered shriek, and fell back. 
 ''What hair's that?" 
 
 Tom Bakewell just then illumined the transaction. 
 
 "Oh, my gracious!" Mrs. Berry breathed with horror, 
 "I been and kiss a strange man !" 
 
 Lucy, half-laughing, but in dreadful concern, begged the 
 noble lord to excuse the woful mistake. 
 
 "Extremely flattered, highly favoured, I'm sure," said 
 his lordship, re-arranging his disconcerted moustache; 
 "may I beg the pleasure of an introduction?" 
 
 "My husband's dear old nurse — Mrs. Berry," said Lucy, 
 taking her hand to lend her countenance. "Lord Mount- 
 falcon, Mrs. Berry." 
 
 Mrs. Berry sought grace while she performed a series of 
 apologetic bobs, and wiped the perspiration from her fore- 
 head. 
 
 Lucy put, her in a chair: Lord Mountfalcon asked for 
 an account of her passage over to the Island; receiving 
 distressingly full particulars, by which it was revealed 
 that the softness of her heart was only equalled by the 
 weakness of her stomach. The recital calmed Mrs. Berry 
 down. 
 
 "Well, and where's my — whore's Mr. Richard? yer 
 husband, my dear?" Mrs. Berry turned from her tale to 
 question. 
 
 "Did you expect to see him here?" said Lucy, in a 
 broken voice 
 
 "And where else, my love? since he haven't been seen 
 in London a whole fortnight." 
 
 Lucy did not speak. 
 
 "We will dismiss the Emperor Julian till to-morrow, I 
 think," said Lord Mountfalcon, rising and bowing. 
 
 Lucy gave him her hand with mute thanks. He touched 
 it distantly, embraced Mrs. Berry in a farewell bow. and 
 was shown out of the house by Tom Bakewell. 
 
 The moment he was gone, Mrs. Berry threw up her arms.
 
 A BERRY TO THE RESCUE 385 
 
 "Did ye ever know sich a horrid thing to go and happen 
 to a virtuous woman I" she exclaimed. "I could cry at it, 
 I could! To be goin' and kissin' a strange hairy man! 
 Oh, dear me! what's comin' next, I wonder? Whiskers! 
 thinks I — for I know the touch o' whiskers — 't ain't like 
 other hair — what! have he growed a crop that sudden, 
 I says to myself; and it flashed on me I been and made 
 a awful mistake! and the lights come in, and I see that 
 great hairy man — beggin' his pardon — nobleman, and if 
 I could 'a dropped through the floor out o' sight o' men, 
 drat 'em ! they're al'ays in the way, that they are !" 
 
 "Mrs. Berry," Lucy checked her, "did you expect to find 
 him here?" 
 
 "Askin' that solemn?" retorted Berry. "What him? 
 your husband ? Of course I did ! and you got him — some- 
 wheres hid." 
 
 "I have not heard from my husband for fifteen days," 
 said Lucy, and her tears rolled heavily off her cheeks. 
 
 "Not heer from him ! — fifteen days !" Berry echoed. 
 
 "0 Mrs. Berry! dear kind Mrs. Berry! have you no 
 news? nothing to tell me! I've borne it so long. They're 
 cruel to me, Mrs. Berry. Oh, do you know if I have 
 offended him — my husband? While he wrote I did not 
 complain. I could live on his letters for years. But not 
 to hear from him! To think I have ruined him, and 
 that he repents! Do they want to take him from me? 
 Do they want me dead ? O Mrs. Berry ! I've had no one 
 to speak out my heart to all this time, and I cannot, 
 cannot help crying, Mrs. Berry!" 
 
 Mrs. Berry was inclined to be miserable at what she 
 heard from Lucy's lips, and she was herself full of dire 
 apprehension; but it was never this excellent creature's 
 system to be miserable in company. The sight of a sorrow 
 that was not positive, and could not refer to proof, set her 
 resolutely the other way. 
 
 "Fiddle-faddle," she said. "I'd like to see him repent! 
 He won't find anywheres a beauty like his own dear little 
 wife, and he know it. Now, look you here, my dear — you 
 blessed weepin' pet — the man that could see ye with that 
 hair of yours there in ruins, and he backed by the law, and 
 not rush into your arms and hold ye squeezed for life, he 
 ain't got much man in him, I say ; and no one can say that
 
 38G THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 of my babe! I was sayin', look here, to comfort ye — oh, 
 why, to be sure he've got some surprise for ye. And so've 
 I, my Iambi Hark, now! His father've come to town, 
 like a good reasonable man at last, to u-nite, ye both, and 
 bring your bodies together, as your hearts is, for ever- 
 last in'. Now ain't that news?" 
 
 "Ob!" cried Lucy, "that takes my last hope away. I 
 thought he had gone to his father." She burst into fresh 
 tears. 
 
 Mrs. Berry paused, disturbed. 
 
 "Belike he's travelling after him," she suggested. 
 
 '•Fifteen days, Mrs. Berry!" 
 
 "Ah, fifteen weeks, my dear, after sich a man as that. 
 He's a regular meteor, is Sir Austin Feverel, Raynham 
 Abbey. Well, so hark you here. I says to myself, that 
 knows him — for I did think my babe was in his natural 
 nest — I says, the bar'net'll never write for you both to 
 come up and beg forgiveness, so down I'll go and fetch 
 you up. For there was your mistake, my dear, ever to 
 leave your husband to go away from ye one hour in a 
 young marriage. It's dangerous, it's mad, it's wrong, 
 and it's only to bo righted by your obeyin' of me, as I 
 commands it: for I has my fits, though I am a soft 
 'im. Obey me, and ye'll be happy to-morrow — or the next 
 to it." 
 
 Lucy was willing to see comfort. She was weary of her 
 self-inflicted martyrdom, and glad to give herself up to 
 somebody else's guidance utterly. 
 
 "But why does he not write to me, Mrs. Berry ?" 
 
 " 'Cause, 'cause — who can tell the why of men, my dear? 
 But that he love ye faithful, I'll swear. Haven't he 
 groaned in my arms that he couldn't come to ye? — weak 
 wretch ! Hasn't he swore how he loved ye to me, poor 
 young man! But this is your fault, my sweet. Yes, it 
 be. You should 'a followed my 'dvice at the fust — 'stead 
 o' going into your 'eroics about this and t'other." Here 
 Mrs. Berry poured forth fresh sentences on matrimony, 
 pointed especially at young couples. "I should 'a been a 
 fool if I hadn't suffered myself," she confessed, "so I'll 
 thank my Berry if I makes you wise in season." 
 
 Lucy smoothed her ruddy plump cheeks, and gazed up 
 affectionately into the soft woman's kind brown eyes. En-
 
 A BERRY TO THE RESCUE 387 
 
 dearing phrases passed from mouth to mouth. And as 
 she gazed Lucy blushed, as one who has something very 
 secret to tell, very sweet, very strange, but cannot quite 
 bring herself to speak it. 
 
 "Well ! there's three men in my life I kissed," said Mrs. 
 Berry, too much absorbed in her extraordinary adventure 
 to notice the young wife's struggling bosom, "three men, 
 and one nobleman ! He've got more whisker than my 
 Berry. I wonder what the man thought. Ten to one 
 he'll think, now, I was glad o' my chance — they're that 
 vain, whether they's lords or commons. How was I to 
 know? I nat'ral thinks none but her husband'd sit in 
 that chair. Ha! and in the dark? and alone with ye?" 
 Mrs. Berry hardened her eyes, "and your husband away? 
 What do this mean ? Tell to me, child, what it mean his 
 bein' here alone without ere a candle?" 
 
 "Lord Mountfalcon is the only friend I have here," said 
 Lucy. "He is very kind. He comes almost every even- 
 ing." 
 
 "Lord Muntfalcon — that his name!" Mrs. Berry ex- 
 claimed. "I been that flurried by the man, I didn't mind 
 it at first. He comes every evenin', and your husband out 
 o' sight! My goodness me! it's gettin' worse and worse. 
 And what do he come for, now, ma'am ? Now tell me 
 candid what ye do together here in the dark of an evenin'." 
 
 Mrs. Berry glanced severely. 
 
 "O Mrs. Berry ! please not to speak in that way — I don't 
 like it," said Lucy, pouting. 
 
 "What do he come for, I ask?" 
 
 "Because he is kind, Mrs. Berry. He sees me very 
 lonely, and wishes to amuse me. And he tells me of 
 things I know nothing about and" 
 
 "And want's to be a-teachin' some of his things, may- 
 hap," Mrs. Berry interrupted with a ruffled breast. 
 
 "You are a very ungenerous, suspicious, naughty old 
 woman," said Lucy, chiding her. 
 
 "And you're a silly, unsuspectin' little bird," Mrs. 
 Berry retorted, as she returned her taps on the cheek. 
 "You haven't told me what ye do together, and what's 
 his excuse for comin'." 
 
 "Well, then, Mrs. Berry, almost every evening that he 
 comes we read History, and he explains the battles, and
 
 388 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 talks to me about the great men. And he says I'm not 
 silly, Mrs. Berry." 
 
 "That's one hit o' lime on your wings, my bird. History, 
 indeed! History to a young married lovely woman alone 
 in the dark! a pretty History! Why, I know that, man's 
 name, my dear. He's a notorious living rake, that Lord 
 Muntfalcon. No woman's safe with him." 
 
 "Ah, but he hasn't deceived me, Mrs. Berry. He has 
 not pretended he was good." 
 
 "More's his art," quoth the experienced dame. "So you 
 read History together in the dark, my dear!" 
 
 "I was unwell to-night, Mrs. Berry. I wanted him not 
 to see my face. Look! there's the book open ready for 
 him when the candles come in. And now, you dear kind 
 darling old thing, let me kiss you for coming to me. I 
 do love you. Talk of other things." 
 
 "So we will," said Mrs. Berry softening to Lucy's 
 caresses. "So let us. A nobleman, indeed! alone with a 
 young wife in the dark, and she sich a beauty! I say this 
 6hall be put a stop to now and henceforth, on the spot it 
 shall! lie won't meneuvele Bessy Berry with his arts. 
 There! I drop him. I'm dyin' for a cup o' tea, my dear." 
 
 Lucy got up to ring the bell, and as Mrs. Berry, in- 
 capable of quite dropping him, was continuing to say: 
 "Let him go and boast I kiss him; he ain't nothin' to be 
 'shamed of in a chaste woman's kiss — unawares — which 
 men don't' get too often in their lives, I can assure 'em;" — 
 her eye surveyed Lucy's figure. 
 
 Lo, when Lucy returned to her, Mrs. Berry surrounded 
 her with hor arms, and drew her into feminine depths. 
 "Oh, you blessed!" she cried in most meaning tone, "you 
 good, lovin', proper little wife, you!" 
 
 "What is it, Mrs. Berry!" lisps Lucy, opening the most 
 innocent blue eyes. 
 
 "As if I couldn't see, you pet! It was my flurry blinded 
 me, or I'd 'a marked ye the fust shock. Thinkin' to de- 
 ceive me!" 
 
 Mrs. Berry's eyes spoke generations. Lucy's wavered ; 
 she coloured all over, and hid her face on the bounteous 
 breast that mounted to her. 
 
 "You're a sweet, one," murmured tho soft woman, pat- 
 ting her b*ck, and rocking her. "You're a rose, you are!
 
 A BEEEY TO THE KESCUE 389 
 
 and a bud on your stalk. Haven't told a word to your 
 husband, my dear?" she asked quickly. 
 
 Lucy shook her head, looking sly and shy. 
 
 "That's right. We'll give him a surprise; let it come 
 all at' once on him, and thinks he — losin' breath — 'I'm a 
 father!' Nor a hint even you haven't give him?" 
 
 Lucy kissed her, to indicate it was quite a secret. 
 
 "Oh! you are a sweet one," said Bessy Berry, and rocked 
 her more closely and lovingly. 
 
 Then these two had a whispered conversation, from 
 which let all of male persuasion retire a space nothing 
 under one mile. 
 
 Returning, after a due interval, we see Mrs. Berry 
 counting on her fingers' ends. Concluding the sum, she 
 cries prophetically: "Now this right everything — a baby 
 in the balance! Now I say this angel-infant come from 
 on high. It's God's messenger, my love ! and it's not wrong 
 to say so. He thinks you worthy, or you wouldn't 'a had 
 one — not for all the tryin' in the world, you wouldn't, 
 and some tries hard enough, poor creatures! Now let us 
 rejice and make merry ! I'm for cry in' and laughin', one 
 and the same. This is the blessed seal of matrimony, 
 which Berry never stamp on me. It's be hoped it's a boy. 
 Make that man a grandfather, and his grandchild a son, 
 and you got him safe. Oh! this is what I call happiness, 
 and I'll have my tea a little stronger in consequence. I 
 declare I could get tipsy to know this joyful news." 
 
 So Mrs. Berry carolled. She had her tea a little 
 stronger. She ate and she drank; she rejoiced and made 
 merry. The bliss of the chaste was hers. 
 
 Says Lucy demurely: "Now you know why I read His- 
 tory, and that sort of books." 
 
 "Do I?" replies Berry. "Belike I do. Since what you 
 done's so good, my darlin', I'm agreeable to anything. A 
 fig for all the lords ! They can't come anigh a baby. You 
 may read Voyages and Travels, my dear, and Romances, 
 "and Tales of Love and War. You cut the riddle in your 
 own dear way, and that's all I cares for." 
 
 "No, but you don't' understand," persists Lucy, "i 
 only read sensible books, and talk of serious things, be- 
 cause I'm sure . v . . because I have heard say . . . dear 
 Mrs. Berry! don't you understand now?"
 
 390 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Mrs. Berry smacked her knees. "Only to think of her 
 bein' that thoughtful! and she a Catholic, too! Never tell 
 me that people of one religion ain't as good as another, 
 after that. Why, you want to make him a historian, to 
 be sure! And that rake of a lord who've been comin' 
 here play in' at wolf, you been and made him — unbeknown 
 to himself — sort o' tutor to the unborn blessed! Ha! ha! 
 say that little women ain't got art ekal to the cunningest 
 of 'em. Oh! I understand. Why, to be sure, didn't I 
 know a lady, a widow of a clergyman : he was a postermost 
 child, and afore his birth that woman read nothin' but 
 Blair's 'Grave' over and over again, from the end to the 
 beginnin'; — that's a serious book! — very herd readin'! — 
 and at four years of age that child that come of it reelly 
 was the piusest infant! — he was like a little curate. His 
 eyes was up; he talked so solemn." Mrs. Berry imitated 
 the little curate's appearance and manner of speaking. 
 "So she got her wish, for one!" 
 
 But at this lady Lucy laughed. 
 
 They chattered on happily till bedtime. Lucy arranged 
 for Mrs. Berry to sleep with her. "If it's not dreadful to 
 ye, my sweet, sleepin' beside a woman," said Mrs. Berry. 
 "I know it were to me shortly after my Berry, and I felt 
 it. It don't somehow seem nat'ral after matrimony — a 
 woman in your bed ! I was obliged to have somebody, 
 for the cold sheets do give ye the creeps when you've been 
 used to that that's different." 
 
 Upstairs they went together, Lucy not sharing these ob- 
 jections. Then Lucy opened certain drawers, and ex- 
 hibited pretty caps, and laced linen, all adapted for a 
 very small body, all the work of her own hands : and Mrs. 
 Berry praised them and her. "You been guessing a boy — 
 woman-like," she said. Then they cooed, and kissed, and 
 undressed by the fire, and knelt at the bedside, with their 
 arms about each other, praying; both praying for the 
 unborn child; and Mrs. Berry pressed Lucy's waist the 
 moment she was about to breathe the petition to heaven 
 to shield and bless that coming life; and thereat Lucy 
 closed to her, and felt a strong love for her. Then Lucy 
 got into bed first, leaving Berry to put out the light, and 
 before she did so, Berry leaned over her, and eyed her 
 roguishly, saying, "I never see ye like this, but I'm half
 
 A BERRY TO THE RESCUE 391 
 
 in love with ye myself, you blushin' beauty ! Sweet's your 
 eyes, and your hair do take one so — lyin' back. I'd never 
 forgive my father if he kep me away from ye four-and- 
 twenty hours just. Husband o' that!" Berry pointed at 
 the young wife's loveliness. "Ye look so ripe with kisses, 
 and there they are a-languishin' ! — . . . You never 
 look so but in your bed, ye beauty ! — just as it ought to 
 be." Lucy had to pretend to rise to put out the light 
 before Berry would give up her amorous chaste soliloquy. 
 Then they lay in bed, and Mrs. Berry fondled her, and 
 arranged for their departure to-morrow, and reviewed 
 Richard's emotions when he came to hear he was going 
 to be made a father by her, and hinted at Lucy's delicious 
 shivers when Richard was again in his rightful place, 
 which she, Bessy Berry, now usurped; and all sorts of 
 amorous sweet things; enough to make one fancy the 
 adage subverted, that stolen fruits are sweetest; she drew 
 such glowing pictures of bliss within the law and the 
 limits of the conscience, till at last, worn out, Lucy mur- 
 mured "Peepy, dear Berry," and the soft woman gradually 
 ceased her chirp. 
 
 Bessy Berry did not sleep. She lay thinking of the 
 sweet brave heart beside her, and listening to Lucy's 
 breath as it came and went; squeezing the fair sleeper's 
 hand now and then, to ease her love as her reflections 
 warmed. A storm of wind came howling over the Hamp- 
 shire hills, and sprang white foam on the water, and shook 
 the bare trees. It passed, leaving a thin cloth of snow on 
 the wintry land. The moon shone brilliantly. Berry 
 heard the house-dog bark. His bark was savage and per- 
 sistent. She was roused by the noise. By and by she 
 fancied she heard a movement in the house ; then it seemed 
 to her that the house-door opened. She cocked her ears, 
 and could almost make out voices in the midnight stillness. 
 She slipped from the bed, locked and bolted the door of 
 the room, assured herself of Lucy's unconsciousness, and 
 went on tiptoe to the window. The trees all stood white 
 to the north; the ground glittered; the cold was keen. 
 Berry wrapped her fat arms across her bosom, and peeped 
 as close over the garden as the situation of the window 
 permitted. Berry was a soft, not a timid, woman : and it 
 happened this night that her thoughts were above the fears
 
 392 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 of the dark. She was sure of the voices; curiosity without 
 a shade of alarm held her on the watch; and gathering 
 bundles of her da 7- apparel round her neck and shoulders, 
 she silenced the chattering of her teeth as well as she 
 could, and remained stationary. The low hum of the 
 voices came to a break; something was said in a louder 
 tone; the house-door quietly shut; a man walked out of 
 the garden into the road. He paused opposite her window, 
 and Berry let the blind go back to its place, and peeped 
 from behind an edge of it. He was in the shadow of the 
 house, so that it was impossible to discern much of his fig- 
 ure. After some minutes he walked rapidly ftway, and 
 Berry returned to the bed an icicle, from which Lucy's 
 limbs sensitively shrank. 
 
 Next morning Mrs. Berry asked Tom Bakewell if he 
 had been disturbed in the night. Tom, the mysterious, 
 said he had slept like a top. Mrs. Berry went to the gar- 
 den. The snow was partially melted; all save one spot- 
 just under the portal, and there she saw the print of a 
 man's foot. By some strange guidance it occurred to her 
 to go and find one of Richard's boots. She did so, and^ 
 unperceived, she measured the sole of the boot in that 
 solitary footmark. There could be no doubt that it fitted. 
 She tried it from heel to toe a dozen times. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 CLARE'S DIARY 
 
 Sir Austin Feverel had come to town with the serenity 
 of a philosopher who says, 'Tis now time; and the satis- 
 faction of a man who has not arrived thereat without a 
 struggle. He had almost forgiven his son. His deep love 
 for him had well-nigh shaken loose from wounded pride 
 and more tenacious vanity. Stirrings of a remote sym- 
 pathy for the creature who had robbed him of his son 
 and hewed at his System, were in his heart of hearts. 
 This he knew; and in his own mind he took credit for his 
 softness. But the world must not suppose him soft; the 
 world must think he was still acting on his System.
 
 CLARE'S DIARY 393 
 
 Otherwise what would his long absence signify? — Some- 
 thing highly unphilosophical. So, though love was strong, 
 and was moving him to a straightforward course, the last 
 tug of vanity drew him still aslant. 
 
 The Aphorist read himself so well, that to juggle with 
 himself was a necessity. As he wished the world to see 
 him, he beheld himself: one who entirely put aside mere 
 personal feelings: one in whom parental duty, based on 
 the science of life, was paramount: a Scientific Humanist, 
 in short. 
 
 He was, therefore, rather surprised at a coldness in 
 Lady Blandish's manner when he did appear. "At last I" 
 said the lady, in a sad way that sounded reproachfully. 
 Now the Scientific Humanist had, of course, nothing to 
 reproach himself with. 
 
 But where was Richard ? 
 
 Adr : an positively averred he was not with his wife. 
 
 "If he had gone," said the baronet, "he would have an- 
 ticipated me by a few hours." 
 
 This, when repeated to Lady Blandish, should have pro- 
 pitiated her, and shown his great forgiveness. She, how- 
 ever, sighed, and looked at him wistfully. 
 
 Their converse was not happy and deeply intimate. 
 Philosophy did not seem to catch her mind; and fine 
 phrases encountered a rueful assent, more flattering to 
 their grandeur than to their influence. 
 
 Days went by. Richard did not present himself. Sir 
 Austin's pitch of self-command was to await the youth 
 without signs of impatience. 
 
 Seeing this, the lady told him her fears for Richard, 
 c^nd mentioned the rumour of him that was about. 
 
 "If," said the baronet, "this person, his wife, is what 
 you paint her, I do not share your fears for him. I think 
 too well of him. If she is one to inspire the sacredness of 
 that union, I think too well of him. It is impossible." 
 
 The lady saw one thing to be done. 
 
 "Call her to you," she said. "Have her with you at 
 Raynham. Recognize her. It is the disunion and doubt 
 that so confuses him and drives him wild. I confess to 
 you I hoped he had gone to her. It seems not. If she is 
 with you his way will be clear. Will you do that?" 
 
 Science is notoriously of slow movement. Lady Blan-
 
 304 THE ORDEAL OF RICPrARD FEVEREL 
 
 dish's proposition was far too hasty for Sir Austin. 
 Women, rapid by nature, have no idea of science. 
 
 "We shall see her there in time, Emmeline. At present 
 let it be between me and my son." 
 
 Ho spoke loftily. In truth it offended him to be asked 
 to do anything, when he had just brought himself to do so 
 much. 
 
 A month elapsed, and Richard appeared on the scene. 
 
 The meeting between him and his father was not what 
 his father had expected and had crooned over in the Welsh 
 mountains. Richard shook his hand respectfully, and in- 
 quired after his health with the common social solicitude. 
 He then said: "During your absence, sir, I have taken the 
 liberty, without consulting you, to do something in which 
 you are more deeply concerned than myself. I have taken 
 upon myself to find out my mother and place her under my 
 care. I trust you will not think I have done wrong. I 
 acted as I thought best." 
 
 Sir Austin replied: "You are of an age, Richard, to 
 judge for yourself in such a case. I would have you 
 simply beware of deceiving yourself in imagining that you 
 considered any one but yourself in acting as you did." 
 
 "I have not deceived myself, sir," said Richard, and the 
 interview was over. Both hated an exposure of the feel- 
 ings, and in that both were satisfied: but the baronet, as 
 one who loves, hoped and looked for tones indicative of 
 trouble and delight in the deep heart; and Richard gave 
 him none of those. The young man did not even face him 
 as he spoke: if their eyes met by chance, Richard's were 
 defiantly cold. His whole bearing was ehanged. 
 
 "This rash marriage has altered him," said the very just 
 man of science in life: and that meant: "it has debased 
 him." 
 
 He pursued his reflections. "I see in him the desperate 
 maturity of a suddenly-ripened nature: and but for my 
 faith that good work is never lost, what should I think of 
 the toil of my years? Lost, perhaps to me! lost to him! 
 It may show itself in his children." 
 
 The Philosopher, we may conceive, has contentment in 
 benefiting embryos: but it was a somewhat bitter prospect 
 to Sir Austin. Bitterly he felt the injury to himself. 
 
 Ono little incident spoke well of Richard. A poor
 
 CLARE'S DIARY 395 
 
 woman called at the hotel while he was missing. The 
 baronet saw her, and she told him a tale that threw 
 Christian light on one part of Richard's nature. But this 
 might gratify the father in Sir Austin; it did not touch 
 the man of science. A Feverel, his son, would not do 
 less, he thought. He sat down deliberately to study his 
 son. 
 
 No definite observation enlightened him. Richard ate 
 and drank; joked and laughed. He was generally before 
 Adrian in calling for a fresh bottle. He talked easily of 
 current topics; his gaiety did not sound forced. In all he 
 did, nevertheless, there was not the air of a youth who sees 
 a future before him. Sir Austin put that down. It might 
 be carelessness, and wanton blood, for no one could say he 
 had much on his mind. The man of science was not 
 reckoning that Richard also might have learned to act 
 and wear a mask. Dead subjects — this is to say, people 
 not on their guard — he could penetrate and dissect. It i3 
 by a rare chance, as scientific men well know, that one 
 has an opportunity of examining the structure of the 
 living. 
 
 However, that rare chance was granted to Sir Austin. 
 They were engaged to dine with Mrs. Doria at the Foreys', 
 and walked down to her in the afternoon, father and son 
 arm-in-arm, Adrian beside them. Previously the offended 
 father had condescended to inform his son that it would 
 shortly be time for him to return to his wife, indicating 
 that arrangements would ultimately be ordered to receive 
 her at Raynham. Richard had replied nothing; which 
 might mean excess of gratitude, or hypocrisy in conceal- 
 ing his pleasure, or any one of the thousand shifts by 
 which gratified human nature expresses itself when all is 
 made ,o run smooth with it. Now Mrs. Berry had her 
 surprise ready charged for the young husband. She had 
 Lucy in her own house waiting for him. Every day she 
 expected him to call and be overcome by the rapturous 
 surprise, and every day, knowing his habit of frequenting 
 the park, she marched Lucy thither, under the plea that 
 Master Richard, whom she had already christened, should 
 have an airing. 
 
 The round of the red winter sun was behind the bare 
 Kensington chestnuts, when these two parties met. Hap-
 
 39G THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 pily for Lucy and the hope she bore in her bosom, she 
 was perversely admiring a fair horsewoman galloping by 
 at the moment. Mrs. Berry plucked at her gown once or 
 twice, to prepare her eyes for the shock, but Lucy's head 
 was still half averted, and thinks Mrs. Berry, "'Twon'l 
 hurt her if she go into his arms head foremost." They were 
 close; Mrs. Berry performed the bob preliminary. Richard 
 held her silent with a terrible face; he grasped her arm, 
 and put her behind him. Other people intervened. Lucy 
 saw nothing to account for Berry's excessive flutter. 
 Berry threw it on the air and some breakfast bacon, which, 
 she said, she knew in the morning while she ate it, was 
 bad for the bile, and which probably was the cause of her 
 bursting into tears, much to Lucy's astonishment. 
 
 "What you ate makes you cry, Mrs. Berry?" 
 
 "It's all " Mrs. Berry pressed at her heart and 
 
 leaned sideways, "it's all stomach, my dear. Don't ye 
 mind," and becoming aware of her unfashionable be- 
 haviour, she trailed off to the shelter of the elms. 
 
 "You have a singular manner with old ladies," said Sir 
 Austin to his son, after Berry had been swept aside. 
 "Scarcely courteous. She behaved like a mad woman, cer- 
 tainly. — Are you ill, my son?" 
 
 Richard was death-pale, his strong form smitten 
 through with weakness. The baronet sought Adrian's 
 eye. Adrian had seen Lucy as they passed, and he had a 
 glimpse of Richard's countenance while disposing of 
 Berry. Had Lucy recognized them, he would have gone to 
 her unhesitatingly. As she did not, he thought it well, 
 under the circumstances, to leave matters as they were. 
 He answered the baronet's look with a shrug. 
 
 "Are you ill, Richard?" Sir Austin again asked his son. 
 
 "Come on, sir! come on!" cried Richard. 
 
 His father's further meditations, as they stepped briskly 
 to the Foreys', gave poor Berry a character which one who 
 lectures on matrimony, and has kissed but three men in 
 her life, shrieks to hear the very title of. 
 
 "Richard will go to his wife to-morrow," Sir Austin 
 said to Adrian some time before they went in to dinner. 
 
 Adrian asked him if he had chanced to see a young fair- 
 haired lady by the side of the old one Richard had treated 
 so peculiarly; and to the baronet's acknowledgment that
 
 CLAKE'S DIARY 39* 
 
 lie remembered to have observed sLch _ pyrson, Adrian 
 said: "That was his wife, sir." 
 
 Sir Austin could not dissect the living subject. As if a 
 bullet had torn open the young man's skull, and some blast 
 of battle laid his palpitating organization bare, he watched 
 every motion of his brain and his heart; and with the 
 grief and terror of one whose mental habit was ever to 
 pierce to extremes. Not altogether conscious that he had 
 hitherto played with life, he felt that he was suddenly 
 plunged into the stormful reality of it. He projected to 
 speak plainly to his son on all point's that night. 
 
 "Richard is very gay," Mrs. Doria whispered her 
 brother. 
 
 "All will be right with him to-morrow," he replied ; for 
 the game had been in his hands so long, so long had he 
 been the God of the machine, that having once resolved 
 to speak plainly and to act, he was to a certain extent 
 secure, bad as the thing to mend might be. 
 
 "I notice he has rather a wild laugh — I don't exactly 
 like his eyes," said Mrs. Doria. 
 
 "You will see a change in him to-morrow," the man of 
 science remarked. 
 
 It was reserved for Mrs. Doria herself to experience that 
 change. In the middle of the dinner a telegraphic message 
 from her son-in-law, worthy John Todhunter, reached the 
 house, stating that Clare was alarmingly ill, bidding her 
 como instantly. She cast about for some one to accom- 
 pany her, and fixed on Richard. Before he would give his 
 consent for Richard to go, Sir Austin desired to speak 
 with him apart, and in that interview he said to his son; 
 "My dear Richard! it was my intention that we should 
 come to an understanding together this night. But the 
 time is short — poor Helen cannot spare many minutes. 
 Let me then say that you deceived me, and that I forgive 
 you. We fix our seal on the past. You will bring your 
 wife to me when you return." And very cheerfully the 
 baronet looked down on the generous future he thus 
 founded. 
 
 "Will you have her at Raynham at once, sir?" said 
 Richard. 
 
 "Yes, my son, when you bring her." 
 
 "Are you mocking me, sir?"
 
 39S THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Pray, what d you mean?" 
 
 "I ask you j>* receive her at once." 
 
 "Well! the delay cannot be long. I do not apprehend 
 that you will be kept from your happiness many days." 
 
 "I think it will be some time, sir!" said Richard, sigh- 
 ing deeply. 
 
 "And what mental freak is this that can induce you to 
 postpone it and play with your first duty?" 
 
 "What is my first duty, sir ?" 
 
 "Since you are married, to be with your wife." 
 
 "I have heard that from an old woman called Berry!" 
 said Richard to himself, not intending irony. 
 
 "Will you receive her at once?" he asked resolutely. 
 
 The baronet was clouded by his son's reception of his 
 graciousness. His grateful prospect had formerly been 
 Richard's marriage — the culmination of his System. 
 Richard had destroyed his participation in that. He now 
 looked for a pretty scene in recompense : — Richard leading 
 up his wife to him, and both being welcomed by him pa- 
 ternally, and so held one ostentatious minute in his em- 
 brace. 
 
 He said : "Before you return, I demur to receiving 
 her." 
 
 "Very well, sir," replied his son, and stood as if he had 
 spoken all. 
 
 "Really you tempt me to fancy you already regret your 
 rash proceeding!" the baronet exclaimed; and the next 
 moment it pained him he had uttered the words, Richard's 
 eyes were so sorrowfully fierce. It pained him, but he 
 divined in that look a history, and he could not refrain 
 from glancing acutely and asking: "Do you?" 
 
 "Regret it, sir?" The question aroused one of those 
 struggles in the young man's breast which * passionate 
 storm of tears may still, and which sink like leaden death 
 into the soul when tears come not. Richard's eyes had the 
 light of the desert. 
 
 "Do you?" his father repeated. "You tempt me — I 
 almost fear you do." At the thought — for he expressed 
 his mind — the pity that he had for Richard was not pure 
 gold. 
 
 "Ask me what I think of her, sir! Ask me what she is! 
 Ask me what it is to have taken one of God's precious
 
 CLAKE'S DIARY 399 
 
 angels and chained her to misery! Ask me what it is to 
 have plunged a sword into her heart, and to stand over 
 her and see such a creature bleeding! Do I regret that? 
 Why, yes, I do! Would you?" 
 
 His eyes flew hard at his father under the ridge of his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 Sir Austin winced and reddened. Did he understand? 
 There is ever in the mind's eye a certain wilfulness. We 
 see and understand; we see and won't understand. 
 
 "Tell me why you passed by her as you did this after- 
 noon," he said gravely: and in the same voice Richard 
 answered: "I passed her because I could not do other- 
 wise." 
 
 "Your wife, Richard?" 
 
 "Yes! my wife!" 
 
 "If she had seen you, Richard?" 
 
 "God spared her that!" 
 
 Mrs. Doria, bustling in practical haste, and bearing 
 Richard's hat and greatcoat in her energetic hands, came 
 between them at this juncture. Dimples of commiseration 
 were in her cheeks while she kissed her brother's perplexed 
 forehead. She forgot her trouble about Clare, deploring 
 his fatuity. 
 
 Sir Austin was forced to let his son depart. As of old, 
 he took counsel with Adrian, and the wise youth was 
 soothing. "Somebody has kissed him, sir, and the chaste 
 boy can't get over it." This absurd suggestion did more 
 to appease the baronet than if Adrian had given a veritable 
 reasonable key to Richard's conduct. It set him thinking 
 that it might be a prudish strain in the young man's 
 mind, due to the System in difficulties. 
 
 "I may have been wrong in one thing," he said, with an 
 air of the utmost doubt of it. "I, perhaps, was wrong in 
 allowing him so much liberty during his probation." 
 
 Adrian pointed out to him that he had distinctly com- 
 manded it. 
 
 "Yes, yes ; that is on me." 
 
 His was an order of mind that would accept the most 
 burdensome charges, and by some species of moral usury 
 make a profit out of them. 
 
 Clare was little talked of. Adrian attributed the em- 
 ployment of the telegraph to John Todhunter's uxorious
 
 "400 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 distress at a toothache, or possibly the first symptoms of 
 an heir to his house. 
 
 "That child's mind has disease in it. She is not sound," 
 said the baronet. 
 
 On the door-step of the hotel, when they returned, stood 
 Mrs. Berry. Her wish to speak a few words with the 
 baronet reverent ially communicated, she was ushered up- 
 stairs into his room. 
 
 Mrs. Berry compressed her person in the chair she was> 
 beckoned to occupy. 
 
 "Well, ma'am, you have something to say," observed the 
 baronet, for she seemed loath to commence. 
 
 "Wishin' I hadn't:" Mrs. Berry took him up, and mind- 
 ful of the good rule to begin at the beginning, pursued: 
 "I dare say, Sir Austin, you don't remember me, and I 
 little thought when last we parted our meeting 'd be like 
 this. Twenty year don't go over one without showin' it, 
 no more than twenty ox. It's a might o' time, — twenty 
 year! Leastways not quite twenty, it ain't." 
 
 "Round figures are best," Adrian remarked. 
 
 "In them round figures a be-loved son have growed up, 
 and got himself married !" said Mrs. Berry, diving straight 
 into the case. 
 
 Sir Austin then learnt that he had before him the 
 culprit who had assisted his son in that venture. It was 
 a stretch of his patience to hear himself addressed on a 
 family matter, but he was naturally courteous. 
 
 "He came to my house, Sir Austin, a stranger! If 
 twenty year alters us as have knowed each other on the 
 earth, how must they alter they that we parted with just 
 come from heaven! And a heavenly babe he were! se 
 sweet! se strong! so fat!" 
 
 Adrian laughed aloud. 
 
 Mrs. Berry bumped a curtsey to him in her chair, con- 
 tinuing: "1 wished afore I spoke to say how thankful am I 
 bound to be for my pension not cut short, as have offended 
 so, but that I know Sir Austin Feverel, Raynham Abbey, 
 ain't one o' them that likes to hear their good deeds pub- 
 lished. And a pension to me now, it's something more 
 than it were. For a pension and pretty rosy cheeks in a 
 maid, which I was — that's a bait many a man '11 bite, that 
 won't so a forsaken wife!"
 
 CLAKE'S DIARY 401 
 
 "If you will speak to the point, ma'am, I will listen to 
 you," the baronet interrupted her. 
 
 "It's the beginnin' that's the worst, and that's over, 
 thank the Lord! So I'll speak, Sir Austin, and say my 
 say: — Lord speed me! Believin' our idees o' matrimony 
 to be sim'lar, then, I'll say, once married — married for 
 life! Yes! I don't even like widows. For I can't stop at 
 the grave. Not at the tomb I can't stop. My husband's 
 my husband, and if I'm a body at the Resurrection, I say 
 speaking humbly, my Berry is the husband o' my body; 
 and to think of two claimin' of me then — it makes me hot 
 all over. Such is my notion of that state 'tween man and 
 woman. No givin' in marriage, o' course I know, and if 
 so I'm single." 
 
 The baronet suppressed a smile. "Really, my good 
 woman, you wander very much." 
 
 "Beggin' pardon, Sir Austin ; but I has my point before 
 me all the same, and I'm comin' to it. Ac-knowledgin' 
 our error, it's done, and bein' done, it's writ aloft. Oh! 
 if you only knew what a sweet young creature she be! 
 Indeed 'taint all of humble birth that's unworthy, Sir 
 Austin. And she got her idees, too. She reads History! 
 She talk that sensible as would surprise ye. But for all 
 that she's a prey to the artful o' men — unpertected. And 
 it's a young marriage — but there's no fear for her, as far 
 as she go. The fear's t'other way. There's that in a man 
 — at the commencement — which make of him Lord knows 
 what, if you any way interferes: whereas a woman bides 
 quiet! It's consolation catch her, which is what we mean 
 by seducin'. Whereas a man — he's a savage!" 
 
 Sir Austin turned his face to Adrian, who was listening 
 ;with huge delight. 
 
 "Well, ma'am, I see you have something in your mind, 
 if you would only come to it quickly." 
 
 "Then here's my point, Sir Austin. I say you bred him 
 so as there ain't another young gentleman like him in 
 England, and proud he make me. And as for her, I'll risk 
 sayin' — it's done, and no harm — you might search Eng- 
 land through, and nowhere will ye find a maid that's his 
 match like his own wife. Then there they be. Are they 
 together as should be? O Lord no! Months they been 
 divided. Then she all lonely and exposed, I went, and
 
 402 THE ORDEAL OF RIC11AKI) FEVEREL 
 
 fetched her out of seducers' ways — which they may say 
 what they like, hut the inn'cent is most open to when 
 they're healthy and confidin' — I fetch her, and — the lib- 
 erty — boxed her safe in my own house. So much for that 
 sweet! That you may do with women. But it's him — 
 Mr. Richard — I am bold, I know, but there — I'm in for 
 it, and the Lord '11 help me! It's him, Sir Austin, in this 
 great metropolis, warm from a young marriage. It's him, 
 and — I say nothin' of her, and how sweet she bears it, and 
 it's eating her at a time when Natur' should have no other 
 trouble but the one that's goin' on — it's him, and I ask — 
 so bold — shall there — and a Christian gentleman his 
 father — shall there be a tug 'tween him as a son and him 
 as a husband — soon to be somethin' else? I speak bold 
 out — I'd have sons obey their fathers, but the priest's 
 words spoke over him, which they're now in my ears, I 
 say I ain't a doubt on earth — I'm sure there ain't one in 
 heaven — which dooty's the holier of the two." 
 
 Sir Austin heard her to an end. Their views on the 
 junction of the sexes were undoubtedly akin. To be lec- 
 tured on his prime subject, however, was slightly disagree- 
 able, and to be obliged mentally to assent to this old lady's 
 doctrine was rather humiliating, when it could not be 
 averred that he had latterly followed it out. He sat cross- 
 legged and silent, a finger to his temple. 
 
 "One gets so addle-pated thinkin' many things," said 
 Mrs. Berry, simply. "That's why we see wonder clever 
 people goin' wrong — to my mind. I think it's al'ays the 
 plan in a dielemmer to pray God and walk forward." 
 
 The keen-witted soft woman was tracking the baronet's 
 thoughts, and she had absolutely run him down and taken 
 an explanation out' of his mouth, by which Mrs. Berry was 
 to have been informed that he had acted from a principle 
 of his own, and devolved a wisdom 3he could not be ex- 
 pected to comprehend. 
 
 Of course he became advised immediately that it would 
 be waste of time to direct such an explanation to her 
 inferior capacity. 
 
 He gave her his hand, saying, "My son has gone out of 
 town to see his cousin, who is ill. He will return in two or 
 three days, and then they will both come to me at Rayn- 
 ham."
 
 CLARE'S DIARY 403 
 
 Mrs. Berry took the tips of his fingers, and went half- 
 way to the floor perpendicularly. "He pass her like a 
 stranger in the park this evenin'," she faltered. 
 
 "Ah?" said the baronet. "Yes, well! they will be at 
 Raynham before the week is over." 
 
 Mrs. Berry was not quite satisfied. "Not of his own 
 accord he pass that sweet young wife of his like a stranger 
 this day, Sir Austin!" 
 
 "I must beg you not to intrude further, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Berry bobbed her bunch of a body out of the 
 room. 
 
 "All's well as ends well," she said to herself. "It's bad 
 inquirin' too close among men. We must take 'em some- 
 thin' like Providence — as they come. Thank heaven! I 
 kep' back the baby." 
 
 In Mrs. Berry's eyes the baby was the victorious reserve. 
 
 Adrian asked his chief what he thought of that speci- 
 men of women. 
 
 "I think I have not met a better in my life," said the 
 baronet, mingling praise and sarcasm. 
 
 Clare lies in her bed as placid as in the days when she 
 breathed ; her white hands stretched their length along the 
 sheets, at peace from head to feet. She needs iron no 
 more. Richard is face to face with death for the first 
 time. He sees the sculpture of clay — the spark gone. 
 
 Clare gave her mother the welcome of the dead. This 
 child would have spoken nothing but kind commonplaces 
 had she been alive. She was dead, and none knew her 
 malady. On her fourth finger were two wedding-ring's. 
 
 When hours of weeping had silenced the mother's an- 
 guish, she, for some comfort she saw in it, pointed out 
 that strange thing to Richard, speaking low in the cham- 
 ber of the dead; and then he learnt that it was his own 
 lost ring Clare wore in the two worlds. He learnt from 
 her husband that Clare's last request had been that neither 
 of the rings should be removed. She had written it; she 
 would not speak it. 
 
 "I beg of my husband, and all kind people who may have 
 the care of me between this and the grave, to bury me with 
 my hands untouched." 
 
 The tracing of the words showed the bodily torment she
 
 404 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 was suffering, as she wrote them on a scrap of paper found 
 beside her pillow. 
 
 In wonder, as the dim idea grew from the waving of 
 Claret dead hand, Richard paced the house, and hung 
 about the awful room; dreading to enter it, reluctant to 
 quit it. The secret Clare had buried while she lived, arose 
 with her death. He saw it play like flame across her 
 marble features. The memory of her voice was like a 
 knife at his nerves. His coldness to her started up ac- 
 cusingly: her meekness was bitter blame. 
 
 On the evening of the fourth day, her mother came to 
 him in his bedroom, with a face so white that he asked 
 himself if aught worse could happen to a mother than the 
 loss of her child. Choking she said to him, "Read this," 
 and thrust a leather-bound pocket-book trembling in his 
 hand. She would not breathe to him what it was. She 
 entreated him not to open it before her. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "tell me what you think. John 
 must not hear of it. I have nobody to consult but you — 
 O Richard!" 
 
 "My Diary" was written in the round hand of Clare's 
 childhood on the first page. The first name his eye en- 
 countered was his own. 
 
 "Richard's fourteenth birthday. I have worked him a 
 purse and put it under his pillow, because he is going to 
 have plenty of money. He does not notice me now because 
 he has a friend now, and he is ugly, but Richard is not, 
 and never will be." 
 
 The occurrences of that day were subsequently recorded, 
 and a childish prayer to God for him set down. Step by 
 step he saw her growing mind in his history. As she ad- 
 vanced in years she began to look back, and made much of 
 little trivial remembrances, all bearing upon him. 
 
 "We went into the fields and gathered cowslips, together, 
 and pelted each other, and I told him he used to call them 
 'coals-sleeps' when he was a baby, and he was angry at 
 my telling him, for he does not like to be told he was ever 
 a baby." 
 
 He remembered the incident, and remembered his stupid 
 scorn of her meek affection. Little Clare! how she lived 
 before him in her white dress and pink ribbons, and soft 
 dark eyes! Upstairs she was lying dead. He read on:
 
 CLARE'S DIARY 405 
 
 "Mama says there is no one in the world like Richard, 
 and I am sure there is not, not in the whole world. He 
 says he is going to be a great General and going to the 
 wars. If he does I shall dress myself as a boy and go 
 after him, and he will not know me till I am wounded. 
 Oh I pray he will never, never be wounded. I wonder 
 what I should feel if Richard was ever to die." 
 
 Upstairs Clare was lying dead. 
 
 "Lady Blandish said there was a likeness between Rich- 
 ard and me. Richard said I hope I do not hang down my 
 head as she does. He is angry with me because I do not 
 look people in the face and speak out, but I know I am not 
 looking after earthworms." 
 
 Yes. He had told her that. A shiver seized him at the 
 recollection. 
 
 Then it came to a period when the words : "Richard 
 kissed me," stood by themselves, and marked a day in her 
 life. 
 
 Afterwards it was solemnly discovered that Richard 
 wrote poetry. He read one of his old forgotten composi- 
 tions penned when he had that ambition. 
 
 "Thy truth to me is truer 
 
 Than horse, or dog, or blade; 
 Thy vows to me are fewer 
 Than ever maiden made. 
 
 Thou steppest from thy splendour 
 
 To make my life a song: 
 My bosom shall be tender 
 
 As thine has risen strong." 
 
 All the verses were transcribed. "It is he who is the 
 humble knight," Clare explained at the close, "and his 
 lady is a Queen. Any Queen would throw her crown 
 away for him." 
 
 It came to that period when Clare left Raynham with 
 her mother. 
 
 "Richard was not sorry to lose me. He only loves boys 
 and men. Something tells me I shall never see Raynham 
 again. He was dressed in blue. He said Good-bye, Clare, 
 and kissed me on the cheek. Richard never kisses me on 
 the mouth. He did not know I went to his bed and kissed
 
 400 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 him while he was asleep. He sleeps with one arm under 
 his head, and the other out on the bed. I moved away a 
 bit of his hair that was over his eyes. I wanted to cut it. 
 I have one piece. I do not let anybody see I am unhappy, 
 not even mama. She says I want iron. I am sure I do 
 not. I like to write my name. Clare Doria Forey. Rich- 
 ard's is Richard Doria Feverel." 
 
 His breast rose convulsively. Clare Doria Forey! He 
 knew the music of that name. He had heard it somewhere. 
 It sounded faint and mellow now behind the hills of 
 death. 
 
 He could not read for tears. It was midnight. The 
 hour seemed to belong to her. The awful stillness and 
 the darkness were Clare's. Clare's voice clear and cold 
 from the grave possessed it. 
 
 Painfully, with blinded eyes, he looked over the breath- 
 less pages. She spoke of his marriage, and her finding 
 the ring. 
 
 "I knew it was his. I knew he was going to be married 
 that morning. I saw him stand by the altar when they 
 laughed at breakfast. His wife must be so beautiful 1 
 Richard's wife! Perhaps he will love me better now he 
 is married. Mama says they must be separated. That is 
 shameful. If I can help him I will. I pray so that he may 
 be happy. I hope God hears poor sinners' prayers. I am 
 very sinful. Nobody knows it as I do. They say I am 
 good, but I know. When I look on the ground I am not 
 looking after earthworms, as he said. Oh, do forgive me, 
 God !" 
 
 Then she spoke of her own marriage, and that it was her 
 duty to obey her mother. A blank in the Diary ensued. 
 
 "I have seen Richard. Richard despises me," was the 
 next entry. 
 
 But now as he read his eyes were fixed, and the delicate 
 feminine handwriting like a black thread drew on his soul 
 to one terrible conclusion. 
 
 "I cannot live. Richard despises me. I cannot bear 
 the touch of my fingers or the sight of my face. Oh ! I 
 understand him now. He should not have kissed me so 
 that, last time. I wished to die while his mouth was on 
 mine." 
 
 Further: "I have no escape. Richard said he would die
 
 CLAKE'S DIAEY 407 
 
 rather than endure it. I know he would. Why should I 
 be afraid to do what he would do ? I think if my husband 
 whipped me I could bear it better. He is so kind, and 
 tries to make me cheerful. He will soon be very unhappy. 
 I pray to God half the night'. I seem to be losing sight 
 of my God the more I pray." 
 
 Kichard laid the book open on the table. Phantom 
 surges seemed to be mounting and travelling for his brain. 
 Had Clare taken his wild words in earnest? Did she lie 
 there dead — he shrouded the thought. 
 
 He wrapped the thoughts in shrouds, but' he was again 
 reading. 
 
 "A quarter to one o'clock. I shall not be alive this time 
 to-morrow. I shall never see Richard now. I dreamed 
 last night we were in the fields together, and he walked 
 with his arm round my waist. We were children, but I 
 thought we were married, and I showed him I wore his 
 ring, and he said — if you always wear if, Clare, you are 
 as good as my wife. Then I made a vow to wear it for 
 ever and ever. . . . It is not mama's fault. She does 
 not think as Richard and I do of these things. He is not 
 a coward, nor am I. He hates cowards. 
 
 "I have written to his father to make him happy. Per- 
 haps when I am dead he will hear what I say. 
 
 "I heard just now Richard call distinctly — Clari, come 
 out to me. Surely he has not gone. I am going I know 
 not where. I cannot think. I am very cold." 
 
 The words were written larger, and staggered towards 
 the close, as if her hand had lost mastery over the pen. 
 
 "I can only remember Richard now a boy. A little boy 
 and a big boy. I am not sure now of his voice. I can 
 only remember certain words. 'Clari,' and 'Don Ricardo,' 
 and his laugh. He used to be full of fun. Once we 
 laughed all day together tumbling in the hay. Then he 
 had a friend and began to write poetry, and be proud. If 
 I had married a young man he would have forgiven me, 
 but I should not have been happier. I must have died. 
 God never looks on me. 
 
 "It is past two o'clock. The sheep are bleating outside. 
 It must be very cold in the ground. Good-bye, Richard." 
 
 With his name it began and ended. Even to herself 
 Clare was not over-communicative. The book was slender,
 
 408 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 yet her nineteen years of existence left half the number 
 of pages white. 
 
 Those last words drew him irresistibly to gaze on her. 
 There she lay, the same impassive Clare. For a moment 
 he wondered she had not moved — to him she had become 
 so different. She who had just filled his ears with strange 
 tidings — it was not possible to think her dead! She 
 seemed to have been speaking to him all through his life. 
 His image was on that still heart. 
 
 He dismissed the night-watchers from the room, and re- 
 mained with her alone, till the sense of death oppressed 
 him, and then the shock sent him to the window to look for 
 sky and stars. Behind a low broad pine, hung with frosty 
 mist, he heard a bell-wether of the fiock in the silent fold. 
 Death in life it sounded. 
 
 The mother found him praying at the foot of Clare's 
 bed. She knelt by his side, and they prayed, and their 
 joint sobs shook their bodies, but neither of them shed 
 many tears. They held a dark unspoken secret in com- 
 mon. They prayed God to forgive her. 
 
 Clare was buried in the family vault of the Todhunters. 
 Her mother breathed no wish to have her lying at Lo- 
 bourne. 
 
 After the funeral, what they alone upon earth knew 
 brought them together. 
 
 "Richard," she said, "the worst is over for me. I have 
 no one to love but you, dear. We have all been fighting 
 against God, and this . . . Richard! you will come with 
 me, and be united to your wife, and spare my brother what 
 I suffer." 
 
 He answered the broken spirit: "I have killed one. She 
 sees me as I am. I cannot go with you to my wife, be- 
 cause I am not worthy to touch her hand, and were I to 
 go, I should do this to silence my self-contempt. Go you 
 to her, and when she asks of me, say I have a death upon 
 
 my head that No! say that I am abroad, seeking for 
 
 that which shall cleanse me. If I find it I shall come to 
 claim her. If not, God help us all !" 
 
 She had no strength to contest his solemn words, or stay 
 him, and he went forth.
 
 AUSTIN RETURNS 409 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 AUSTIN RETURNS 
 
 A man with a beard saluted the wise youth Adrian in 
 the full blaze of Piccadilly with a clap on the shoulder. 
 Adrian glanced leisurely behind. 
 
 "Do you want to try my nerves, my dear fellow? I'm 
 not a man of fashion, happily, or you would have struck 
 the seat of them. How are you?" 
 
 That was his welcome to Austin Wentworth after his 
 long absence. 
 
 Austin took his arm, and asked for news, with the 
 hunger of one who had been in the wilderness five years. 
 
 "The Whigs have given up the ghost, my dear Austin. 
 The free Briton is to receive Liberty's pearl, the Ballot. 
 The Aristocracy has had a cycle's notice to quit. The 
 Monarchy and old Madeira are going out; Demos and 
 Cape wines are coming in. They call it Reform. So, you 
 see, your absence has worked wonders. Depart for another 
 five years, and you will return to ruined stomachs, cracked 
 sconces, general upset, an equality made perfect by uni- 
 versal prostration." 
 
 Austin indulged him in a laugh. "I want to hear about 
 ourselves. How is old Ricky?" 
 
 "You know of his — what do they call it when greenhorns 
 are licenced to jump into the milkpails of dairymaids? — a 
 very charming little woman she makes, by the way — pre- 
 sentable ! quite old Anacreon's rose in milk. Well ! every- 
 body thought the System must die of it. Not a bit. It 
 continued to flourish in spite. It's in a consumption now, 
 though — emaciated, lean, raw, spectral ! I've this morning 
 escaped from Raynham to avoid the sight of it. I have 
 brought our genial uncle Hippias to town — a delightful 
 companion! I said to him: We've had a fine Spring/ 
 'Ugh !' he answers, 'there's a time when you come to think 
 the Spring old.' You should have heard how he trained 
 out the 'old.' I felt something like decay in my sap just to 
 hear him. In the prize-fight of life, mj dear Austin, our 
 uncle Hippias has been unfairly hit befow the belt. Let's 
 guard ourselves there, and go and order dinner."
 
 410 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "But where's Ricky now, and what is he doing?" saic» 
 Austin. 
 
 "Ask what he has done. The miraculous boy has gone 
 and got a baby!" 
 
 "A child? Richard has one?" Austin's clear eyes shone 
 with pleasure. 
 
 "I suppose it's not common among your tropical sav- 
 ages, lie has one: one as big as two. That has been the 
 death-blow to the System. It, bore the marriage — the baby 
 was too much for it. Could it swallow the babv, 'twould 
 live. She, the wonderful woman, has product** 3 larj*e 
 boy. I assure you it's quite amusing to see the System 
 opening it's mouth every hour of the day, trying to gulp 
 him down, aware that it would be a consummate cure, or 
 happy release." 
 
 By degrees Austin learnt the baronet's proceedings, and 
 smiled sadly. 
 
 "How has Ricky turned out?" he asked. "What sort 
 of a character has he?" 
 
 "The poor boy is ruined by his excessive anxiety about 
 it. Character? he has the character of a bullet with a 
 treble charge of powder behind it. Enthusiasm is the 
 powder. That boy could get up an enthusiasm for the 
 maiden days of Ops ! He was going to reform the world, 
 after your fashion, Austin, — you have something to 
 answer for. Unfortunately he began with the feminine 
 side of it. Cupid proud of Phoebus newly slain, or Pluto 
 wishing to people his kingdom, if you like, put it into 
 the soft head of one of the guileless grateful creatures to 
 kiss him for his good work. Oh, horror! he never expected 
 that. Conceive the System in the flesh, and you have 
 our Richard. The consequence is, that this male Peri 
 refuses to enter his Paradise, though the gates are open 
 for him, the trumpets blow, and the fair unspotted one 
 awaits him fruitful within. We heard of him last that 
 he was trying the German waters — preparatory to his 
 undertaking the release of Italy from the subjugation of 
 the Teuton. Let's hope they'll wash him. He is in the 
 company of Lady Judith Felle — your old friend, the 
 ardent female Radical who married the decrepit lord to 
 carry out her principles. They always marry English 
 lords, or foreign princes. I admire their tactics."
 
 AUSTIN RETURNS 411 
 
 "Judith is bad for him in such a state I like her, but 
 she was always too sentimental," said Austin. 
 
 "Sentiment made her marry the old lord, I suppose? I 
 like her for her sentiment, Austin. Sentimental people 
 are sure to live long and die fat. Feeling, that's the 
 slayer, coz. Sentiment! 'tis the cajolery of existence: the 
 soft bloom which whoso weareth, he or she is enviable. 
 Would that I had more !" 
 
 "You're not much changed, Adrian." 
 
 "I'm not a Radical, Austin." 
 
 Further inquiries, responded to in Adrian's figurative 
 speech, instructed Austin that the baronet was waiting for 
 his son, in a posture of statuesque offended paternity, 
 before he would receive his daughter-in-law and grandson. 
 That was what Adrian meant by the efforts of the System 
 to swallow the baby. 
 
 "We're in a tangle," said the wise youth. "Time will 
 extricate us, I presume, or what' is the venerable signor 
 good for?" 
 
 Austin mused some minutes, and asked for Lucy's place 
 of residence. 
 
 "We'll go to her by and by," said Adrian. 
 
 "I shall go and see her now," said Austin. 
 
 "Well, we'll go and order the dinner first, coz." 
 
 "Give me her address." 
 
 "Really, Austin, you carry matters with too long ?■ 
 beard," Adrian objected. "Don't you care what you eat?" 
 he roared hoarsely, looking humorously hurt. "I daresay 
 not. A slice out of him that's handy — sauce du ciel ! Go, 
 batten on the baby, cannibal. Dinner at seven." 
 
 Adrian gave him his own address, and Lucy's, and 
 strolled off to do the better thing. 
 
 Overnight Mrs. Berry had observed a long stranger in 
 her tea-cup. Posting him on her fingers and starting him 
 with a smack, he had vaulted lightly and thereby indicated 
 that he was positively coming the next day. She forgot 
 him in the bustle of her duties and the absorption of her 
 faculties in thoughts cf the incomparable stranger Lucy 
 had presented to the world, till a knock at the street-door 
 reminded her. "There he is!" she cried, as she ran to 
 open to him. "There's my stranger come!" Never was a 
 woman's faith in omens so justified. The stranger desired
 
 U2 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 to see Mrs. Richard Feverel. He said his name was Mr. 
 Austin Wentworth. Mrs. Berry clasped her hands, ex- 
 claiming, "Come at last I" and ran bolt out of the house to 
 look up and down the street. Presently she returned with 
 many excuses for her rudeness, saying: "I expected to see 
 her comin' home, Mr. Wentworth. Every day twice a day 
 she go out to give her blessed angel an airing. No leavin' 
 the child with nursemaids for her! She is a mother! an^ 
 good milk, too, thank the Lord! though her heart's se 
 low." 
 
 Indoors Mrs. Berry stated who she was, related the his- 
 tory of the young couple, and her participation in it, and 
 admired the beard. "Though I'd swear you don't wear it 
 for ornament, now!'' she said, having in the first impulse 
 designed a stroke at man's vanity. 
 
 Ultimately Mrs. Berry spoke of the family complication, 
 and with dejected head and joined hands threw out dark 
 hints about Richard. 
 
 While Austin was giving his cheerfuller views of the 
 case, Lucy came in, preceding the baby. 
 
 "I am Austin Wentworth," he said, taking her hand. 
 They read each other's faces, these two, and smiled kin- 
 ship. 
 
 "Your name is Lucy?" 
 
 She affirmed it' softly. 
 
 "And mine is Austin, as you know." 
 
 Mrs. Berry allowed time for Lucy's charms to subdue 
 him, and presented Richard's representative, who, seeing 
 a new face, Buffered himself to be contemplated before 
 he commenced crying aloud and knocking at the doors of 
 Nature for something that was due to him. 
 
 "Ain't he a lusty darlin'?" says Mrs. Berry. "Ain't 
 he like his own father? There can't bo no doubt about 
 zoo, zoo pitty pet. Look at his fists. Ain't he got pas- 
 sion? Ain't he a splendid roarer? Oh !" and she went off 
 rapturously into baby-language. 
 
 A fine boy, certainly. Mrs. Berry exhibited his legs for 
 further proof, desiring Austin's confirmation as to their 
 being dumplings. 
 
 Lucy murmured a word of excuse, and bore the splendid 
 roarer out of the room. 
 
 "She might a done it here," said Mrs. Berry. "There's
 
 AUSTIN RETURNS 413 
 
 no prettier sight, I say. If her dear husband could but see 
 that! He's off in his heroics — he want to be doin' all 
 sort o' things : I say he'll never do anything grander than 
 that baby. You should 'a seen her uncle over that baby — 
 he came here, for I said, you shall see your own fam'ly, 
 my dear, and so she thinks. He come, and he laughed 
 over the baby in the joy of his heart, poor man ! he cried, 
 he did. You should see that Mr. Thompson, Mr. Went- 
 worth — a friend o' Mr. Richard's, and a very modest- 
 minded young gentleman — he worships her in his inno- 
 cence. It's a sight to see him with that baby. My belief 
 is he's unhappy 'cause he can't anyways be nurse-maid to 
 him. O Mr. Wentworth! what do you think of her, sir?" 
 
 Austin's reply was as satisfactory as a man's poor speech 
 could make it. He heard that Lady Feverel was in the 
 house, and Mrs. Berry prepared the way for him to pay 
 \iis respects to her. Then Mrs. Berry ran to Lucy, and 
 tiT'"; house buzzed with new life. The simple creatures felt 
 in Austin's presence something good among them. "He 
 don't speak much," said Mrs. Berry, "but I see by his eye 
 he mean a deal. He ain't one o' yer long-word gentry, 
 who's all gay deceivers, every one of 'em." 
 
 Lucy pressed the hearty suckling into her breast. "I 
 wonder what he thinks of me, Mrs. Berry ? _ I could not 
 speak to him. I loved him before I saw him. I knew 
 what his face was like." 
 
 "He looks proper even with a beard, and that's a trial 
 for a virtuous man," said Mrs. Berry. "One sees straight 
 through the hair with him. Think ! he'll think what any 
 man'd think — you a-suckin' spite o' all your sorrow, my 
 sweet, — and my Berry talkin' of his Roman matrons! — 
 here's a English wife'll match 'em all! that's what he 
 thinks. And now that leetle dark under yer eye'V Jear, 
 my darlin', now he've come." 
 
 Mrs. Berry looked to no more than that; Luc> to no 
 more than the peace she had in being near Richard's best 
 friend. When she sat down to tea it was with a sense that 
 the little room that held her was her home perhaps for 
 many a day. 
 
 A chop procured and cooked by Mrs. Berry formed 
 Austin's dinner. During the meal he entertained them 
 with anecdotes of his travels. Poor Lucy had no tempta-
 
 414 THE OKDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 tion to try to conquer Austin. That heroic weakness 
 of hers was gone. 
 
 Mrs. Berry had said: "Three cups — I goes no further," 
 and Lucy had rejected the proffer of more tea, when 
 Austin, who was in the thick of a Brazilian forest, asked 
 her if she was a good traveller. 
 
 "I mean, can you start at a minute's notice?" 
 
 Lucy hesitated, and then said, "Yes," decisively, to 
 which Mrs. Berry added, that she was not a "luggage- 
 woman." 
 
 "There used to be a train at seven o'clock," Austin 
 remarked, consulting his watch. 
 
 The two women were silent. 
 
 "Could you get ready to come with me to Raynham 
 in ten minutes?" 
 
 Austin looked as if he had asked a commonplace ques- 
 tion. 
 
 Lucy's lips parted to speak. She could not answer. 
 
 Loud rattled the teaboard to Mrs. Berry's dropping 
 hands. 
 
 "Joy and deliverance 1" she exclaimed with a founder- 
 ing voice. 
 
 "Will you come?" Austin kindly asked again. 
 
 Lucy tried to stop her beating heart, as she answered, 
 "Yes." Mrs. Berry cunningly pretended to interpret the 
 irresolution in her tones with a mighty whisper: "She's 
 thinking what's to be done with baby." 
 
 "He must learn to travel," said Austin. 
 
 "Oh I" cried Mrs. Berry, "and I'll be his nuss, and bear 
 him, a sweet! Oh! and think of it! me nurse-maid once 
 more at Raynham Abbey ! but it's nurse-woman now, you 
 must say. Let us be goin' on the spot." 
 
 She started up and away in hot haste, fearing delay 
 would cool the heaven-sent resolve. Austin smiled, eying 
 his watch and Lucy alternately. She was wishing to ask 
 a multitude of questions. His face reassurec! her, and 
 saying: "I will be dressed instantly," she also left the 
 room. Talking, bustling, preparing, wrapping up my 
 lord, and looking to their neatnesses, they were never- 
 heless ready within the time prescribed by Austin, and 
 Mrs. Berry stood humming over the baby. "He'll sleep 
 it through," she said. "He's had enough for an alder-
 
 AUSTIN RETURNS 415 
 
 man, and goes to sleep sound after his dinner, he do, a 
 duck!" Before they departed, Lucy ran up to Lady 
 Feverel. She returned for the small one. 
 
 "One moment, Mr. Wentworth!" 
 
 "Just two," said Austin. 
 
 Master Richard was taken up, and when Lucy came 
 back her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 "She thinks she is never to see him again, Mr. Went- 
 
 worth. 
 
 n 
 
 "She shall," Austin said simply. 
 
 Off they went, and with Austin near her, Lucy forgot 
 to dwell at all upon the great act of courage she was 
 performing. 
 
 "I do hope baby will not wake," was her chief solicitude. 
 
 "He!" cries nurse-woman Berry from the rear, "his little 
 tum-tum's as tight as he can hold, a pet! a lamb! a bird! 
 a beauty! and ye may take yer oath he never wakes till 
 tiat's slack. He've got' character of his own, a blessed!" 
 
 There are some tremendous citadels that only want to be 
 taken by storm. The baronet sat alone in his library, sick 
 of resistance, and rejoicing in the pride of no surrender; 
 a terror to his friends and to himself. Hearing Austin's 
 name sonorously pronounced by the man of calves, he 
 looked up from his book, and held out his hand. "Glad 
 to see you, Austin." His appearance betokened complete 
 security. The next minute he found himself escaladed. 
 
 It was a cry from Mrs. Berry that told him others were 
 in the room besides Austin. Lucy stood a little behind 
 the Tamp: Mrs. Berry close to the door. The door was 
 hali open, and passing through it might be seen the petri- 
 fied figure of a fine man. The baronet glancing over the 
 lamp rose at Mrs. Berry's signification of a woman's per- 
 sonality. Austin stepped back and led Lucy to him by 
 the hand. "I have brought Bichard's wife, sir," he said 
 with a pleased, perfectly uncalculating, countenance, that 
 was disarming. Very pale and trembling Lucy bowed. 
 She felt her two hands taken, and heard a kind voice. 
 Could it be possible it belonged to the dreadful father 
 of her husband ? She lifted her eyes nervously : her hands 
 were still detained. The baronet contemplated Richard's 
 choice. Had he ever had a rivalry with those pure eyes? 
 He saw the pain of her position shooting across hei
 
 416 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 brows, and, uttering gentle Inquiries as to her health, 
 placed her in a seat. Mi 3. Berry had already f»Uen i.ito 
 a chair. 
 
 ''What aspect do yoa liVe for your bedroom? — East?" 
 said the baronet. 
 
 Lucy was asking herself wonderingly: "Am I to stay?" 
 
 "Perhaps you had better take to Richard's room at 
 once," he pursued. "You h, ive the Lobourne valley there 
 and a pood morning air, and will feel more at home." 
 
 Lucy's colour mounted. Mrs. Berry gave a short cough, 
 as one who should say, "The day is ours!" Undoubtedly 
 — strange as it was to think it — the fortress was carried. 
 
 "Lucy is rather tired," said Austin, and to hear her 
 Christian name thus bravely spoken brought" grateful 
 claw to her eyes. 
 
 The baronet was about to touch the bell. "But have 
 y>u come alone?" he asked. 
 
 A. this Mrs. Berry came forward. Xot immediately: 
 it setrtued to require effort for her to move, and when she 
 was within the region of the lamp, her agitation could not 
 escape notice. The blissful bundle shook in her arms. 
 
 "By the way, what is he to me?" Austin inquired 
 generally as he went and unveiled the younger hope of 
 Ravnham. "My relationship is not so defined as yours, 
 sir." 
 
 An observer might have supposed that the baronet 
 peeped at his grandson with the courteous indifference 
 of one who merely wished to compliment the mother of 
 anybody's child. 
 
 "I really think he's like Richard," Austin laughed. 
 Lucy looked : I am sure he is ! 
 
 "As like as one to one," Mrs. Berry murmured feebly; 
 but Grandpapa not speaking she thought it incumbent 
 on her to pluck up. "And he's as healthy as his father 
 was, Sir Austin — spite o' the might 'a beens. Reg'lar 
 as the clock ! We never want a clock since he come. 
 We knows the hour o' the day, and of the night." 
 
 "You nurse him yourself, of course?" the baronet spoke 
 to Lucy, and was satisfied on that point. 
 
 Mrs. Berry was going to display his prodigious legs. 
 Lucy, fearing the consequent effect on the prodigious 
 1 ungs, begged her not to wake him. " 'T'd take a deal to
 
 AUSTIN RETURNS 417 
 
 do that," said Mrs. Berry, and harped on Master Richard's 
 health and the small wonder it was that he enjoyed it, 
 considering the superior quality of his diet, and the lavish 
 attentions of his mother, and then suddenly fell silent on 
 a deep sigh. 
 
 "He looks healthy," said the baronet, ''but I am not a 
 judge of babies." 
 
 Thus, having capitulated, Raynham chose to acknowl- 
 edge its new commandant, who was now borne away, under 
 the directions of the housekeeper, to occupy the room 
 Richard had slept in when an infant. 
 
 Austin cast no thought on his success. The baronet 
 said : "She is extremely well-looking." He replied : "A 
 person you take to at once." There it ended. 
 
 But a much more animated colloquy was taking place 
 aloft, where Lucy and Mrs. Berry sat alone. Lucy ex- 
 pected her to talk about the reception they had met with, 
 and the house, and the peculiarities of the rooms, and 
 the solid happiness that seemed in store. Mrs. Berry all 
 the while would persist in consulting the looking-glass. 
 Her first distinct answer was, "My dear! tell me candid, 
 how do I look?" 
 
 "Very nice indeed, Mrs. Berry; but could you have be- 
 lieved he would be so kind, so considerate?" 
 
 "I am sure I looked a frump," returned Mrs. Berry. 
 "Oh dear ! two birds at a shot. What do you think, now ?" 
 
 "I never saw so wonderful a likeness," says Lucy. 
 
 "Likeness ! look at me." Mrs. Berry was trembling and 
 hot in the palms. 
 
 "You're very feverish, dear Berry. What can it be?" 
 
 "Ain't it like the love-flutters of a young gal, my dear." 
 
 "Go to bed, Berry, dear," says Lucy, pouting in her soft 
 caressing way. "I will undress you, and see to you, dear 
 heart! You've had so much excitement." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" Berry laughed hysterically; "sbe thinks it's 
 about this business of hers. Why, it's child's-play, my 
 darlin'. But I didn't look for tragedy, to-night. Sleep in 
 this house I can't, my love!" 
 
 Lucy was astonished. "Not sleep here, Mrs. Berry? — 
 Oh! why, you silly old thing? I know." 
 
 "Do ye!" said Mrs. Berry, with a sceptical nose. 
 
 'You're afraid of ghosts."
 
 418 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "Belike I am when they're six foot two in their shoes, 
 and bellows when you stick a pin into their calves. I 
 seen my Berry!" 
 
 "Your husband?" 
 
 "Large as life!" 
 
 Lucy meditated on optical delusions, but Mrs. Berry 
 described him as the Colossus who had marched them 
 into the library, and vowed that he had recognized her and 
 quaked. "Time ain't aged him," said Mrs. Berry, "where- 
 as me! he've got his excuse now. I know I look a frump." 
 
 Lucy kissed her: "You look the nicest, dearest old 
 thing." 
 
 "You may say an old thing, my dear." 
 
 "And your husband is really here?" 
 
 "Berry's below!" 
 
 Profoundly uttered as this was, it chased every vestige 
 of incredulity. 
 
 "What will you do, Mrs. Berry?" 
 
 "Go, my dear. Leave him to be happy in his own way. 
 It's over atween us, I see that. When I entered the house 
 I felt there was something comin' over me, and lo and 
 behold ye! no sooner was we in the hall-passage — if it 
 hadn't been for that blessed infant 1 should 'a dropped. 
 I must 'a known his step, for my heart began thumpin', 
 and I knew I hadn't got my hair straight — that Mr. 
 Wentworth was in such a hurry — nor my best gown. I 
 knew he'd scorn me. He hates frumps." 
 
 "Scorn you!" cried Lucy, angrily. "He who has be- 
 haved so wickedly!" 
 
 Mrs. Berry attempted to rise. "I may as well go at 
 once," she whimpered. "If I see him I shall only be dis- 
 gracin' of myself. I feel it all on my side already. Did 
 ye mark him, my dear? I know I was vexin' to him at 
 times, I was. Those big men are se touchy about their 
 dignity — nat'ral. Hark at me! I'm goin' all soft in a 
 minute. Let me leave the house, my dear. I daresay 
 it was good half my fault. Young women don't under- 
 stand men sufficient — not altogether — and I was a young 
 woman then; and then what they goes and does they 
 ain't quite answerable for: they feel, I daresay, pushed 
 from behind. Yes. I'll go. I'm a frump. I'll go. 
 'Tain't in natur' for me to sleep in the same house."
 
 ATJSTIX RETURNS 419 
 
 Lucy laid her hands on Mrs. Berry's shoulders, and 
 forcibly fixed her in her seat. ''Leave baby, naughty 
 •woman ? I tell you he shall come to you, and fall on 
 his knees to you and beg your forgiveness." 
 
 "Berry on his knees!" 
 
 "Yes. And he shall beg and pray you to forgive him." 
 
 "If you get more from Martin Berry than breath-away 
 words, great'll be my wonder!" said Mrs. Berry. 
 
 "We will see," said Lucy, thoroughly determined to do 
 something for the good creature that had befriended her. 
 
 Mrs. Berry examined her gown. "Won't it seem we're 
 runnin' after him?" she murmured faintly. 
 
 "He is your husband, Mrs. Berry. He may be want- 
 ing to come to you now." 
 
 "Oh ! Where is all I was goin' to say to that man when 
 we met !" Mrs. Berry ejaculated. Lucy had left the room. 
 
 On the landing outside the door Lucy met a lady dressed 
 in black, who stopped her and asked if she was Richard's 
 wife, and kissed her, passing from her immediately. Lucy 
 despatched a message for Austin, and related the Berry 
 history. Austin sent for the great man, and said : "Do 
 you know your wife is here?" Before Berry had time to 
 draw himself up to enunciate his long-est, he was re- 
 quested to step upstairs, and as his young mistress at once 
 led the way, Berry could not refuse to put his legs in 
 motion and carry the stately edifice aloft. 
 
 Of the interview Mrs. Berry gave Lucy a slight sketch 
 that night. "He began in the old way, my dear, and says 
 I, a true heart and plain words, Martin Berry. So there 
 he cuts himself and his Johnson short, and down he goes 
 — down on his knees. I never could 'a believed it. I 
 kep my dignity as a woman till I see that sight, but 
 that done for me. I was a ripe apple in his arms 'fore 
 I knew where I was. There's something about a fine 
 man on his knees that's too much for us women. And 
 it reely was the penitent on his two knees, not the lover 
 on his one. If he mean it! But ah! what do you 
 think he begs of me, my dear? — not to make it known 
 in the house just yet ! I can't, I can't say that look well." 
 
 Lucy attributed it to his sense of shame at his conduct, 
 and Mrs. Berry did her best to look on it in that light. 
 
 "Did the bar'net kiss ye when you wished him good-
 
 420 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 night?" she asked. Lucy said he had not. "Then hido 
 awake as long as ye can," was Mrs. Berry's rejoinder. 
 "And now let us pray blessings on that simple-speaking 
 gentleman who does so much 'cause he says so little." 
 
 Like many other natural people, Mrs. Berry was only 
 silly where her own soft heart was concerned. As she 
 secretly anticipated, the baronet came into her room when 
 all was quiet. She saw him go and bend over Richard 
 the Second, and remain earnestly watching him. lie 
 then went to the half-opened door of the room where 
 Lucy slept, leaned his ear a moment, knocked gently, 
 and entered. Mrs. Berry heard low words interchanging 
 within. She could not catch a syllable, yet she would 
 have sworn to the context. "He've called her his daugh- 
 ter, promised her happiness, and given a father's kiss to 
 her." When Sir Austin passed out she was in a deep 
 sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 NATURE SPEAKS 
 
 Briareus reddening angrily over the sea — what is that 
 vaporous Titan? And Hesper set in his rosy garland — 
 why looks he so implacably sweet? It is that one has 
 left that bright home to go forth and do cloudy work, 
 and he has #ot a stain with which he dare not return. 
 Far in the West fair Lucy beckons him to come. Ah, 
 heaven! if he mipdit! How strong and fierce the tempta- 
 tion is! how subtle the sleepless desire! it drugs his 
 reason, his honour. For he loves her; she is still the 
 first and only woman to him. Otherwise would this black 
 spot be hell to him? otherwise would his limbs be chained 
 while her arms are spread open to him. And if he 
 loves her, why then what is one fall in the pit, or a 
 thousand? Is not love the password to th'at beckoning 
 bliss? So may we say; but here is one whose body has 
 been made a temple to him, and it is desecrated. 
 
 A temple, and desecrated ! For what is it fit for but 
 for a dance of devils? His education has thus wrought 
 him to think.
 
 NATURE SPEAKS 421 
 
 He can blame nothing but bis own baseness. But to 
 feel base and accept the bliss that beckons — he has not 
 fallen so low as that. 
 
 Ah, happy English home! sweet wife! what mad miser- 
 able Wisp of the Eancy led him away from you, high in 
 his conceit? Poor wretch! that thought to be he of the 
 hundred hands, and war against the absolute Gods. Jove 
 whispered a light commission to the Laughing Dame; she 
 met him ; and how did he shake Olympus ? with laughter ? 
 
 Sure it were better to be Orestes, the Furies howling 
 in his ears, than one called to by a heavenly soul from 
 whom he is for ever outcast. He has not the oblivion 
 of madness. Clothed in the lights of his first passion, 
 robed in the splendour of old skies, she meets him 
 everywhere; morning, evening, night, she shines above 
 him; waylays him suddenly in forest depths; drops palpa- 
 bly on his heart. At moments he forgets; he rushes to 
 embrace her; calls her his beloved, and lo, her innocent 
 kiss brings agony of shame to his face. 
 
 Daily the struggle endured. His father wrote to him, 
 begging him by the love he had for him to return. Erom 
 that hour Richard burnt unread all the letters he received. 
 He knew too well how easily he could persuade himself: 
 words from without might tempt him and quite extinguish 
 the spark of honourable feeling that tortured him, and 
 that he clung to in desperate self-vindication. 
 
 To arrest young gentlemen on the downward slope is 
 both a dangerous and thankless office. It is, nevertheless, 
 one that fair women greatly prize, and certain of them 
 professionally follow. Lady Judith, as far as her sex 
 would permit, was also of the Titans in their battle 
 against the absolute Gods; for which purpose, mark you, 
 she had married a lord incapable in all save his acres. 
 Her achievements she kept to her own mind : she did 
 not look happy over them. She met Richard accidentally 
 in Paris; she saw his state; she let him learn that she 
 alone on earth understood him. The consequence was 
 that he was forthwith enrolled in her train. It soothed 
 him to be near a woman. Did she venture her guess 
 as to the cause of his conduct, she blotted it out with a 
 facility women have, and cast on it a melancholy hue 
 he was taught to participate in. She spoke of sorrows,
 
 422 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 personal sorrows, such as he might speak of his —vaguely, 
 and with self-blame. And she understood him. How 
 the dark nn fathomed wealth within ns gleams to a 
 woman's eye! We are at compound interest immedi- 
 ately: so much richer than we knew! — almost as rich as 
 we dreamed ! But then the instant we are away from 
 her we find ourselves bankrupt, beggared. How is that? 
 We do not ask. We hurry to her and bask hungrily in 
 her orbs. The eye must be feminine to be thus creative: 
 I cannot say why. Lady Judith understood Richard, 
 and he feeling infinitely vile, somehow held to her more 
 feverishly, as one who dreaded the worst in missing her. 
 The spirit must rest; he was weak with what he suffered. 
 
 Austin found them among the hills of Nassau in Rhine- 
 land: Titans, male and female, who had not displaced 
 Jove, and wore now adrift, prone on floods of sentiment. 
 The blue-frocked peasant swinging behind his oxen of a 
 morning, the gaily-kerchiefed fruit-woman, the jackass- 
 driver, even the doctor of those regions, have done more 
 for their fellows. Horrible reflection! Lady Judith is 
 serene above it, but it frets at Richard when he is out 
 of her shadow. Often wretchedly he watches the young 
 men of his own age trooping to their work. Not cloud- 
 work theirs! Work solid, unambitious, fruitful! 
 
 Lady Judith had a nobler in prospect for the hero. He 
 gaped blindfolded for anything, and she gave him the 
 map of Europe in tatters. He swallowed it comfortably. 
 It was an intoxicating cordial. Himself on horseback 
 over-riding wrecks of Empires! Well might' common 
 sense cower with the meaner animals at the picture. 
 Tacitly they agreed to recast the civilized globe. The 
 quality of vapour is to melt and shape itself anew; but 
 it is never the quality of vapour to reassume the same 
 shapes. Briareus of the hundred unoccupied hands may 
 turn to a monstrous donkey with his bind legs aloft, 
 or twenty thousand jabbering apes. The phantasmic 
 groupings of the young brain are very like those we see 
 in the skies, and equally the sport of the wind. Lady 
 Judith blew. There was plenty of vapour in him, and 
 it always resolved into some shape or other. You that 
 mark those clouds of eventide, and know youth, will see 
 the similitude: it will not be strange, it will barely seem
 
 NATURE SPEAKS 423 
 
 foolish to you, that a young man of Kichard's age, Rich- 
 ard's education and position, should be in this wild state. 
 Had he not been nursed to believe he was born for 
 great things? Did she not say she was sure of it? And 
 to feel base, yet born for better, is enough to make one 
 grasp at anything cloudy. Suppose the hero with a game 
 leg. How intense is his faith in quacks! with what a 
 passion of longing is he not seized to break somebody's 
 head! They spoke of Italy in low voices. "The time 
 will come," said she. "And I shall be ready," said he. 
 What rank was he to take in the liberating army? Cap- 
 tain, colonel, general in chief, or simple private? Here, 
 as became him, he was much more positive and specific 
 than she was. Simple private, he said. Yet he saw him- 
 self caracoling on horseback. Private in the cavalry, then, 
 of course. Private in the cavalry over-riding wrecks of 
 Empires. She looked forth under her brows with mourn- 
 ful indistinctness at that object in the distance. They 
 read Petrarch to get up the necessary fires. Italia mia ! 
 Vain indeed was this speaking to those thick and mortal 
 wounds in her fair body, but their sighs went with the 
 Tiber, and Arno, and the Po, and their hands joined. 
 Who has not wept for Italy? I see the aspirations of 
 a world arise for her, thick and frequent as the puffs 
 of smoke from cigars of Pannonian sentries! 
 
 So when Austin came Richard said he could not leave 
 Lady Judith, Lady Judith said she could not part with 
 him. For his sake, mind! This Richard verified. Per- 
 haps he had reason to be grateful. The high road of 
 Folly may have led him from one that terminates worse. 
 He is foolish, God knows; but for my part I will not 
 laugh at the hero because he has not got his occasion. 
 Meet him when he is, as it were, anointed by his occasion, 
 and he is no laughing matter. 
 
 Richard felt his safety in this which, to please the 
 world, we must term folly. Exhalation of vapours was 
 a wholesome process to him, and somebody who gave them 
 shape and hue a beneficent Iris. He told Austin plainly 
 he could not leave her, and did not anticipate the day 
 when he could. 
 
 "Why can't you go to your wife, Richard?" 
 
 "For a reason you would be the first to approve, AustiD-"
 
 424 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 He welcomed Austin with every show of manly tender- 
 ness, and sadness at heart. Austin he had always asso- 
 ciated with his Lucy in that Hesperian palace of the 
 West. Austin waited patiently. Lady Judith's old lord 
 played on all the baths in Nassau without evoking the 
 tune of health. Whithersoever he listed she changed her 
 abode. So admirable a wife was to be pardoned for 
 espousing an old man. She was an enthusiast even in 
 her connubial duties. She had the brows of an enthusiast. 
 With occasion she might have been a Charlotte Corday. 
 So let her also be shielded from the ban of ridicule. Non- 
 sense of enthusiasts is very different from nonsense of 
 ninnies. She was truly a high-minded person, of that 
 order who always do what they see to be right, and al- 
 ways have confidence in their optics. She was not un- 
 worthy of a young man's admiration, if she was unfit 
 to be his guide. She resumed her ancient intimacy with 
 Austin easily, while she preserved her new footing with 
 Richard. She and Austin were not unlike, only Austin 
 never dreamed, and had not married an old lord. 
 
 The three were walking on the bridge at Limburg on 
 the Lahn, where the shadow of a stone bishop is thrown 
 by the moonlight on the water brawling over slabs of 
 slate. A woman passed them bearing in her arms a baby, 
 whose mighty size drew their attention. 
 
 "What a wopper!" Richard laughed. 
 
 "Well, that is a fine fellow," said Austin, "but I don't 
 think he's much bigger than your boy." 
 
 '"He'll do for a nineteenth-century Arminius," Richard 
 was saying. Then he looked at Austin. 
 
 "What was that you said?" Lady Judith asked of 
 Austin. 
 
 "What have I said that deserves to be repeated?" Austin 
 counterqueried quite innocently. 
 
 "Richard has a son?" 
 
 "You didn't know it?" 
 
 "His modesty goes very far," said Lady Judith, sweep- 
 ing the shadow of a curtsey to Richard's paternity. 
 
 Richard's heart throbbed with violence. He looked 
 again in Austin's fare. Austin took it so much as a 
 matter of course that he said nothing more on the subject. 
 
 "Well!" murmured Lady Judith.
 
 NATURE SPEAKS 425 
 
 When the two men were alone, Richard said in a quick 
 voice: 'Austin! you were in earnest?" 
 
 "You didn't know it, Richard?" 
 
 "No" 
 
 "Why; they all wrote to you. Lucy wrote to you : your 
 father, your aunt. I believe Adrian wrote too." 
 
 "I tore up their letters," said Richard. 
 
 "He's a noble fellow, I can tell you. You've nothing 
 to be ashamed of. He'll soon be coming to ask about you. 
 I made sure you knew." 
 
 "No, I never knew." Richard walked away, and then 
 said: "What is he like?" 
 
 "Well, he really is like you, but he has his mother's 
 eyes." 
 
 "And she's- 
 
 "Yes. I think the child has kept her well." 
 
 "They're both at Raynham?" 
 
 "Both." 
 
 Hence fantastic vapours ! What are ye to this ! Where 
 are the dreams of the hero when he learns he has a child ? 
 Nature is taking him to her bosom. She will speak pres- 
 ently. Every domesticated boor in these hills can boast 
 the same, yet marvels the hero at none of his visioned 
 prodigies as he does when he comes to hear of this most 
 common performance. A father? Richard fixed his eyes 
 as if he were trying to make out the lineaments of his 
 child. 
 
 Telling Austin he would be back in a few minutes, he 
 sallied into the air, and walked on and on. "A father!" 
 he kept repeating to himself: "a child!" And though he 
 knew it not, he was striking the key-notes of Nature. But 
 he did know of a singular harmony that suddenly burst 
 over his whole being. 
 
 The moon was surpassingly bright: the summer air 
 heavy and still. He left the high road and pierced into 
 the forest. His walk was rapid: the leaves on the trees 
 brushed his cheeks; the dead leaves heaped in the dells 
 noised to his feet. Something of a religious _ joy — a 
 strange sacred pleasure — was in him. By degrees it wore ; 
 he remembered himself: and now he was possessed by 
 a proportionate anguish. A father! he dared never see 
 his child. And he had no longer his phantasies to fall
 
 426 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 upon. He was utterly bare to his sin. In his trouble*! 
 mind it seemed to him that Clare looked down on him — ■ 
 Clare who saw him as he was; and that to i.er eyes it 
 \v«uild bo infamy for him to go and print his kiss upon 
 his child. Then came stern efforts to command his misery 
 and make the nerves of his face iron. 
 
 By the log" of an ancient tree half buried in dead leaves 
 of past summers, beside a brook, he halted as one who 
 had reached his journey's end. There he discovered he 
 had a companion in Lady Judith's little dog. He gave 
 the friendly animal a pat of recognition, and both were 
 silent in the forest-silence. 
 
 It was impossible for Richard to return; his heart was 
 surcharged. He must advance, and on he footed, the 
 little dog following. 
 
 An oppressive slumber hung about the forest-branches. 
 In the dells and on the heights was the same dead heat. 
 Here where the brook tinkled it was no cool-lipped sound, 
 but metallic, and without the spirit of water. Yonder in 
 a space of moonlight on lush grass, the beams were as 
 white firo to sight" and feeling. No haze spread around. 
 The valleys were clear, defined to the shade \\s of their 
 verges; the distances sharply distinct, and with the 
 colours of day but slightly softened. Richard beheld a 
 roe moving across a slope of sward far out of rifle-mark. 
 The breathless silence was significant, yet the moon stone 
 in a broad blue heaven. Tongue out of mouth trotted lae 
 little dog after him; couched panting when he stopped 
 an instant; rose weariedly when he started afresh. Now 
 and then a large white night-moth flitted through the 
 dusk of the forest. 
 
 On a barren corner of the wooded highland looking in- 
 land stood grey topless ruins set in nettles and rank 
 grass-blades. Richard mechanically sat down on the 
 crumbling flints to rest, and listened to the panting of 
 the dog. Sprinkled at his feet were emerald lights: 
 hundreds of glow-worms studded the dark d»y ground. 
 
 He sat and eyed them, thinking not at all. His energies 
 were expended in action. He sat as a part of tlie ruins, 
 and the moon turned his shadow Westward from the 
 South. Overhead, as she declined, long ripples of silver 
 cloud were imperceptibly stealing toward her. They were
 
 NATURE SPEAKS 427 
 
 the van of a tempest. He did not observe them or the 
 leaves beginning to chatter. When he again pursued his 
 course with his face to the Rhine, a huge mountain 
 appeared to rise sheer over him, and he had it in his 
 mind to scale it. He got no nearer to the base of it 
 for all his vigorous outstepping. The ground began to 
 dip; he lost sight of the sky. Then heavy thunder-drops 
 struck his cheek, the leaves were singing, the earth 
 breathed, it was black before him and behind. All at once 
 the thunder spoke. The mountain he had marked was 
 bursting over him. 
 
 Up started the whole forest in violet fire. He saw the 
 country at the foot of the hills to the bounding Rhine 
 gleam, quiver, extinguished. Then there were pauses; 
 and the lightning seemed as the eye of heaven, and the 
 thunder as the tongue of heaven, each alternately ad- 
 dressing him; filling him with awful rapture. Alone there 
 — sole human creature among the grandeurs and mysteries 
 of storm — he felt the representative of his kind, and his 
 spirits rose, and marched, and exulted, let it be glory, 
 let it be ruin ! Lower down the lightened abysses of air 
 rolled the wrathful crash: then white thrusts of light 
 were darted from the sky, and great curving ferns, seen 
 steadfast in pallor a second, were supernaturally agitated, 
 and vanished. Then a shrill song roused in the leaves 
 and the herbage. Prolonged and louder it sounded, as 
 deeper and heavier the deluge pressed. A mighty force 
 of water satisfied the desire of the earth. Even in this, 
 drenched as he was by the first outpouring, Richard had 
 a savage pleasure. Keeping in motion, he was scarcely 
 conscious of the wet, and the grateful breath of the weeds 
 was refreshing. Suddenly he stopped short, lifting a 
 curious nostril. He fancied he smelt meadow-sweet. He 
 had never seen the flower in Rhineland — never thought 
 of it; and it would hardly be met with in a forest. He 
 was sure he smelt it fresh in dews. His little companion 
 wagged a miserable wet tail some way in advance. He 
 went on slowly, thinking indistinctly. After two or three 
 steps he stooped and stretched out his hand to feel for 
 the flower, having, he knew not why, a strong wish to 
 verify its growth there. Groping about, his hand en- 
 countered something warm that started at his touch, and
 
 428 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVERED 
 
 he, with the instinct we have, seized it, and lifted it to 
 look at it. The creature was very small, evidently quite 
 young. Richard's eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, 
 were able to discern it for what it was, a tiny leveret, 
 and he supposed that the dog had probably frightened 
 its dam just before he found it. He put the little thing 
 on one hand in his breast, and stepped out' rapidly as 
 before. 
 
 The rain was now steady; from every tree a fountain 
 poured. So cool and easy had his mind become that 
 he was speculating on what kind of shelter the birds 
 could find, and how the butterflies and moths saved their 
 coloured wings from washing. Folded close they might 
 hang under a leaf, he thought. Lovingly he looked into 
 the dripping darkness of the coverts on each side, as 
 one of their children. He was next musing on a strange 
 sensation he experienced. It ran up one arm with an 
 indescribable thrill, but communicated nothing to his 
 heart. It was purely physical, ceased for a time, and 
 reoommenoed, till he had it all through his blood, wonder- 
 fully thrilling. He grew aware that the little thing he 
 carried in his breast was licking his hand there. The 
 small rough tongue going over and over the palm of 
 his hand produced the strange sensation he felt. Now 
 that he knew the cause, the marvel ended; but now that 
 he knew the cause, his heart was touched and made 
 more of it. The gentle scraping continued without in- 
 termission as on he walked. What did it say to him? 
 Human tongue could not have said so much just then. 
 
 A pale grey light on the skirts of the flying tempest dis- 
 played the dawn. Richard was walking hurriedly. The 
 green drenched weeds lay all about in his path, bent 
 thick, and the forest drooped glimmeringly. Impelled 
 as a man who feels a revelation mounting obscurely to 
 his brain, Richard was passing one of these little forest- 
 chapels, hung with votive wreaths, where the peasant, 
 halts to kneel and pray. Cold, still, in the twilight it 
 stood, rain-drops pattering round it. He looked within, 
 and saw the Virgin holding her Child. He moved by. 
 But not' many slops had he gone ere his strength went 
 out of him, and he shuddered. What was it? He asked 
 not. He was in other hands. Vivid as lightning the
 
 Again the magian conflict 429 
 
 Spirit of Life illumined him. He felt in his heart the 
 cry of his child, his darling's touch. With shut eyes he 
 saw them both. They drew him from the depths; they 
 led him a blind and tottering man. And as they led him 
 he had a sense of purification so sweet he shuddered 
 again and again. 
 
 When he looked out from his trance on the breathing 
 world, the small birds hopped and chirped: warm fresh 
 sunlight was over all the hills. He was on the edge of 
 the forest, entering a plain clothed with ripe corn under 
 a spacious morning sky. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 AGAIN THE MAGIAN CONFLICT 
 
 They heard at Raynham that Richard was coming. 
 Lucy had the news first in a letter from Ripton Thomp- 
 son, who met him at Bonn. Ripton did not say that he 
 had employed his vacation holiday on purpose to use his 
 efforts to induce his dear friend to return to his wife; 
 and finding Richard already on his way, of course Rip- 
 ton said nothing to him, but affected to be travelling 
 for his pleasure like any cockney. Richard also wrote 
 to her. In case she should have gone to the sea he 
 directed her to send word to his hotel that he might 
 not lose an hour. His letter was sedate in tone, very 
 sweet to her. Assisted by the faithful female Berry, she 
 was conquering an Aphorist. 
 
 "Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts," was one 
 of his rough notes, due to an observation of Lucy's 
 maternal cares. Let us remember, therefore, we men 
 who have drunk of it largely there, that she has it. 
 
 Mrs. Berry zealously apprised him how early Master 
 Richard's education had commenced, and the great future 
 historian he must consequently be. This trait in Lucy 
 was of itself sufficient to win Sir Austin. 
 
 "Here my plan with Richard was false," he reflected: 
 "in presuming that anything save blind fortuity would
 
 430 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD I KVEREL 
 
 bring him such a mate as he should have." He came to 
 add: "And has got!" 
 
 He could admit now that instinct had so far beaten 
 science; for as Richard was coming, as all were to be 
 happy, his wisdom embraced them all paternally as the 
 author of their happiness. Between him and Lucy a 
 tinder intimacy grew. 
 
 "I told you she could talk, sir," said Adrian. 
 
 "She thinks!" said the baronet. 
 
 The delicate question how she was to treat her uncle, 
 he settled generously. Farmer Blaize should come up to 
 Raynham when he would: Lucy must visit him at least 
 three times a week. He had Farmer Blaize and Mrs. 
 Berry to study, and really excellent Aphorisms sprang 
 from the plain human bases this natural couple presented. 
 
 "It will do us no harm." he thought, "some of the 
 honest blood of the soil in our veins." And he was 
 content in musing on the parentage of the little cradled 
 boy. A common sight for those who had the entry to 
 the library was the baronet cherishing the hand of his 
 daughter-in-law. 
 
 So Richard was crossing the sea, and hearts at' Rayn- 
 ham were beating quicker measures as the minutes pro- 
 gressed. That night he would be with them. Sir Austin 
 gave Lucy a longer, wanner salute when she, came down 
 to breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Berry waxed thrice 
 amorous. "It's your second bridals, ye sweet livin' 
 widow!" she said. "Thanks be the Lord! it's the same 
 man too! and a baby over the bed-post," she appended 
 seriously. 
 
 "Strange," Berry declared it to be, "strange I feel none 
 o' this to my Berry now. All my feelin's o' love seem 
 t'ave gone into you two sweet chicks." 
 
 In fact, the faithless male Berry complained of being 
 treated badly, and affected a superb jealousy of the baby; 
 but the good dame told him that if lie suffered at all he 
 Buffered his due. Berry's position was decidedly uncom- 
 fortable. It could not be concealed from the lower house- 
 hold that he had a wife in the establishment, and I'm- the 
 complications this gave rise to, his wife would not legiti- 
 mately console him. Lucy did intercede, hut Mrs. Berry 
 was obdurate. She averred she would not give up the
 
 AGAIN THE MAGIAX CONFLICT 431 
 
 child till he was weaned. "Then, perhaps," she said 
 prospectively. "You ' see I ain't so soft as you thought 
 for." 
 
 "You're a very unkind, vindictive old woman," said 
 Lucy. 
 
 "Belike I am," Mrs. Berry was proud to agree. We 
 like a new character, now and then. Berry had delayed 
 too long. 
 
 Were it not notorious that the straightlaced prudish 
 dare not listen to the natural chaste, certain things Mrs. 
 Berry thought it advisable to impart to the young wife 
 with regard to Berry's infidelity, and the charity women 
 should have towards sinful men, might here be repro- 
 duced. Enough that she thought proper to broach the 
 matter, and cite her own Christian sentiments, now that 
 she was indifferent in some degree. 
 
 Oily calm is on the sea. At Raynhani they look up at 
 the sky and speculate that Richard is approaching fairly 
 speeded. He comes to throw himself on his darling's 
 mercy. Lucy irradiated over forest and sea, tempest and 
 peace — to her the hero comes humbly. Great is that day 
 when we see our folly! Ripton and he were the friends 
 of old. Richard encouraged him to talk of the two he 
 could be eloquent on, and Ripton, whose secret vanity 
 was in his powers of speech, never tired of enumerating 
 Lucy's virtues, and the peculiar attributes of the baby. 
 
 "She did not say a word against me, Rip?" 
 
 "Against you, Richard! The moment she knew she 
 was to be a mother, she thought of nothing but her 
 duty to the child. She's one who can't think of herself." 
 
 "You've seen her at Raynham, Rip ?" 
 
 "Yes, once. They asked me down. And your father's 
 so fond of her — I'm sure he thinks no woman like her, 
 and he's right. She is so lovely, and so good." 
 
 Richard was too full of blame of himself to blame his 
 father: too British to expose his emotions. Ripton divined 
 how deep and changed they were by his manner. He 
 had cast aside the hero, and however Ripton had obeyed 
 him and looked up to him in the heroic time, he loved 
 him tenfold now. He told his friend how much Lucy's 
 mere womanly sweetness and excellence had done for 
 him, and Richard contrasted his own profitless extrav-
 
 432 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 agance with the patient beauty of his dear home angel. 
 He was not one to take her on "the easy terms that 
 offered. There was that to do which made his cheek 
 burn as he thought of it, but he was going to do it, 
 even though it lost' her to him. Just to see her and 
 kneel to her was joy sufficient to sustain him, and warm 
 his blood in the prospect. They marked the white cliffs 
 growing over the water. Nearer, the sun made them 
 lustrous. Houses and people seemed to welcome the wild 
 youth to common sense, simplicity, and home. 
 
 They were in town by mid-day. Richard had a mo- 
 mentary idea of not driving to his hotel for letters. After 
 a short debate he determined to go there. The porter 
 said he had two letters for Mr. Richard Feverel — one had 
 been waiting some time. He went to the box and fetched 
 them. The first Richard opened was from Lucy, and 
 as he read it, Ripton observed the colour deepen on his 
 face, while a quivering smile played about his mouth, 
 lie opened the other indifferently. It began without any 
 form of address. Richard's forehead darkened at the 
 signature. This letter was in a sloping feminine hand, 
 and flourished with light strokes all over, like a field 
 of the bearded barley. Thus it ran : 
 
 "I know you are in a rage with me because I would 
 not consent to ruin you, you foolish fellow. What do 
 you call it? Going to that unpleasant place together. 
 Thank you, my milliner is not ready yet, and I want to 
 make a good appearance when I do go. I suppose I 
 shall have to some day. Your health, Sir Richard. Now 
 let me speak to you seriously. Go home to your wife 
 at once. But I know the sort of fellow you are, and I 
 must be plain with you. Did I ever say I loved you? 
 You may hate me as much as you please, but I will save 
 you from being a fool. 
 
 "Now listen to me. You know my relations with Mount. 
 That least Brayder offered to pay all my debts and set 
 me afloat, if I would keep you in town. I declare on 
 my honour I had no idea why, and I did not agree to it. 
 But you were such a handsome fellow — I noticed you in 
 the park before I heard a word of you. But then you 
 fought shy — you were just as tempting as a girl. You
 
 AGAIN THE MAGIAN CONFLICT 433 
 
 stung me. Do you know what that is? I would make 
 you care for me, and we know how it ended, without 
 any intention of mine, I swear. I'd have cut off my hand 
 rather than do you any harm, upon my honour. Cir- 
 cumstances! Then I saw it was all up between us. 
 Brayder came and began to chaff about you. I dealt 
 the animal a stroke on the face with my riding-whip — 
 I shut him up pretty quick. Do you think I would let 
 a man speak about you? — I was going to swear. You 
 see I remember Dick's lessons. O my God! I do feel 
 unhappy. — Brayder offered me money. Go and think I 
 took it, if you like. What do I care what anybody thinks ! 
 Something that blackguard said made me suspicious. I 
 went down to the Isle of Wight where Mount was, and 
 your wife was just gone with an old lady who came 
 and took her away. I should so have liked to see her. 
 You said, you remember, she would take me as a sister, 
 and treat me — I laughed at it then. My God! how I 
 could cry now, if water did any good to a devil, as you 
 politely call poor me. I called at your house and saw 
 your man-servant, who said Mount had just been there. 
 In a minute it struck me. I was sure Mount was after 
 a woman, but it never struck me that woman was ~*our 
 wife. Then I saw why they wanted me to keep you 
 away. I went to Brayder. You know how I hate him. 
 I made love to the man to get it out of him. Richard ! 
 my word of honour, they have planned to carry her 
 off, if Mount finds he cannot seduce her. Talk of devils! 
 He's one; but he is not so bad as Brayder. I cannot 
 forgive a mean dog his villany. 
 
 "Now after this, I am quite sure you are too much of 
 a man to stop away from her another moment. I have 
 no more to say. I suppose we shall not see each other 
 again, so good-bye, Dick! I fancy I hear you cursing 
 me. Why can't you feel like other men on the subject? 
 But if you were like the rest of them I should not have 
 cared for you a farthing. I have not worn lilac since 
 I saw you last. I'll be buried in your colour, Dick. 
 That will not offend you — will it? 
 
 "You are not going to believe I took the money? If 
 I thought you thought that — it makes me feel like a 
 devil only to fancy you think it.
 
 434 THE ORDEAL OE RICHAKD EEVEREL 
 
 "The first time you meei Brayder, cane him publicly. 
 
 "Adieul Say it's because you don't like his face. I 
 suppose devils must not say Adieu. Here's plain old 
 good-bye, then, between you and me. (Jood-bye, dear 
 Dick! You won't think that of me? 
 
 ".May I eat dry bread to the day of my death if I took 
 or ever will touch a scrap of their money. 
 
 Bella." 
 
 Richard folded up the letter silently. 
 
 "Jump into the cab," he said to Ripton. 
 
 "Anything the matter, Richard?" 
 
 '•No." 
 
 The driver received instructions. Richard sat without 
 speaking. His friend knew that face. He asked whether 
 there was had news in the letter. For answer, he had the 
 lie circumstantial. He ventured to remark that they were 
 going the wrong way. 
 
 "It's the right way," cried Richard, and his jaws were 
 hard and square, and his eyes looked heavy and full. 
 
 Ripton said no more, but thought. 
 
 The cabman pulled up at a Club. A gentleman, in 
 whom Ripton recognized the Hon. Peter Brayder, was 
 just then swinging a leg over his horse, with one foot 
 in the stirrup. Hearing his name called, the Hon. Peter 
 turned about, and stretched an affable hand. 
 
 "Is Mountfalcon in town?" said Richard, taking the 
 horse's reins instead of the gentlemanly hand. J I is voice 
 and aspect were quite friendly. 
 
 "Mount?" Brayder replied, curiously watching the ac- 
 tion; "yes. He's off this evening." 
 
 "He is in town?" Richard released his horse. "I want 
 to see him. Where is he?" 
 
 The young man looked pleasant : that which might 
 have aroused Brayder's suspicions was an old affair in 
 parasitical register by this time. ''Want to see him? 
 What about?" he said carelessly, and gave the address. 
 
 'My the way," he sang out, "we thought of putting 
 your name down, Feverel." He indicated the lofty 
 structure. "What do you say?" 
 
 Richard nodded hack at him, crying, "Hurry." Brayder 
 returned the nod, and those who promenaded the district
 
 AGAIN THE MAGIAN CONFLICT 435 
 
 soon beheld his body in elegant motion to the stepping 
 of his well-earned horse. 
 
 "What do you want to see Lord Mountfalcon for, 
 Richard?" said Ripton. 
 
 "I just want to see him," Richard replied. 
 
 Ripton was left in the cab at the door of my lord's 
 residence. He had to wait there a space of about ten 
 minutes, when Richard returned with a clearer visage, 
 though somewhat heated. He stood outside the cab, and 
 Ripton was conscious of being examined by those strong 
 grey eyes. As clear as speech he understood them to say 
 to him, "You won't do," but which of the many things 
 on earth he would not do for he was at a loss to think. 
 
 "Go down to Raynham, Ripton. Say I shall be there 
 to-night certainly. Don't bother me with questions. 
 Drive off at once. Or wait. Get' another cab. I'll take 
 this." 
 
 Ripton was ejected, and found himself standing alone in 
 the street. As he was on the point of rushing after the 
 galloping cab-horse to get a word of elucidation, he heard 
 some one speak behind him. 
 
 "You are Feverel's friend?" 
 
 Ripton had an eye for lords. An ambrosial footman, 
 standing at the open door of Lord Mountfalcon's house, 
 and a gentleman standing on the door-step, told him that 
 he was addressed by that nobleman. He was requested to 
 step into the house. When they were alone, Lord Mount- 
 falcon, slightly ruffled, said : "Feverel has insulted me 
 grossly. I must meet him, of course. It's a piece of 
 infernal folly ! — I suppose he is not quite mad ?" 
 
 Ripton's only definite answer was a gasping iteration 
 of "My lord." 
 
 My lord resumed : "I am perfectly guiltless of offending 
 him, as far as I know. In fact, I had a friendship for 
 him. Is he liable to fits of this sort of thing?" 
 
 Not yet at conversation-point, Ripton stammered : "Fits, 
 my lord?" 
 
 "Ah !" went the other, eying Ripton in lordly cognizant 
 style. "You know nothing of this business, perhaps?" 
 
 Ripton said he did not. 
 
 "Have you any influence with him ?" 
 
 "Not much, my lord. Only now and then — a little."
 
 436 THi: ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 "You are not in the Army?" 
 
 The question was quite unnecessary. Ripton confessed 
 to the law, and my lord did not look surprised. 
 
 "I will not detain you," he said, distantly bowing. 
 
 Ripton gave him a commoner's obeisance; but getting 
 to the door, the sense of the matter enlightened him. 
 
 "It's a duel, my lord?" 
 
 "No help for it, if his friends don't shut him up in Bed- 
 lam between this and to-morrow morning." 
 
 Of all horrible things a duel was the worst in Ripton's 
 imagination. He stood holding the handle of the door, 
 revolving this last chapter of calamity suddenly opened 
 v/here happiness had promised. 
 
 "A duel! but he won't, my lord, — he mustn't fight, my 
 lord." 
 
 "He must come on the ground," said my lord, positively. 
 
 Ripton ejaculated unintelligible stuff. Finally Lord 
 Mountfalcon said: "I went out of my way, sir, in speak- 
 ing to you. I saw you from the window. Your friend is 
 mad. Deuced methodical, I admit, but mad. I have par- 
 ticular reasons to wish not to injure the young man, and 
 if an apology is to be got out of him when we're on the 
 ground, I'll take it, and we'll stop the damned scandal, if 
 possible. You understand? I'm the insulted party, and 
 I shall only require of him to use formal words of excuse 
 to come to an amicable settlement. Let him just say he 
 regrets it. Now, sir," the nobleman spoke with consid- 
 erable earnestness, "should anything happen — I have the 
 honour to be known to Mrs. Feverel — and I beg you will 
 tell her. I very particularly desire you to let her know 
 that I was not to blame." 
 
 Mountfalcon rang the bell, and bowed him out. With 
 this on his mind Ripton hurried down to those who were 
 waiting in joyful trust at Raynham.
 
 THE LAST SCENE 437 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 THE LAST SCENE 
 
 The watch consulted by Hippias alternately with his 
 pulse, in occult calculation hideous to mark, said half-past 
 eleven on the midnight. Adrian, wearing a composedly 
 amused expression on his dimpled plump face—held 
 slightly sideways, aloof from paper and pen, — sat writing 
 at the library table. Round the baronet's chair, in a semi- 
 circle, were Lucy, Lady Blandish, Mrs. Doria, and Ripton, 
 that very ill bird at Raynham. They were silent as those 
 who question the flying minutes. Ripton had said that 
 Richard was sure to come ; but the feminine eyes reading 
 him ever and anon, had gathered matter for disquietude, 
 which increased as time sped. Sir Austin persisted in his 
 habitual air of speculative repose. 
 
 Remote as he appeared from vulgar anxiety, he was the 
 first to speak and betray his state. 
 
 "Pray, put up that watch. Impatience serves nothing," 
 he said, half-turning hastily to his brother behind him. 
 
 Hippias relinquished his pulse and mildly groaned : "It's 
 no nightmare, this!" 
 
 His remark was unheard, and the bearing of it remained 
 obscure. Adrian's pen made a louder flourish on his man- 
 uscript; whether in commiseration or infernal glee, none 
 might say. 
 
 "What are you writing ?" the baronet inquired testily of 
 Adrian, after a pause; twitched, it may be, by a sort of 
 jealousy of the wise youth's coolness. 
 
 "Do I disturb you, sir?" rejoined Adrian. "I am en- 
 gaged on a portion of a Proposal for uniting the Empires 
 and Kingdoms of Europe under one Paternal Head, on the 
 model of the ever-to-be-admired and lamented Holy 
 Roman. This treats of the management of Youths and 
 Maids, and of certain magisterial functions connected 
 therewith. Tt is decreed that these officers be all and every 
 men of science,' etc." And Adrian cheerily drove his pen 
 afresh. 
 
 Mrs. Doria took Lucy's hand, mutely addressing encour-
 
 •|:;> TIIK OKDKAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 agement to her, and Lucy brought as much of a smile as 
 she could command to reply with. 
 
 "1 fear we must give him up to-night," observed Lady 
 Blandish. 
 
 "If he said he would come, he will come," Sir Austin 
 interjected. Between him and the lady there was some- 
 thing of a contest secretly going on. lie was conscious 
 that nothing save perfect success would now hold this self- 
 emancipating mind. She had seen him through. 
 
 "He declared to me he would be certain to come," said 
 Ripton; but he could look at none of them as he said it, 
 for he was growing aware that Richard might have de- 
 ceived him, and was feeling like a black conspirator 
 against their happiness. He determined to tell the baronet 
 what he knew, if Richard did not come by twelve. 
 
 "What is the time?" he asked Hippias in a modest voice. 
 
 "Time for me to be in bed," growled Hippias, as if 
 everybody present had been treating him badly. 
 
 Mrs. Berry came in to apprise Lucy that she was wanted 
 above. She quietly rose. Sir Austin kissed her on the 
 forehead, saying: "You had better not come down again, 
 my child." She kept her eyes on him. "Oblige me by 
 retiring for the night," he added. Lucy shook their hand9, 
 and went out, accompanied by Mrs. Doria. 
 
 "This agitation will be bad for the child," he said, 
 speaking to himself aloud. 
 
 Lady Blandish remarked: "I think she might just as 
 well have returned. She will not Bleep." 
 
 "She will control herself for the child's sake." 
 
 "You ask too much of her." 
 
 "Of her, not," he emphasized. 
 
 It was twelve o'clock when Hippias shut his watch, and 
 said with vehemence: "I'm convinced my circulation 
 gradually and steadily decreases!" 
 
 "Going back to the pre-Harvey period?" murmured 
 Adrian as he wrote. 
 
 Sir Austin and Lady Blandish knew well that any com- 
 ment would introduce them to the interior of his machin- 
 ery, the external view of which was sufficiently harrowing; 
 so they maintained a discreet reserve. Taking it for ac- 
 quiescence in his deplorable condition, Hippias resumed 
 despairingly: "It's a fact. I've brought you to see th?t.
 
 THE LAST SCENE 439 
 
 No one can be more moderate than I am, and yet I get 
 worse. My system is organically sound — I believe: I do 
 every possible thing, and yet I get worse. Nature never 
 forgives! I'll go to bed." 
 
 The Dyspepsy departed unconsoled. 
 
 Sir Austin took up his brother's thought: "I suppose 
 nothing short of a miracle helps us when we have offended 
 her." 
 
 "Nothing short of a quack satisfies us," said Adrian, 
 applying wax to an envelope of official dimensions. 
 
 Ripton sat accusing his soul of cowardice while they 
 talked; haunted by Lucy's last look at him. He got up his 
 courage presently and went round to Adrian, who, after a 
 few whispered words, deliberately rose and accompanied 
 him out of the room, shrugging. When they had gone, 
 Lady Blandish said to the baronet: "He is not coming." 
 
 "To-morrow, then, if not to-night," he replied. "But I 
 say he will come to-night." 
 
 "You do really wish to see him united to his wife?" 
 
 The question made the baronet raise his brows with 
 some displeasure. 
 
 "Can you ask me ?" 
 
 "I mean," said the ungenerous woman, "your System 
 will require no further sacrifices from either of them?" 
 
 When he did answer, it was to say: "I think her alto- 
 gether a superior person. I confess I should scarcely have 
 hoped to find one like her." 
 
 "Admit that your science does not accomplish every- 
 thing." 
 
 "No: it was presumptuous — beyond a certain point," 
 said the baronet, meaning deep things. 
 
 Lady Blandish eyed him. "Ah me !" she sighed, "if we 
 would always be true to our own wisdom !" 
 
 "You are very singular to-night, Emmeline," Sir Austin 
 stopped his walk in front of her. 
 
 In truth, was she not unjust? Here was an offending 
 son freely forgiven. Here was a young woman of humble 
 birth freely accepted into his family and permitted to 
 stand upon her qualities. Who would have done more — 
 or as much? This lady, for instance, had the case been 
 hers, would have fought it. All the people of position 
 that he was acquainted with would have fought it, and
 
 440 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 that without feeling it so peculiarly. But while the 
 baronet thought this, he did not think of the exceptional 
 education his son had received. He took the common 
 ground of fathers, forgetting his System when it was ab- 
 solutely on trial. False to his son it could not be said 
 that he had been: false to his System he was. Others 
 saw it plainly, but he had to learn his lesson by and by. 
 
 Lady Blandish gave him her face; then stretched her 
 hand to the table, saying, "Well! well!" She fingered a 
 half-opened parcel lying there, and drew forth a little book 
 she recognized. "Ha! what is this?" she said. 
 
 "Benson returned it this morning," he informed her. 
 "The stupid fellow took it away with him — by mischance, 
 I am bound to believe." 
 
 It was nothing other than the old Note-book. Lady 
 Blandish turned over the leaves, and came upon the later 
 jottings. 
 
 She read: "A maker of Proverbs — what is he but a 
 narrow mind with the mouthpiece of narrower?" 
 
 "I do not agree with that," she observed. He was in no 
 humour for argument. 
 
 "Was your humility feigned when you wrote it?" 
 
 He merely said: "Consider the sort of minds influenced 
 by set sayings. A proverb is the half-way-house to an 
 Idea, I conceive; and the majority rest there content: can 
 the keeper of such a house be flattered by his company?" 
 
 She felt her feminine intelligence swaying under him 
 again. There must be greatness in a man who could thus 
 speak of his own special and admirable aptitude. 
 
 Further she read, "Which is the coward among us? — 
 He who sneers at the failings of Humanity!" 
 
 "Oh! that is true! How much I admire that!" cried 
 the dark-eyed dame as she beamed intellectual raptures. 
 
 Another Aphorism seemed closely to apply to him: 
 "There is no more grievous sight, as there is no greater 
 perversion, than a wise man at the mercy of his feelings." 
 
 "He must have written it," she thought, "when he had 
 himself for an example — Btrange man that he is!" 
 
 Lady Blandish was still inclined to submission, though 
 decidedly insubordinate. She had once been fairly con- 
 quered : but if what she reverenced as a great mind could 
 conquer her, it must be a creat man that should hold her
 
 THE LAST SCENE 441 
 
 captive. The Autumn Primrose blooms for the loftiest 
 manhood; is a vindictive flower in lesser hands. Never- 
 theless Sir Austin had only to be successful, and this 
 lady's allegiance was his for ever. The trial was at hand. 
 
 She said again: "He is not coming to-night," and the 
 baronet, on whose visage a contemplative pleased look had 
 been rising for a minute past, quietly added: "He is 
 come." 
 
 Richard's voice was heard in the hall. 
 
 There was commotion all over the house at the return 
 of the young heir. Berry, seizing every possible occasion 
 to approach his Bessy now that her involuntary coldness 
 had enhanced her value — "Such is men!" as the soft 
 woman reflected — Berry ascended to her and delivered the 
 news in pompous tones and wheedling gestures. "The 
 best word you've spoke for many a day," says she, and 
 leaves him unfee'd, in an attitude, to hurry and pour bliss 
 into Lucy's ears. 
 
 "Lord be praised!" she entered the adjoining room 
 exclaiming, "we're goin' to be happy at last. They men 
 have come to their senses. I could cry to your Virgin 
 and kiss your Cross, you sweet!" 
 
 "Hush !" Lucy admonished her, and crooned over the 
 child on her knees. The tiny open hands, full of sleep, 
 clutched; the large blue eyes started awake; and his 
 mother, all trembling and palpitating, knowing, but 
 thirsting to hear it, covered him with her tresses, and 
 tried to still her frame, and rocked, and sang low, inter- 
 dicting even a whisper from bursting Mrs. Berry. 
 
 Richard had come. He was under his father's roof, in 
 the old home that had so soon grown foreign to him. He 
 stood close to his wife and child. He might embrace 
 them both ; and now the fulness of his anguish and the 
 madness of the thing he had done smote the young man : 
 now first he tasted hard earthly misery. 
 
 Had not God spoken to him in the tempest? Had not 
 the finger of heaven directed him homeward ? And he had 
 come: here he stood: congratulations were thick in hi3 
 ears: the cup of happiness was held to him, and he was 
 invited to drink of it. Which was the dream? his work 
 for the morrow, or this ? But for a leaden load that he 
 felt like a bullet in his breast, he might have thought the
 
 4 12 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 morrow with death sitting on it was the dream. Yes; he 
 was awake. Now iirst the cloud of phantasms cleared 
 away: he beheld his roal life, and the colours of true 
 human joy: and on the morrow perhaps he was to close 
 his eyes on them. That leaden bullet dispersed all un- 
 realities. 
 
 They stood about him in the hall, his father, Lady 
 Blandish, Mrs. Doria, Adrian, Ripton; people who had 
 known him long. They shook his hand : they gave him 
 greetings he had never before understood the worth of or 
 the meaning. Now that he did they mocked him. There 
 was Mrs. Berry in the background bobbing, there was 
 Martin Berry bowing, there was Tom Bakewell grinning. 
 Somehow he loved the sight of these better. 
 
 "Ah, my old Penelope!" he said, breaking through the 
 circle of his relatives to go to her. "Tom ! how are you ?" 
 
 "I Hess ye, my Mr. Richard," whimpered Mrs. Berry, and 
 whispered rosily, "all's agreeable now. She's waiting up 
 in bed for ye, like a new-born." 
 
 The person who betrayed most agitation was Mrs. Doria. 
 She held close to him, and eagerly studied his face and 
 every movement, as one accustomed to masks. "You are 
 pale, Richard?" He pleaded exhaustion. "What detained 
 you, dear?" "Business," he said. She drew him im- 
 periously apart from the others. "Richard! h it over?" 
 He asked what she meant. "The dreadful duel, Richard." 
 He looked darkly. "Is it over? is it done. Richard?" 
 Getting no immediate answer, she continued— and such 
 was her agitation that the words were shaken by pieces 
 from her mouth : "Don't pretend not to understand me, 
 Richard! Is it over? Are you going to die the death of 
 my child — Clare's death? Is not one in a family enough? 
 Think of your dear young wife — we love her so! — your 
 child! — your father! Will you kill us all?" 
 
 Mrs. Doria had chanced to overhear a trifle of Ripton's 
 communication to Adrian, and had built thereon with the 
 dark forces of a stricken soul. 
 
 Wondering how this woman could have divined it, Rich- 
 ard calmly said: "It's arranged — the matter you allude 
 to." 
 
 "Indeed! truly, dear?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 THE LAST SCENE 443 
 
 "Tell me" — but he broke away from her, saying: "You 
 shall hear the particulars to-morrow," and she, not alive 
 to double meaning just then, allowed him to leave her. 
 
 He had eaten nothing for twelve hours, and called for 
 food, but he would take only dry bread and claret, which 
 was served on a tray in the library. He said, without any 
 show of feeling, that he must eat before he saw the 
 younger hope of Raynham: so there he sat, breaking 
 bread, and eating great mouthfuls, and washing them 
 down with wine, talking of what they would. His father's 
 studious mind felt itself years behind him, he was so 
 completely altered. He had the precision of speech, the 
 bearing of a man of thirty. Indeed he had all that the 
 necessity for cloaking an infinite misery gives. But let 
 things be as they might he was there. For one night in 
 his life Sir Austin's perspective of the future was 
 bounded by the night. 
 
 "Will you go to your wife now?" he had asked, and 
 Richard had replied with a strange indifference. The bar- 
 onet' thought it better that their meeting should be private, 
 and sent word for Lucy to wait upstairs. The others per- 
 ceived that father and son should now be left alone. 
 Adrian went up to him, and said : "I can no longer witness 
 this painful sight, so Good-night, Sir Famish! You may 
 cheat yourself into the belief that you've made a meal, 
 but depend upon it your progeny — and it threatens to be 
 numerous — will cry aloud and rue the day. Nature never 
 forgives ! A lost dinner can never be replaced ! Good- 
 night, my dear boy. And here — oblige me by taking this," 
 he handed Richard the enormous envelope containing 
 what he had written that evening. "Credentials!" he 
 exclaimed humorously, slapping Richard on the shoulder. 
 Ripton heard also the words "propagator — species," but 
 had no idea of their import. The wise youth looked : You 
 see we've made matters all right for you here, and quitted 
 the room on that unusual gleam of earnestness. 
 
 Richard shook his hand, and Ripton's. Then Lady 
 Blandish said her good-night, praising Lucy, and promis- 
 ing to pray for their mutual happiness. The two men 
 who knew what was hanging over him, spoke together 
 outside. Ripton was for getting a positive assurance that 
 the duel would not be fought, but Adrian said: "Time
 
 1 1 1 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 enough to-morrow. He's safe enough while he's here. 
 I'll stop it to-morrow:" ending with banter of Ripton and 
 allusions to his adventures with Miss Random, which 
 must, Adrian said, have led him into many affaire of 
 sort. Certainly Richard was there, and while he was 
 there he must be safe. So thought Ripton, and went to 
 his bed. .Mrs. Doria deliberated likewise, and likewise 
 thought him safe while he was there. For once in her 
 life she thought it better not to trust to her instinct, for 
 fear of useless disturbance where peace should be. So she 
 said not a syllable of it to her brother. She only looked 
 more deeply into Richard's eyes, as she kissed him, prais- 
 ing Lucy. "I have found a second daughter in her, dear. 
 Oh ! may you both be happy !" 
 
 They all praised Lucy, now. His father commenced the 
 moment they were alone. "Poor Helen 1 Your wife has 
 been a great comfort to her, Richard. I think Helen must 
 have sunk without her. So lovely a young person, possess- 
 ing mental faculty, and a conscience for her duties, I have 
 never before met." 
 
 He wished to gratify his son by these eulogies of Lucy, 
 •and some hours back he would have succeeded. Now it 
 had the contrary effect. 
 
 "You compliment me on my choice, sir?" 
 
 Richard spoke sedately, but the irony was perceptible, 
 and he could speak no other way, his bitterness was so 
 intense. 
 
 "I think you very fortunate," said his father. 
 
 Sensitive to tone and manner as he was, his ebullition 
 of paternal feeling was frozen. Richard did not approach 
 him. Ho leaned against the chimney-piece, glancing at 
 the floor, and lifting his eyes only when he spoke. For- 
 tunate! very fortunate! As he revolved his later history, 
 and remembered how clearly he had seen that his father 
 must love Lucy if he but knew her, and remembered his 
 efforts to persuade her to come with him, a sting of 
 miserable rage blackened his brain. But could he blame 
 that gentle soul? Whom could he blame? Himself? Not 
 utterly. His father? Yes, and no. The blame was here, 
 the blame was there: it was everywhere and nowhere, 
 and the young man cast it on the Fates, and lookea 
 angrily at heaven, and grew reckless.
 
 THE LAST SCENE 445 
 
 "Richard," said his father, coming close to him, "It is 
 late to-night. I do not wish Lucy to remain in expectation 
 longer, or I should have explained myself to you thor- 
 oughly, and I think — or at least hope — you would have 
 justified me. I had cause to believe that you had not 
 only violated my confidence, but' grossly deceived me. It 
 was not so, I now know. I was mistaken. Much of our 
 misunderstanding has resulted from that mistake. But 
 you were married — a boy : you knew nothing of the world, 
 little of yourself. To save you in after-life — for there is 
 a period when mature men and women who have married 
 young are more impelled to temptation than in youth, — 
 though not so exposed to it, — to save you, I say, I decreed 
 that you should experience self-denial and learn something 
 of your fellows of both sexes, before settling into a state 
 that must have been otherwise precarious, however ex- 
 cellent the woman who is your mate. My System with 
 you would have been otherwise imperfect, and you would 
 have felt the effects of it. It is over now. You are a 
 man. The dangers to which your nature was open are, 
 I trust, at an end. I wish you to be happy, and I give you 
 both my blessing, and pray God to conduct and strengthen 
 you both." 
 
 Sir Austin's mind was unconscious of not having 
 spoken devoutly. True or not, his words were idle to his 
 son: his talk of dangers over, and happiness, mockery. 
 
 Richard coldly took his father's extended hand. 
 
 "We will go to her," said the baronet. "I will leave you 
 at her door." 
 
 Not moving: looking fixedly at his father with a hard 
 face on which the colour rushed, Richard said: "A hus- 
 band who has been unfaithful to his wife may go to her 
 there, sir?" 
 
 It was horrible, it was cruel: Richard knew that. He 
 wanted no advice on such a matter, having fully resolved 
 what to do. Yesterday he would have listened to his 
 father, and blamed himself alone, and done what was to 
 be done humbly before God and her: now in the reckless- 
 ness of his misery he had as little pity for any other soul 
 as for his own. Sir Austin's brows were deep drawn 
 down. 
 
 "What did you say, Richard?"
 
 HO THE OKDKAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 Clearly his intelligence had taken it, but this — the 
 worst he could hear — this that he had dreaded once and 
 doubted, and smoothed over, and cast aside — could it be? 
 
 Richard said: i told you all but the very words when 
 we last parted. What else do you think would have kept 
 me from herf" 
 
 Angered at his callous aspect, his father cried: "What 
 brings you to her now?" 
 
 "That will be between us two," was the reply. 
 
 Sir Austin fell into bis chair. Meditation was impossi- 
 ble. He spoke from a wrathful heart: "You will not dare 
 to take her without" 
 
 "No, sir," Richard interrupted him, "I shall not. 
 Have no fear." 
 
 "Then you did not love your wife?" 
 
 "Did I not?" A smile passed faintly over Richard's 
 face. 
 
 "Did you care so much for this — this other person?" 
 
 "So much ? If you ask me whether I had affection for 
 her, I can say I had none." 
 
 O base human nature! Then how? then why? A thou- 
 sand questions rose in the baronet's mind. Bessy Berry 
 could have answered them every one. 
 
 "Poor child ! poor child !" he apostrophized Lucy, pacing 
 the room. Thinking of her, knowing her deep love for his 
 son — her true forgiving heart — it seemed she should be 
 spared tbis misery. 
 
 He proposed to Richard to spare her. Vast is the dis- 
 tinction between women and men in this one sin, he said, 
 and supported it with physical and moral citations. His 
 argument carried him so far, that to hear bim one would 
 have imagined be thought the sin in men small indeed. 
 His words were idle. 
 
 "She must know it," said Richard, sternly. "I will go 
 to her now, sir, if you please." 
 
 Sir Austin detained him, expostulated, contradicted 
 himself, confounded his principles, made nonsense of all 
 bis theories. He could not induce his son to waver in 
 his resolve. Ultimately, their good-night being inter- 
 changed, he understood that the happiness of Raynham 
 depended on Lucy's mercy. He had no fears of her sweet 
 heart, but it was a strange thing to have come to. On
 
 THE LAST SCENE 447 
 
 ■which should the accusation fall — on science, or on human 
 nature ? 
 
 He remained in the library pondering over the question, 
 at times breathing contempt for his son, and again seized 
 with unwonted suspicion of his own wisdom: troubled, 
 much to be pitied, even if he deserved that blow from his 
 son which had plunged him into wretchedness. 
 
 Richard went straight to Tom Bakewell, roused the 
 heavy sleeper, and told him to have his mare saddled and 
 waiting at the park gates East within an hour. Tom's 
 / nearest' approach to a hero was to be a faithful slave to 
 his master, and in doing this he acted to his conception 
 of that high and glorious character. He got up and he- 
 roically dashed his head into cold water. "She shall be 
 ready, sir," he nodded. 
 
 "Tom ! if you don't see me back here at Raynham, your 
 money will go on being paid to you." 
 
 "Rather see you than the money, Mr. Richard," said 
 Tom. 
 
 "And you will always watch and see no harm comes to 
 her, Tom." 
 
 "Mrs. Richard, sir?" Tom stared. "God bless me, Mr. 
 Richard" 
 
 "No questions. You'll do what I say." 
 
 "Ay, sir; that I will. Did'n Isle o' Wight." 
 
 The very name of the Island shocked Richard's blood, 
 and he had to walk up and down before he could knock at 
 Lucy's door. That infamous conspiracy to which he owed 
 his degradation and misery scarce left him the feelings of 
 a man when he thought of it. 
 
 The soft beloved voice responded to his knock. He 
 opened the door, and stood before her. Lucy was half-way 
 toward him. In the moment that passed ere she was in 
 his arms, he had time to observe the change in her. He 
 had left her a girl: he beheld a woman — a blooming 
 woman : for pale at first, no sooner did she see him than 
 the colour was rich and deep on her face and neck and 
 bosom half shown through the loose dressing-robe, and 
 the sense of her exceeding beauty made his heart thump 
 and his eyes swim. 
 
 "My darling !" each cried, and they clung together, and 
 her mouth was fastened on his.
 
 us THE oKDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 They spoke no more. His soul was drowned in her kiss. 
 Supporting her, whose strength was gone, he, almost as 
 weak as she, hung over her, and clasped her closer, closer, 
 till they were as one body, and in the oblivion her lips 
 put upon him he was free to the bliss of her embrace. 
 Heaven granted him that. He placed her in a chair and 
 knelt at her feet with both arms around her. Her bosom 
 heaved; her eyes never quitted him: their light as the 
 light on a rolling wave. This young creature, commonly 
 so frank and straightforward, was broken with bashfulness 
 in her husband's arms — womanly bashfulness on the tor- 
 rent of womanly love; tenfold more seductive than the 
 bashfulness of girlhood. Terrible tenfold the loss of her 
 seemed now, as distantly — far on the horizon of memory — 
 the fatal truth returned to him. 
 
 Lose her? lose this? He looked up as if to ask God to 
 confirm it. 
 
 The same sweet blue eyes! the eyes that he had often 
 seen in the dying glories of evening; on him they dwelt, 
 shifting, and fluttering, and glittering, but constant: the 
 light' of them as the light on a rolling wave. 
 
 And true to him! true, good, glorious, as the angels of 
 heaven! And his she was! a woman — his wife! The 
 temptation to take her, and be dumb, was all powerful : 
 the wish to die against her bosom so strong as to be the 
 prayer of his vital forces. Again he strained her to him, 
 but this time it was as a robber grasps priceless treasure — 
 with exultation and defiance. One instant of this. Lucy, 
 whose pure tenderness had now surmounted the first wild 
 passion of their meeting, bent back her head from her 
 surrendered body, and said almost voicelessly, her under- 
 lids wistfully quivering: "Come and see him — baby;" and 
 then in great hope of the happiness she was going to give 
 her husband, and share with him, and in tremour and 
 doubt of what his feelings would be, she blushed, and her 
 brows worked : she tried to throw off the strangeness of 
 a year of separation, misunderstanding, and uncertainty. 
 
 "Darling! come and see him. He is here." She spoke 
 more clearly, though no louder. 
 
 Richard had released her, and she took his hand, and he 
 suffered himself to be led to the other side of the bed. His 
 heart began rapidly throbbing at the sight of a little
 
 THE LAST SCENE 44$ 
 
 rosy-curtained cot covered with lace like milky summer 
 cloud. 
 
 It seemed to him he would lose his manhood if he 
 looked on that child's face. 
 
 "Stop!" he cried suddenly. 
 
 Lucy turned first to him, and then to her infant, fearing 
 it should have been disturbed. 
 
 "Lucy, come back." 
 
 "What is it, darling?" said she, in alarm at his voice 
 and the grip he had unwittingly given her hand. 
 
 O God! what an Ordeal was this! that to-morrow he 
 must face death, perhaps die and be torn from his darling 
 — his wife and his child ; and that ere he went forth, 
 ere he could dare to see his child and lean his head re- 
 proachfully on his young wife's breast — for the last time, 
 it might be — he must stab her to the heart, shatter the 
 image she held of him. 
 
 "Lucy!" She saw him wrenched with agony, and her 
 own face took the whiteness of his — she bending forward 
 to him, all her faculties strung to hearing. 
 
 He held her two hands that she might look on him and 
 not spare the horrible wounds he was going to lay open 
 to her eyes. 
 
 "Lucy. Do you know why I came to you to-night?" 
 
 She moved her lips repeating his words. 
 
 "Lucy. Have you guessed why I did not come before ?" 
 
 Her head shook widened eyes. 
 
 "Lucy. I did not come because I was not worthy of 
 my wife ! Do you understand ?" 
 
 "Darling," she faltered plaintively, and hung crouching 
 under him, "what have I done to make you angry with 
 me?" 
 
 "O beloved!" cried he, the tears bursting out of his 
 eyes. "O beloved !" was all he could say, kissing her hands 
 passionately. 
 
 She waited, reassured, but in terror. 
 
 "Lucy. I stayed away from you — I could not come to 
 you, because ... I dared not come to you, my wife, my 
 beloved ! I could not come because I was a coward : be- 
 cause — hear me — this was the reason : I have broken my 
 marriage oath." 
 
 Again her lips moved. She caught at a dim fleshless
 
 450 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 meaning in them. "But you love me? Richard! My hus- 
 band ! you love me ?" 
 
 "Yes. I have never loved, I never shall love, woman 
 but you." 
 
 "Darling 1 Kiss me." 
 
 "Have you understood what I have told you ?" 
 
 "Kiss me," she said. 
 
 He did not join lips. "I have come to you to-night to 
 ask your forgiveness." 
 
 Her answer was: "Kiss me." 
 
 "Can you forgive a man so base?" 
 
 "But you love me, Richard?" 
 
 "Yes: that I can say before God. I love you, and I 
 have betrayed you, and am unworthy of you — not worthy 
 to touch your hand, to kneel at your feet, to breathe the 
 same air with you." 
 
 Her eyes shone brilliantly. "Y r ou love me! you love 
 me, darling!" And as one who has sailed through dark 
 fears into daylight, she said: "My husband! my darling! 
 you will never leave me? We never shall be parted 
 again?" 
 
 He drew his breath painfully. To smooth her face 
 growing rigid with fresh fears of his silence, he met her 
 mouth. That kiss in which she spoke what her soul had 
 to say, calmed her, and she smiled happily from it, and in 
 her manner reminded him of his first vision of her on the 
 sinnmer morning in the field of the meadow-sweet. He 
 held her to him, and thought then of a holier picture: of 
 Mother and Child : of the sweet wonders of the life she 
 had made real to him. 
 
 Had he not absolved his conscience? At least the pangs 
 to come made him think so. He now followed her leading 
 hand. Lucy whispered: "You mustn't disturb him — 
 must n't touch him, dear!" and with dainty fingers drew 
 off the covering to the little shoulder. One arm of the 
 child was out along the pillow; the small hand open. His 
 baby-mouth was pouted full ; the dark lashes of his eyes 
 seemed to lie on his plump cheeks. Richard stooped lower 
 down to him, hungering for some movement as a sign that 
 he lived. Lucy whispered. "He sleeps like you, Richard 
 — one arm under his head." Great wonder, and the stir 
 of a grasping tenderness was in Richard. He breathed
 
 THE LAST SCENE 451 
 
 quick and soft, bending lower, till Lucy's curls, as she 
 nestled and bent with him, rolled on the crimson quilt 
 of Vne cot. A smile went up the plump cheeks : forthwith 
 the bud of a mouth was in rapid motion. The young 
 mother whispered, blushing: "He's dreaming of me," and 
 the simple words did more than Kichard's eyes to make 
 him see what was. Then Lucy began to hum and buzz 
 sweet baby-language, and some of the tiny fingers stirred, 
 and he made as if to change his cosy position, but recon- 
 sidered, and deferred it, with a peaceful little sigh. Lucy 
 whispered: "He is such a big fellow. Oh! when you see 
 him awake he is so like you, Eichard." 
 
 He did not hear her immediately: it' seemed a bit of 
 heaven dropped there in his likeness : the more human the 
 fact of the child grew the more heavenly it seemed. His 
 son! his child! should he ever see him awake? At the 
 thought, he took the words that had been spoken, and 
 started from the dream he had been in. "Will he wake 
 ?oon, Lucy?" 
 
 *'0h no! not yet, dear: not for hours. I would have 
 kept him awake for you, but he was so sleepy." 
 
 Eichard stood back from the cot. He thought that if 
 he saw the eyes of his boy, and had him once on his heart, 
 he never should have force to leave him. Then he looked 
 down on him, again struggled to tear himself away. Two 
 natures warred in his bosom, or it may have been the 
 Magian Conflict still going on. He had come to see his 
 child once and to make peace with his wife before it 
 should be too late. Might he not stop with them? Might 
 he not relinquish that devilish pledge? Was not divine 
 happiness here offered to him? — If foolish Eipton had not 
 delayed to tell him of his interview with Mountfalcon all 
 might have been well. But pride said it was impossible. 
 A" 4 then injury spoke. For why was he thus base and 
 spotted to the darling of his love ? A mad pleasure in the 
 prospect of wreaking vengeance on the villain who had 
 laid the trap for him, once more blackened his brain. If 
 he would stay he could not. So he resolved, throwing the 
 burden on Fate. The struggle was over, but oh, the pain ! 
 
 Lucy beheld the tears streaming hot from his face on 
 the child's cot. She marvelled at such excess of emotion. 
 But when his chest heaved, and the extremity of mortal
 
 152 THE ORDEAL OE RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 anguish appeared to have seized him, her heart sank, and 
 she tried to get him in her arms. He turned away from 
 her and went to the window. A half-moon was over the 
 lake. 
 
 "Look !" he said, "do you remember our rowing there 
 one night, and we saw the shadow of the cypress? I wish 
 I could have come early to-night that we might have had 
 another row, and I have heard you sing there!" 
 
 "Darling!" said she, "will it make you happier if I go 
 with you now? I will." 
 
 "No, Lucy. Lucy, you are brave!" 
 
 "Oh, no! that I'm not. I thought so once. I know I 
 am not now." 
 
 "Yes! to have lived — the child on your heart — and 
 never to have uttered a complaint! — you are brave. O my 
 Lucy! my wife! you that have made me man! I called 
 you a coward. I remember it. I was the coward — / the 
 wretched vain fool! Darling! I am going to leave you 
 now. You are brave, and you will bear it. Listen : in 
 two days, or three, I may be back — back for good, if you 
 will accept me. Promise me to go to bed quietly. Kiss 
 the child for me, and tell him his father has seen him. He 
 will learn to speak soon. Will he soon speak, Lucy?" 
 
 Dreadful suspicion kept her speechless ; she could only 
 clutch one arm of his with both her hands. 
 
 "Going?" she presently gasped. 
 
 "For two or three days. No more — I hope." 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 "Yes. Now." 
 
 "Going now? my husband !" her faculties abandoned her. 
 
 "You will be brave, my Lucy !" 
 
 "Richard! my darling husband! Going? What is it 
 takes you from me?" But questioning no further, she fell 
 on her knees, and cried piteously to him to stay — not to 
 leave them. Then she dragged him to the little sleeper, 
 and urged him to pray by his side, and he did, but rose 
 abruptly from his prayer when he had muttered a few 
 broken words — she praying on with tight-strung nerves, in 
 the faith that what she said to the interceding Mother 
 above would be stronger than human hands on him. Nor 
 could he go while she knelt there. 
 
 And he wavered. He had not reckoned on her terrible
 
 THE LAST SCENE 453 
 
 suffering. She came to him, quiet. "I knew you would 
 remain." And taking his hand, innocently fondling it: 
 "Am I so changed from her he loved ? You will not leave 
 me, dear?" But' dread returned, and the words quavered 
 as she spoke them. 
 
 He was almost vanquished by the loveliness of her 
 womanhood. She drew his hand to her heart, and strained 
 it there under one breast. "Come: lie on my heart," she 
 murmured with a smile of holy sweetness. 
 
 He wavered more, and drooped to her, but summoning 
 the powers of hell, kissed her suddenly, cried the words of 
 parting, and hurried to the door. It was over in an in- 
 stant. She cried out his name, clinging to him wildly, 
 and was adjured to be brave, for he would be dishonoured 
 if he did not go. Then she was shaken off. 
 
 Mrs. Berry was aroused by an unusual prolonged wailing 
 of the child, which showed that no one was comforting it, 
 and failing to get any answer to her applications for 
 admittance, she made bold to enter. There she saw Lucy, 
 the child in her lap, sitting on the floor senseless: — she 
 had taken it from its sleep and tried to follow her hus- 
 band with it as her strongest appeal to him, and had 
 fainted. 
 
 "Oh my! oh my!" Mrs. Berry moaned, "and I just now 
 thinkin' they was so happy!" 
 
 Warming and caressing the poor infant, she managed 
 by degrees to revive Lucy, and heard what had brought 
 her to that situation. 
 
 ''Go to his father," said Mrs. Berry. "Ta-te-tiddle-te- 
 heighty-0 ! Go, my love, and every horse in Raynham 
 shall be out after 'm. This is what men brings us to! 
 Heighty-oighty-iddlety-Ah ! Or you take blessed baby, 
 and I'll go." 
 
 The baronet himself knocked at the door. "What is 
 this?" he said. "I heard a noise and a step descend." 
 
 "It's Mr. Richard have gone, Sir Austin! have gone 
 from his wife and babe! Rum-te-um-te-iddledy — Oh, my 
 goodness ! what sorrow's come on us !" and Mrs. Berry 
 wept, and sang to baby, and baby cried vehemently, and 
 Lucy, sobbing, took him and danced him and sang to him 
 with drawn lips and tears dropping over him. And if the 
 Scientific Humanist to the day of his death forgets the
 
 4.V1 THE ORDKAI. <>F RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 sight of those two poor true women jigging on their 
 wretched hearts to calm the child, he must have very little 
 of the human in him. 
 
 There was no more sleep for Raynham that night. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 LADY BLANDISH TO AUSTIN WENTWORTH 
 
 "His ordeal is over. I have just come from his room 
 and seen him bear the worst that could be. Return at once 
 — he has asked for you. I can hardly write intelligibly, 
 but I will tell you what we know. 
 
 "Two days after the dreadful night when he left us, his 
 father heard from Ralph Morton. Richard had fought a 
 duel in France with Lord Mountfalcon, and was lying 
 wounded at a hamlet on the coast. His father started 
 immediately with his poor wife, and I followed in com- 
 pany with his aunt and his child. The wound was not 
 dangerous. He was shot in the side somewhere, but the 
 ball injured no vital part. We thought all would be well. 
 Oh! how sick I am of theories, and Systems, and the pre- 
 tensions of men! There was his son lying all but dead, 
 and the man was still unconvinced of the folly he had been 
 guilty of. I could hardly bear the sight of his composure. 
 I shall hate the name of Science till the day I die. Give 
 me nothing but commonplace unpretending people! 
 
 "They were at a wretched French cabaret, smelling 
 vilely, where we still remain, and the people try as much 
 as they can do to compensate for our discomforts by their 
 kindness. The French poor people are very considerate 
 where they see suffering. I will say that for them. The 
 doctors had not allowed his poor Lucy to go near him. 
 She sat outside his door, and none of us dared disturb 
 her. That was a sight for Science. His father and my- 
 self, and Mrs. Berry, were the only ones permitted to 
 wait on him, and whenever we came out, there she sat. 
 not speaking a word — for she had been told if would 
 endanger his life— but she looked such awful eagerness.
 
 LADY BLANDISH TO AUSTIN WENTWORTH 455 
 
 She had the sort of eye I fancy mad persons have. I was 
 sure her reason was going. We did everything we could 
 think of to comfort her. A bed was made up for her and 
 her meals were brought to her there. Of course there was 
 no getting her to eat. What do you suppose his alarm 
 was fixed on? He absolutely said to me — but I have not 
 patience to repeat his words. He thought her to blame 
 for not commanding herself for the sake of her maternal 
 duties. He had absolutely an idea of insisting that she 
 should make an effort to suckle the child. I shall love that 
 Mrs. Berry to the end of my days. I really believe she has 
 twice the sense of any of us — Science and all. She asked 
 him plainly if he wished to poison the child, and then he 
 gave way, but with a bad grace. 
 
 ''Poor man ! perhaps I am hard on him. I remember 
 that you said Richard had done wrong. Yes; well, that 
 may be. But his father eclipsed his wrong in a greater 
 wrong — a crime, or quite as bad ; for if he deceived himself 
 in the belief that he was acting righteously in sparating 
 husband and wife, and exposing his son as he did, I can 
 only say that there are some who are worse than people 
 who deliberately commit crimes. No doubt Science will 
 benefit by it. They kill little animals for the sake of 
 Science. 
 
 "We have with us Doctor Bairam, and a French 
 physician from Dieppe, a very skilful man. It was he 
 who told us where the real danger lay. We thought all 
 would be well. A week had passed, and no fever super- 
 vened. We told Richard that his wife was coming to 
 him, and he could bear to hear it. I went to her and 
 began to circumlocute, thinking she listened — she had the 
 same eager look. When I told her she might go in with 
 me to see her dear husband, her features did not change. 
 M. Despres, who held her pulse at the time, told me, in 
 a whisper, it was cerebral fever — brain fever coming on. 
 We have talked of her since. I noticed that though she 
 did not seem to understand me, her bosom heaved, and 
 she appeared to be trying to repress it, and choke some- 
 thing. I am sure now, from what I know of her char- 
 acter, that she — even in the approaches of delirium — was 
 preventing herself from crying out. Her last hold of 
 reason was a thought for Richard. It was against a crea-
 
 456 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 ture like this that we plotted! I have the comfort of 
 knowing that I did my share in helping to destroy her. 
 Had she seen her husband a day or two before — but no! 
 there was a new System to interdict that! Or had she 
 not so violently controlled her nature as she did, I believe 
 she might have been saved. 
 
 "He said once of a man, that his conscience was a cox- 
 comb. Will you believe that when he saw his son's wife — 
 poor victim! lying delirious, he could not even then see his 
 error. You said he wished to take Providence out of God's 
 hands. His mad self-deceit would not leave him. I am 
 positive, that while he was standing over her, he was blam- 
 ing her for not having considered the child. Indeed he 
 made a remark to me that it was unfortunate — 'dis- 
 astrous,' I think he said — that the child should have to be 
 fed by hand. I dare say it is. All I pray is that this 
 young child may be saved from him. I cannot bear to 
 see him look on it. He does not spare himself bodily 
 fatigue — but what is that? that is the vulgarest form of 
 love. I know what you will say. You will say I have 
 lost all charity, and I have. But I should not feel so, 
 Austin, if I could be quite sure that he is an altered man 
 even now the blow has struck him. He is reserved and 
 simple in his speech, and his grief is evident, but I have 
 doubts. He heard her while she was senseless call him 
 cruel and harsh, and cry that she had suffered, and I saw 
 then his mouth contract as if he had been touched. Per- 
 haps, when he thinks, his mind will be clearer, but what 
 he has done cannot be undone. I do not imagine he will 
 abuse women any more. The doctor called her a 'forte et 
 belle jeune femme:' and he said she was as noble a soul as 
 ever God moulded clay upon. A noble soul 'forte et belle !' 
 She lies upstairs. If he can look on her and not see his 
 sin, I almost fear God will never enlighten him. 
 
 "She died five days after she had been removed. The 
 shock had utterly deranged her. I was with her. She died 
 very quietly, breathing her last breath without pain — ■ 
 asking for no one — a death I should like to die. 
 
 "Her cries at one time were dr adfully loud. She 
 screamed that she was 'drowning in fire,' and that her 
 husband would not come to her to save her. We deadened 
 the sound as much as we could, but it was impossible to
 
 LADY BLANDISH TO AUSTIN WENTWORTH 457 
 
 prevent Richard from hearing. He knew her voice, and 
 it produced an effect like fever on him. Whenever she 
 called he answered. You could not hear them without 
 weeping. Mrs. Berry sat with her, and I sat with him, 
 and his father moved from one to the other. 
 
 "But the trial for us came when she was gone. How to 
 communicate it to Richard — or whether to do so at all! 
 His father consulted with us. We were quite decided that 
 it would be madness to breathe it while he was in that 
 state. I can admit now — as things have turned out — we 
 were wrong. His father left us — I believe he spent the 
 time in prayer — and then leaning on me, he went to Rich- 
 ard, and said in so many words, that his Lucy was no 
 more. I thought it must kill him. He listened, and 
 smiled. I never saw a smile so sweet and so sad. He 
 said he had seen her die, as if he had passed through his 
 suffering a long time ago. He shut his eyes. I could see 
 by the motion of his eyeballs up that he was straining his 
 sight to some inner heaven. — I cannot go on. 
 
 "I think Richard is safe. Had we postponed the tidings, 
 till he came to his clear senses, it must have killed him. 
 His father was right for once, then. But if he has saved 
 his son's body, he has given the death-blow to his heart. 
 Richard will never be what he promised. 
 
 "A letter found on his clothes tells us the origin of the 
 quarrel. I have had an interview with Lord M. this morn- 
 ing. I cannot say I think him exactly to blame: Richard 
 forced him to fight. At least I do not select him the fore- 
 most for blame. He was deeply and sincerely affected by 
 the calamity he has caused. Alas ! he was only an instru- 
 ment. Your poor aunt is utterly prostrate and talks 
 strange things of her daughter's death. She is only happy 
 in drudging. Dr. Bairam says we must under any circum- 
 stances keep her employed. Whilst she is doing some- 
 thing, she can chat freely, but the moment her hands are 
 not occupied she gives me an idea that she is going into 
 a fit. 
 
 "We expect the dear child's uncle to-day. Mr. Thomp- 
 son is here. I have taken him upstairs to look at her. 
 That poor young man has a true heart. 
 
 "Come at once. You will not be in time to see her. She 
 will lie at Raynham. If you could you would see an angel.
 
 L58 THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 He sits by her side for hours. I can give you no deserip- 
 tion of her beauty. 
 
 "You will not delay, T know, dear Austin, and I want 
 you, for your presence will make me more cnaritablc than 
 1 find it possible to be. Have you noticed the expression 
 in the eyes of blind men? That is just how Richard looks, 
 as he lies there silent in his bed — striving to image her on 
 his brain." 
 
 THE ^ND
 
 THE MODERN 
 STUDENT'S LIBRARY 
 
 Each volume edited with an introduction by a leading 
 American authority 
 
 This series is composed of such works as are conspicuous in the 
 province of literature for their enduring influence. Every volume 
 is recognized as essential to a liberal education and will tend to in- 
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 A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND 
 MERRIMAC RIVERS 
 
 By Henry David Thoreau 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 ODELL SHEPARD 
 
 Professor of English at Trinity College 
 
 "... Here was a man who stood with his head in the clouds, 
 perhaps, but with his feet firmly planted on rubble and grit. He 
 was true to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. Thoreau's 
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 EMERSON'S ESSAYS 
 
 Selected and edited, with an Introduction, by 
 ARTHUR HOBSON QUINN 
 
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 Selected and edited by 
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 With the writings of these two remarkable essayists modern prose 
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 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN AND 
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 With an Introduction by 
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 THE 
 HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN 
 
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 With an Introduction by 
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 TEE MODERN STUDENT'S LIBRARY 
 
 THE ORDEAL OF 
 RICHARD FEVEREL 
 
 By George Meredith 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 FRANK W. CHANDLER 
 
 Professor of English at the University of Cincinnati 
 
 "The Ordeal of Richard Feverel," published in 1859, was Mere- 
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 MEREDITH'S 
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 CRITICAL ESSAYS OF THE 
 NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
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 ENGLISH POETS OF THE 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Selected ;tnd Edited by 
 
 ERNEST BERNBAUM 
 
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 TEE MODERN STUDENTS LIBRARY 
 
 NINETEENTH CENTURY LETTERS 
 
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 BYRON JOHNSON REES 
 
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 ■ -^ — ^ — ^ — - — — — — — — ^— 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON'S 
 
 ESSAYS 
 
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 Till: MODERN STUDENTS LIBRARY 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM 
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 EVAN HARRINGTON 
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 H. S. CANBY 
 
 Formerly Professor of English Literature at Yale University, and 
 present editor of the New York Evening Pod Literary Review 
 
 Here is one of the most absorbing of Stevenson's romances, full of 
 the spice of adventure and exciting incident, the thrill of danger and 
 the chill of fear; it is, beside, a powerful and subtle study of Scoteh 
 character of different types, and brings into being one of the most 
 amazing of all the dramatis personse of romantic fiction. 
 
 POEMS AND PLAYS 
 By Robert Browning 
 
 Selected with an Introduction and Notes by 
 HEWETTE ELWELL JOYCE 
 
 Assistant Professor of English in Dartmouth College 
 
 A volume intended for the student or less-advanced reader of 
 Browning who does not require a complete edition. The introduction 
 suggests an approach to Browning, points out such difficulties as often 
 perplex one who reads Browning for the first time, and states simply 
 a few of the poet's fundamental ideas.
 
 THE MODERN STUDENTS LIBRARY 
 
 THE OREGON TRAIL 
 
 By Francis Parkman 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 JAMES CLOYD BOWMAN 
 
 Professor of English, Northern State Normal College, Marquette, Michigan 
 
 Parkman's account of life among the pioneers and the Indians 
 paints a vivid picture of conditions which have vanished forever. 
 Here is history told in a style as fascinating and compelling as that 
 of Cooper at his best. As Parkman writes in his preface to the edi- 
 tion of 1892, "the Wild West is tamed, and its savage charms have 
 withered. If this book can help to keep their memory alive, it will 
 have done its part." 
 
 ESSAYS BY WILLIAM HAZLITT 
 
 Selected, with an Introduction, by 
 PERCY VAN DYKE SHELLY 
 
 Assistant Professor of English, University of Pennsylvania 
 
 A selection of the best of Hazlitt, showing the perfection of style 
 and the versatility of interest of this master of the personal essay. 
 The selections here brought together from the twelve bulky volumes 
 of his collected works are designed to illustrate his art in the fields 
 in which he unquestionably excelled. He is a literary critic of the 
 first rank, to be named with Dryden, Coleridge, and Arnold. As a 
 familiar writer he stands alone with Montaigne and Lamb. His 
 criticisms of the stage and of the art of painting are among the best 
 in the language. He could truthfully say: "I have endeavored to 
 feel what is good and to give a reason for the faith that was in me, 
 when necessary and when in my power."
 
 THE MODERN STUDENTS LIBRARY 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 DAVID CROCKETT 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 HAMLIN GARLAND 
 
 The most characteristic figure of the New World for the first two 
 centuries was the man of the "trace" or trail: the settler who, 
 carrying a rifle and an axe, adventured into the wilderness and 
 there hewed out a clearing, built a cabin, and planted corn; whose 
 skill with the flint-lock provided meat for his family, skins for his 
 clothing, and literally kept the wolf from the door. In Crockett's 
 autobiography the reader will find the picture of such a man, a 
 blunt, bold, prosaic account of a life, epic in its sweep, in a crude 
 sort the direct progenitor of Lincoln and Mark Twain. 
 
 Included in this volume are: "A Narrative of the Life of David 
 Crockett, of the State of Tennessee," "An Account of Colonel 
 Crockett's Tour to the North and Down East," and "Colonel 
 Crockett's Exploits and Adventures in Texas." 
 
 AMERICAN PROSE MASTERS 
 By W. C. Brownell 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 STUART P. SHERMAN 
 
 A book of vital and useful criticism, to produce which " it is neces- 
 sary" (to use Mr. Brownell's own words) "to think, think, think, 
 and then, when tired of thinking, to think more." Here one finds a 
 critical estimate which leads him to a true appreciation of the work 
 of Cooper, Hawthorne, Emerson, Poe, Lowell, and Henry James. 
 
 In his introduction, Mr. Sherman points out that "though the 
 table of contents indicates that this book contains but six Amer- 
 ican prose masters, the reflective reader soon perceives that it con- 
 tains a seventh, to whom the rest are indebted for no small part of 
 the interest which they seem to possess in their own right."
 
 THE MODERN STUDENTS LIBRARY 
 
 BARCHESTER TOWERS 
 
 By Anthony Tkollope 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 CLARENCE DIMICK STEVENS 
 
 Professor of English at the University of Cincinnati 
 
 Trollope covered a wide range of subjects in the more than thirty 
 novels that he wrote, but he was at his best in portraying provincial 
 life among the clergy and the gentry in a cathedral city. " Barchester 
 Towers" (1857), the most widely read of his books, is a classic for 
 its unfailing humor, its distinctly drawn characters, and its unerr- 
 ing accuracy in picturing situations that are true to life. 
 
 POEMS BY 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 Selected and edited, with an Introduction, by 
 GEORGE McLEAN HARPER 
 
 Professor of English at Princeton University 
 
 Even so sincere a friend of Wordsworth as Matthew Arnold be- 
 lieved that it was essential for the fame of the poet that a selection 
 be made of the poems, and he made one. There is no person better 
 suited to prepare a selection, after his long study and valuable dis- 
 coveries, than Professor Harper. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 I NIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is Dl'E on the last <latr stamped below. 
 
 
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