 CHAPTER XIV 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, sighing, 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 superhuman beauty and strangeness, where Cavaliers and ladies leaned whispering upon close green swords, and knights and ladies cast a splendor upon savage forests, and tilts and turnies were held in golden quartz lit to a glorious day by ladies' eyes, one pair of which, dimly visioned, constantly distinguishable, followed him through the boschage 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. A while the heart would pause and flutter to a shock. He was in the act of consummating all earthly bliss by pressing 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 off. He was intoxicated by anticipation. For that he was born. 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 evolution was so great that he was repeatedly 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 Feverell had been swamped if the act of composition were easy at such a time, and a single idea could stand clearly foremost, but Marriads were demanding the first place, chaotic hosts like ranks of stormy billows pressed impetuously for expression, and despair of reducing them to form, quite as much as pride to which it pleased him to refer his incapacity. He 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 somewhat, and he went forth into the air. A lamp was still burning in his father's room, and Richard thought as he looked up that he saw the ever-vigilant head on the watch. Suddenly the lamp was extinguished, the window stood cold against the hues of dawn. Strong pulling is an excellent medical remedy for certain 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 color to whose influences he was heedless as he shot under willows and aspens, and across sheets of river reaches, pure mirrors to the upper glory, himself the soul tenant of the stream. There 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 woods were full of it, the waters rolled with it, and the winds. Oh, why could not one in these days do some high nightly deed which should draw down ladies' eyes from their heaven, as in the days of Arthur? To such a meaning breathed the unconscious size of the youth when he had pulled through his first feverish energy. He was off-bersly 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 eruption of miserable masculine prose. Hardly wishing him a bed with the rest of mankind, Richard rode in and jumped ashore. Ralph immediately seized his arm, saying that he desired earnestly to have a talk with him, and dragged the magnetic youth from his water-dreams up and down the wet moan 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, where at Ralph, as one who branches into matter somewhat far into 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, quote 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 Rainham, 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 don't like Mary best, what do you think? 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. Parabelle I like, names beginning with CL, I prefer, the CLs are always gentle and lovely girls you would die for, don't you think so? Richard had never been acquainted with any of them to inspire that emotion. Indeed, these urgent appeals to his fancy infeminine 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, wearing 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 meaning 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. Would you really prefer the CLs, said Ralph persuasively? Not better than the names ending in A or Y, Richard 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, eaten was quitted forever. In a few months he would have to join his regiment, and before he left he must say goodbye to his friends. Would Richard tell him Mrs. Forrey's address? He had heard she was somewhere by the sea. Richard did not remember the address, 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 Claire, said Richard, perusing what was composed of the exterior formula. You've addressed it to Claire herself. That was plain to see. Emeline Clementina Matilda Laura, Countess Blandish, Richard continued in a low tone, transferring the names and playing on the musical strings they were to him. Then he said, names of ladies, how they sweeten their names. He fixed his eyes on Ralph. If he discovered anything further he said nothing, but bad the good fellow-goodbye 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 Claire 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 Feverell? He read the words again and again. Claire Doria Fori Why, Claire 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 cites the quarry. He felt too weak to pull. Claire Doria Fori Oh, perfect melody. Playing 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 behind hand, 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 anger among the reeds. Meadowsweet 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 befitting 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 between the bank and the water. Apparently she found the fruit abundant, for her hand was making pretty progress to her mouth. Festidious youth, which revolts at women plumping her exquisite proportions on bread and butter, and wood, we must suppose, joyfully have her scraggie to have her poetical, can hardly object to dewberries. Indeed, the act of eating them is dainty and induces musing. 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 copes, dark above her nodding hat, the blackbird fluted, calling to her with thrice mellow note. The kingfisher flashed emerald out of green ossears. A bow-winged heron traveled 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 falls 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 skull. 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. Richard 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 with her. He followed her. CHAPTER XV He had landed on an island of the still-vext Bermuths. The world lay wrecked behind him. Rain'em hung in mist, remote, a phantom to the vivid reality of this white hand which had drawn him thither away thousands of leagues in an eye-twinkle. Hark! how Ariel sang overhead! What splendor in the heavens! What marvels of beauty about his enchanted brows! And oh you wonder! Fair flame, by whose light the glories of being are now first seen! Radiant Miranda, Prince 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 paradise 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 color 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 temple's long and level. You saw that she was fashioned 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, richer henceforth than all mortal wisdom to Prince Ferdinand. For when nature turns artist, and produces contrasts of color 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 air 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. Oh, women, says the pilgrim's script 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 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 discolored by his introductory adventure, and though he ducked his head with the spirit of a dab chick, 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 disconsolately to hear Miranda's murmured mixing of thanks and pretty expotulations. 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 discovered a griffin between two wheat sheaves, his crest in silver, and below, a wonderment immense, his own handwriting. He handed it to her. She took it and put it in her bosom. Who would have thought that where all else perished, odes, idols, lines, stanzas, this one sonnet to the stars should be miraculously reserved for such a starry fate, passing the attitude. 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 fulfill it. The youth was too charged with emotion 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 musor 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. Pardon me, won't you? His face took the same soft smiling curves in admiration 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, oh, 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 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 copes and stood near a style inside of the foam of the weir and the many colored 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 curiously. 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 paper? She chose to select the easier question for answer. You ought to know me, we have been introduced. Sweet was her winning offhand affability. Then who in heaven's name are you? Tell me, I never could have forgotten you. You have, I think, she said. Impossible that we could ever have met, and I forget you. She looked up at him. Do you remember Bell Thorpe? Bell Thorpe, Bell Thorpe, quote Richard, as if he had to touch his brain to recollect there was such a place. Do you mean Old Blaze's farm? Then I am Old Blaze's niece. She tripped him a soft curtsy. 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 is your name, said his mouth, while his eyes added, oh wonderful creature, how came you to enrich the earth? Have you forgot the Desperos of Dorset too? She peered at him from a side bend of the flapping brim. The Desperos of Dorset, a light broken 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 fervor 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, returned, you are very beautiful. The words slipped out. Perfect simplicity is unconsciously audacious. Her overpowering beauty struck his heart, and like an instrument that is touched, and answers to the touch, he spoke. Miss Desperos made an effort to trifle with this terrible 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. Then why, why do you leave me? Because she hesitated, I must go. No, you must not go, why must you go? Do not go. Indeed, I 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 goodbye, as if it were a natural thing to say. The hand was pure white, white and fragrant as the frosted blossom of a May night. It was the hand whose shadow cast before. He had last night bent his head reverentially above and kissed, resigning himself thereupon over to execution for payment of the penalty of such daring, by such bliss well rewarded. He took the hand and held it, gazing between her eyes. Goodbye, 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 and 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 foreswore herself and said, yes. Do 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 shutter 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 surged tumultuously against the bars of its prison, crying 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 executioner, 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 forgive me fair charity. I think 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 style, and up the pathway through the dewy shades of the copes, 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 marvelous splendors 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 lightning's 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. Tomorrow 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 priest, and the old blackbird its glossy gowned chorister, and there will be a sacred repast of blueberries. Today 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 of fear that she may not be his forever. Air long he learns that her name is Lucy. Air long he meets Ralph, and discovers that in a day he has distanced him by a sphere. He and Ralph and the Curit of Loburn join in their walks and raise classical discussions on ladies' hair, fingering a thousand delicious locks from those of Cleopatra to the Borgias. Fair, fair, all of them fair, sighs the melancholy Curit, 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 luxuriant's 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. End of chapter 15. Chapter 16, The Ordeal of Richard Feverell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. The Ordeal of Richard Feverell by George Meredith. Chapter 16, The Unmasking of Master Ripton Thompson. Lady Blandish and others who professed an interest in the fortunes and future of the systematized youth had occasionally 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 notebook, Sir Austin, as he neared the metropolis, distantly dropped his eye. There were names historic and names mushroomic, names that the conqueror might have called in his muster role, names that had been clearly tossed into the upper stratum of civilized lifer by a millwheel or a merchant stool. Against them the baronet had written M or P-O or P-R, signifying money, position, principles, favoring the latter with special brackets. The wisdom of a worldly man, which he could now and then adopt, determined him before he commenced his round of visits to consult and sound his solicitor and his physician thereinant, lawyers and doctors 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 poorest 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 a light, 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 returned 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 role and the unexpectedness of the honor. He was a thin stately man of law garbed as one who gave audience to acreed bishops and carrying on his countenance the stamp of paternity to the parchment 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 satisfaction that he was a pattern to the youth of the age. A difficult time of life, Sir Austin said the old lawyer shaking his head, we must keep our eyes on them, keep awake. The mischief is done in a minute. We must take care to have seen where we planted and that the root was sound or the mischief will do itself in sight of or under the very spectacles of supervision, said the baronet. His legal advisor murmured exactly as if that were his own idea, adding, It is my plan with Ripton, who has had the honor 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 article 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 expression, do you establish yourself in a radiating center of intuition? Do you base your watchfulness on so thorough and acquaintance with his character? So perfect a knowledge of the instrument that all its movements, even the eccentric 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 unable to say that Ripton had born an extremely good character at school. I find, Sir Austin remarked, as sardonically he relaxed his inspecting pose and mane. 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 gain say my wishes, feeling me and 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 of self-guidance and in a wrong course, his very vitalities hurry him to perdition. Young he is an organism ripening to the set mechanic diurnal round, and while so he needs all the angels to hold watch over him, that he grows 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 explained 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 accusing his understanding. And Mr. Thompson had not the slightest notion of accusing his. But the baronet's condescension incoming thus to him, and speaking on the subject nearest his heart, might well affect him, and he quickly settled the case in favor of both parties, pronouncing mentally that his honored client had a meaning, and so deep it was so subtle that no wonder he experienced 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 recurrence of the word healthy, Mr. Thompson caught him up. I apprehended you. Oh, I agree with you, Sir Austin, entirely. Allow me to ring for my son, Ripton. I think if you can't dissent 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 arrested 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. Beasley, 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 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 direct contact with his brain pen. 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 dare say, whispered Mr. Thompson to Sir Austin, I call that study. The confidential clerk rose and bowed obsequious senility. Is it like this every day Beasley, 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 pall to the others. Down went the lid of the desk. Dismay and the ardors 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 way 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 acquainted to the visits of your client. So condescending and kindly did this speech sound to Mr. Thompson that seeing Ripton still preserve his appearance 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. What law, said Sir Austin perplexed? Gravelkind, again rumbled Ripton'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 mistake. What law, sir? Ripton read his error in the sternly painful expression of his father's face and corrected himself. Gravelkind, sir. Ah, said Mr. Thompson with a sigh of relief. Gravelkind indeed. Gravelkind, 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 judiciousness of that family arrangement if he had 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 hid 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 keyhole, Ripton discovered that the desk was already unlocked. Mr. Thompson marched to it and held the little loft. A book was lying open within, which Ripton immediately hustled among a mass of papers and tossed into a dark corner, not before the glimpse of a colored 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 search for them was tedious and vain. Papers, not legal, or the fruits of study were found that made Mr. Thompson more intimate with the condition of his son's ex-checker, 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 publication, as Ripton brought them forth one by one. Fourth 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 crime, Mr. Thompson hemmed and stopped short like a man who comes unexpectedly upon a snake in his path. Mr. Beasley'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, white cross gutters for his introduction to Venus, I owe you five pounds when I can pay, signed Ripton Thompson. Underneath this fictitious legal instrument was discreetly appended, mem document not binding. There was a pause, an awful underbreath 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 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 heading, and he was not disappointed. The legal considerations related to the case regarding which Ripton had conceived it imperative upon him to address a letter to the editor of the jurist, and was indeed 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 Thompson, whose assistance the attorney general in his opening 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-admissibility of certain evidence and the ultimate decision of the judges. Mr. Thompson Sr. 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 accentuation and satiric sing-song tone deliberately read Vulcan v. Mars. The attorney general assisted by Mr. Ripton Thompson appeared on behalf of the plaintiff, Mr. Sergeant Cupid QC, and Mr. Capital Opportunity for the defendant. Oh, snapped Mr. Thompson Sr. 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 shrugs, Mr. Thompson was pushed by the devil of his ranker 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. Beasley, you will henceforth 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 description? Route 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 suspicions 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 wee-chiefs cried Ripton, still clutching it nervously. Mr. Thompson, without any notion of what he was doing, drew the book from Ripton's hold whereupon the two seniors laid their gray heads together over the title page. It set forth in attractive characters beside a colored 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 paw. 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 Rainham. Undoubtedly this was a great triumph to the system. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17, The Ordeal of Richard Feverell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Buchos. The Ordeal of Richard Feverell by George Meredith. Chapter 17, Good Wine and Good Blood. The conversation between solicitor and client was resumed. Is it possible, quote 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 colored frontispiece from which brazen misrandom smiled bewitchingly out, as if she had no doubt of captivating time and all his veterans on a fair field paw. He shut her to with the energy he would have given to the office of publicly slapping her face. From this day I diet him on bread 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 adoption 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, appetite 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 indisputable proof of it. But I knew that the seed was in him, and therefore I have not laterly invited him to Rainham. 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 honor to be favored with Sir Austin Feverell's advice, secretly resolute like a true Britain 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, heir. 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, 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, seeing 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 bequeath 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, remonstrating reason and the cry of long years of comfortable respectability. Mr. Thompson went to church regularly, paid his rates and dues without over much 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 citing 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 Ripton'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 peckant youth. Mr. Thompson shook his head and with dolefully puckered visage and a pitiable contraction of his shoulders rose slowly up from his chair. Apparently he was about to speak but he straightway turned and went meditatively to a side recess in the room whereof he opened a door, drew forth a tray and a decanter labeled port, filled a glass for his client, deferentially invited him to partake of 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 Thompson'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 draft and turned its flavor over and over with an aspect of potent judicial wisdom one might have thought that he was weighing mankind in the balance. 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-concealing 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 advisor'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 pace. 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. Mr. Thompson brushed back his hair. The baronet was still expectant. Mr. Thompson sighed deeply and emptied his glass. He combatted the change that had come over him. He tried not to see Ruby. He tried to feel miserable and it was not in him. He spoke, drawing what appropriate inspirations he could from his client's countenance to show that they had views in common. Degenerating 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 lookout. 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 allowance two glasses three hours before dinner? Stomachic, I find it agrees 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 Pilger Feverell, used to taste whenever he came to consult my father when I was a boy. And I remember one day being called in and Sir Pilger himself poured me out a glass. I wish I could call in Ripton now and do the same. No, leniency in such a case is 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 favor me with your company at my little country cottage, I have a wine there, the fellow to that. I think you 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 fellows in their degeneracy, that in spirited lawyers after quotation, but condense the sensual promise into highly approve. Sir Austin speculated on his legal advisor with a sour mouth comically compressed. It stood clear to him that Thompson before his port and Thompson after were two different men. To indoctrinate him now was too late. It was perhaps the time to make the positive use of him he wanted. He penciled on a handy slip of paper. Two prongs of a fork, the world stuck between them, port and the pallet. 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, he said to himself, I think I have been dealing with the world in epitome. End of chapter 17. Chapter 18, the ordeal of Richard Feverell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. The ordeal of Richard Feverell by George Meredith. Chapter 18, the system encounters the wild oats special plea. The rumor circulated that Sir Austin Feverell, the recluse of Rainham, the rank misogynist, the rich baronet was in town, looking out a bride for his only son and uncorrupted heir. Dr. Benjamin Barum was the excellent authority. Dr. Barum had safely delivered Mrs. Deborah Gossip of this interesting banthling, which was forthwith dandled in dozens of feminine laps. Dr. Barum could boast the first interview with the famous recluse. 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 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 script 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 a propriety's sake. He perused the cards and smiled. He knew their purpose. What terrible light Thompson and Barum 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, Darlie Absworthy, both members of parliament, useful men, though gouty, who had sewn in their time a fine crop of wild oats and advocated the advantage of doing so, seeing that they did not fancy themselves the worst for it. He found one with an imbecile son and the other with consumptive daughters. So much, he wrote in the notebook for the wild oats theory. Darlie was proud of his daughter's 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 schoolboy 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 baronette frequently questioning her on that point. She intimated that she was robust, but towards the close of their conversation 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.' "'He did not ask permission to see Dora and Adela. "'Lord Heddon vehemently preached wild oats.' "'It's all nonsense, Feverell,' 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 know 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 milk's up 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 do you call them, "'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, feverell. "'It's a dangerous experiment "'that of bringing up flesh and blood in harness. "'No cult will bear it, or he's a tame beast. "'And look you, take it on medical grounds. "'Early excesses the frame we'll 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, Lipscomb's always the same,' Lord head inside, "'peavishly. "'He'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 Lipscomb 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 headless, degenerate, "'weedy issue and result. "'Both, darly, absworthy, and Lordheaden, "'spoke of the marriage of their offspring "'as a matter of course. "'And if I were not a coward, "'Sir Austin confessed to himself, "'I should stand forth and forbid the bans. "'This universal 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 insensible. "'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 barum physician could recollect a progenitorial blot, "'either on the male or female side were not numerous. "'Only,' said the doctors, "'you really must not be too exacting in these days, "'my dear Sir Austin. "'It is impossible 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 returned. "'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 education "'of our British youth, which may come in opportunity. "'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 neighbors, 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.' "'Dr. Barum would hardly be flattered at such a comparison.' "'Assuredly,' he interjected. "'Besides,' added the baronet, "'the French make no pretenses, "'and thereby escape one of the main penalties "'of hypocrisy, whereas we, "'but I am not their advocate, credit me. "'It is better, perhaps, to pay our homage to virtue. "'At least it delays the spread of entire corruptness.' "'Dr. Barum wished the baronet's success "'and diligently endeavored to assist his search "'for a mate worthy of the pure-blood barb "'by putting several mamas whom he visited on the alert.' End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 The Ordeal of Richard Feverell This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. The Ordeal of Richard Feverell by George Meredith, Chapter 19. 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 in 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 plains and beaches, lucid green. And the pine stems, red or gold, leaving brightest footprints upon thickly-weeded banks where the fox-gloves 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 borne 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, a thwart the pathway, quivers many hewed 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. Peeps of the reveling splendor 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 gambles 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 succumbs 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, secluded from vexed shores, the prince and princess of the island meet. Here, like darkling nightingales, they sit and into eyes and ears and hands, poor, 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 keynotes of the wonderful harmonies the angels sing aloft. Lucy, my beloved, oh Richard, out in the world there, on the skirts of the woodland, a sheep-boy pipes to meditative eve 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 vial ravishingly or blows into the mellow bassoon or rouses the heroic ardors of the trumpet or it may be commends the whole orchestra for them. And they are pleased, he is still the cunning musician. They languish and taste ecstasy, but it is however sonorous and earthly concert. For them the spheres move not to two notes. They have lost or forfeited and never known the first super sensual spring of the ripe senses into passion when they carry the soul with them and have the privileges of spirits to walk disembodied 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 loves simple bread and water is a finer feast. Pipe happy sheep bop, love, irradiated angels unfold your wings and lift your voices. They have out flown philosophy. Their instinct has shot beyond the can 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 oh victory, oh wonder, after toil and pain and difficulties exceeding the celestial hosts have succeeded. Here we to sit who are written above as one. Pipe happy love, pipe on to these dear innocents. The tide of color 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 advancing 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? Oh Richard, yes, for I remembered you. Lucy, 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 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 forever, 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. End of chapter 19