 Chapter 43 of 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. The Ordeal of Richard Feverell by George Meredith. Chapter 43. They heard at Rainham that Richard was coming. Lucy had the news first in the letter from Ripton Thompson, who met him at Bond. Ripton did not say that he had employed his vacation and 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, Ripton said nothing to him, but affected to be traveling 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, as 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, 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 safe blind for duity would 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 tender intimacy grew. I told you she could talk, Sir, said Adrian. She thinks, said the baronette, the delicate question how she was to treat her uncle. He settled generously. Farmer Blaze should come up to reign him when he would. Lucy must visit him at least three times a week. He had Farmer Blaze and Mrs. Berry to study and really excellent aphorism 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 cradle boy. A common sight for those who had the entry to the library was the baronette cherishing the hand of his daughter-in-law. Sir Richard was crossing the sea and hearts at reign him were beating quicker measures as the minutes progressed. That night he would be with them. Sir Austin gave Lucy a longer, warmer salute when she came down to breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Berry waxed, thrice amorous, it's your second bridal's 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 of this to my Berry now. All my feelings of love seem to have 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 he suffered at all, he suffered his due. Berry's position was decidedly uncomfortable. It could not be concealed from the lower household that he had a wife in the establishment, and for the complications this gave rise to his wife would not legitimately console him. Lucy did intercede, but Mrs. Berry was oblerate. She averaged she would not give up the 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. But like I am, Mrs. Berry was proud to agree. We like a new character now and then. Berry had delayed too long. We're not notorious that the straight-laced prudish dare not listen to the natural chase certain things Mrs. Berry thought was advisable to impart to the young wife with regard to Berry's infidelity and that charity women should have towards sinful men might hereby reproduce. Enough that she thought proper to broach the matter inside her own Christian sentiments now that she was indifferent in some degree. Oily calm is on the sea at Rainham. They look up at the sky and speculate that Richard is approaching fairly speeded. He comes to through 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 Rainham, Rip. Yes, once they asked me down and your father 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 to British to expose his emotions. Ripton devined how deep and change 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 extravagance 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 burnt as he thought of it, but he was going to do it even though it lost her to him. Just to see a 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 midday. Richard had a momentary 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 Beverell. One had been waiting some time. He went to the box and fetched them. The first Richard Open was from Lucy and as he read it, ripped and observed the color deep in on his face while a quivering smile played about his mouth. He 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 someday. Your health's a wretched. 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 playing 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 beast braider offered to pay all my debts and set me afloat if I would keep you in town. I declare my honor. 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 thought shy. You were just as tempting as a girl. You 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 honor. Circumstances then I saw it was all up between us. Braider came and began to chaff about you. I dealt the animal a stroke from the face with my riding whip. I shut him up pretty quick. You think I would let a man speak about you? I was going to swear. You see I remember Dick's lessons. Oh my God. I do feel unhappy. Braider offered me money. Go and think I took it if you like. What do I care? What anybody thinks? Something that Blackard 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 for me. I called at your house and saw your man serving 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 your wife. Then I saw why they wanted me to keep you away. I went to Braider. You know how I hate him. I made love to the man to get it out of him. Richard, my word of honor. They have planned to carry her all if Mount finds he cannot seduce her. Talk of devil sees one, but he is not so bad as Braider. I cannot forgive a mean dog his villainy. Now after this I'm 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 goodbye, Dick. I fancy I hear you cursing me. Why can't you feel like other men on this subject? But if you were like the rest of them, I should not have cared for you or far them. I have not worn lilac since I saw you last. I'll be buried in your color, 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. The first time you meet Braider came him publicly. Adieu say it's because you don't like his face. I suppose devils must not say adieu. Here's plain old goodbye then between you and me. Goodbye, 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 directions. Richard sat without speaking. His friend knew that face. He asked whether there was bad news in the letter. For answer he had the lie circumstantial. He ventured to remark that they were going the wrong way. He did the right way. Cryed Richard and his jaws were hard and square and his eyes looked heavy and full. Ripton said no more but thought the cab man pulled up at a club. A gentleman in whom Ripton recognized the Honorable Peter Braider was just then swinging a leg over his horse with one foot in the stirrup. Hearing his name call, the Honorable Peter turned about and stretched an affable hand. Is Mount Falcon in town? Said Richard, taking the horse's reins instead of the gentlemanly hand. His voice and aspect were quite friendly. Mount, Braider replied, curiously watching the action. Yes, he's off this evening. He's in town. Richard released his horse. I want to see him. Where is he? The young man looked pleasant. That which might have aroused Braider's suspicions was an old affair in parasitical register by this time. Wanted to see him. What about? He said carelessly and gave the address. By the way, he sang out. We thought of putting your name down, federal. He indicated the lofty structure. What do you say? Richard nodded back at him crying, hurry. Braider returned the nod and those who prominated the district soon beheld his body in elegant motion to the stepping of his well-earned horse. What do you want to see, Lord Mount Falcon 4? 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 cabin. Ripton was conscious of being examined by those strong gray 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 Rainham. Ripton said, I shall be there tonight, 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 someone speak behind him. You are a federal's friend. Ripton had an eye for Lord's and Ambrosial Footman standing at the open door of Lord Mount Falcon's house and a gentleman standing on the doorstep 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, Federal has insulted me grossly. I must meet him. Of course, it's a piece of infernal falling. 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 eye and ripped him 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. You are not in the army. The question was quite unnecessary. Ripton confessed to the law that my Lord did not look surprised. I will not detain you, he said. Distantly bowing, Ripton gave him a commoner's obeisance, beginning 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 bedlam between this and tomorrow 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 where 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 Mount Falcon said, I went out of my way, sir, in speaking to you. I saw you from the window. Your friend is mad. Deucid, methodical. Admit, but mad. I have particular 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 considerable earnestness should anything happen. I have the honor to be known to Mrs. Federal, and I beg you will tell her. I very particularly desire you to let her know that I was not to blame. Mount Falcon rang the bell and bowed him out, with this on his mind ripped and hurried down to those who were waiting in joyful trust at Rainham. End of Chapter 43, Chapter 44 of the Ordeal of Richard Federal. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. The Ordeal of Richard Federal by George Meredith, Chapter 44. The watch, consulted by Hippias, alternately with his pulse, in occult calculation, hideous to remark, 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 Rainham. They were silent as those who questioned the flying minutes. Ripton had said that Richard was sure to come, that the feminine eyes reading him ever and on 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. Prey put up that watch. Impatience serves nothing, he said, half turning hastily to his brother behind him. Hippias relinquished his pulse and mine will be 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 manuscript, whether in commissuration 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 engaged 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 the management of youths and maids and of certain magisterial functions connected therewith. It is decreed that these officers be all and every men of science, etc. And Adrian cheerly drove his pen afresh. Mrs. Doria took Lucy's hand, mutely addressing encouragement to her, and Lucy brought as much of a smile as she could command to reply with, I fear we must give him up tonight, observed Lady Blandish. If he said he would come, he will come, Sir Austin interjected. Between him and the lady, there was something of a contest secretly going on. He was conscious that nothing, safe, 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 deceived 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 12. 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 better not come down again, my child. She kept her eyes on him, obliged me by retiring for the night. He added Lucy shook their hands 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 sleep. She will control herself for the child's sake. You ask too much of her, not, he emphasized. It was 12 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 comment would introduce them to the interior of his machinery, the eternal view of which was sufficiently harrowing, so they maintained a discreet reserve, taking it for acquiescence in his deplorable condition. Hippias resumed despairingly. It's a fact. I've brought you to see that. 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 said accusing his soul of cowardice while he 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. Tomorrow then, if not tonight, he replied, but I say he will come tonight. 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 altogether, a superior person. I confess, I should scarcely have hoped to find one like her. Admit that your science does not accomplish everything. 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 tonight, 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 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 absolutely 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-open parcel lying there and drew forth a little book she recognized. Ah, 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. He was nothing other than the old notebook. 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 mouth piece of narrower. I do not agree with that. She observed he was in no humor 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 halfway house to an idea. I concede, and the majority rest their 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 strange man that he is. Lady Blandish was still inclined to submission though decidedly in subordinate. She had once been fairly conquered, but if what she reverenced as a great mind could conquer her, it must be a great man that should hold her captive. The autumn primrose blooms for the loftiest manhood is a vindictive flower in lesser hands. Nevertheless, Sir Austin had only to be successful, and this lady's allegiance was his forever. The trial was at hand. She said again he is not coming tonight, and the baronet on whose visage a contemplative pleased look had been rising for a minute past quietly added he is calm. Richard's voice was heard in the hall. There was commotion all over the house at the return of the young air, Barry seizing every possible occasion to approach his besie now that her involuntary coldness had enhanced her value. Such as men, as the soft woman reflected, Barry ascended to her and delivered the news in pompous tones and weedling gestures. The best word you spoke for many a day, says she, and leaves him unfeed in an attitude to hurry and pour bliss into Lucy's ears. Lord be praised, she entered the adjoining room exclaiming, we've got 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, interdicting even a whisper from bursting Mrs. Barry. 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 fullness 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. He re-stood. Congratulations were thick in his 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 laden load that he felt like a bullet in his breast, he might have thought the morrow with death sitting on it was the dream. Yes, he was awake. Now first the cloud of phantasms cleared away. He beheld his real life and the colors of true human joy, and on the morrow perhaps he was to close his eyes on them. That laden bullet dispersed all unrealities. They stood about him in the hall, his father, Lady Blandish, Mrs. Doria, Adrienne 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. Barry in the background bobbing. There was Martin Barry 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? Bless ye, my Mr. Richard, whimpered Mrs. Barry, and whispered Rosalie, all is agreeable now. She is waiting up in bed for ye like a newborn. 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 were pale, Richard. He pleaded exhaustion. What detained you, dear business, he said. She drew him imperiously apart from the others. Richard, is it over? He asked what she meant. The dreadful duel, Richard. He looked darkly. Is it over? Is it done, Richard? Getting no immediate answers, 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, Claire'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 a chance to overhear a trifle of Ripton's communication to Adrian, and had built their own with the dark forces of a stricken soul. Wondering how this woman could have divined it, Richard calmly said, it's arranged. The matter you allude to. Indeed, truly dear, yes. Tell me, but he broke away from her, saying, you shall hear the particulars tomorrow. And she, not alive to double meaning, just then, allowed him to leave her. He'd eaten nothing for twelve hours and called for food, but he would take only dry bread and clear it, which was served on a tray in the library. He said without any show of feeling that he must eat before he saw the young hope of reynum. So there he sat, breaking bread and eating great mouthfuls and washing them down with wine, talking of what they would. His father's duty's 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 baronet thought it better that their meeting should be private, and sent word for Lucy to wait upstairs. The others perceived 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 promising to pray for their mutual happiness. The two men who knew what was hanging over him spoke together outside. Ripton was forgetting a positive assurance that the duel would not be fought, but Adrian said, time enough tomorrow, he's safe enough while he's here, I'll stop it tomorrow. Ending with banter of Ripton and allusions to his adventures with Miss Random, which must Adrian said have led him into many affairs of the 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 praising Lucy. I've found a second daughter in her dear. Oh, may you both be happy. They all praise Lucy now. His father commenced the moment they were alone. Poor Helen, your wife has been at great comfort to her, Richard. I think Helen must have sunk without her. So lovely a young person possessing mental faculty and a conscience for her duties I've 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 thank you very fortunate, said his father. Sensitive to tone and manner as he was, his evolution of paternal feeling was frozen. Richard did not approach him. He leaned against the chimney piece glancing at the floor and lifting his eyes only when he spoke. Fortunate, 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 looked angrily at heaven and grew reckless. Richard said his father coming close to him. It is late tonight. I do not wish Lucy to remain in expectation longer or I should have explained myself to you thoroughly and I think or at least hope you would have justified me. I had caused 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 afterlife 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 excellent 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 Codley 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 color rushed. Richard said a husband 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 recklessness of his misery he had his little pity for any other soul as for his own. Sir Austin's brows were deep drawn down. What did you say, Richard? Clearly his intelligence had taken it, but this the worst he could hear, this that he had read it 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 her? Angered at his callous aspect, his father cried, what brings you to her now? That will be between us, too, was the reply. Sir Austin fell into his chair. Meditation was impossible. 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 pass 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 than how, then why? A thousand questions rose in the bernet's mind. Bessie 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 seems she should be spared this misery. He proposed to Richard to spare her. Vast is the distinction 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 him one would have imagined he thought the sin in men small indeed. His words were idle. She must know it, said Richard Stirling. I will go to her now, sir, if you please. Sir Austin detained him, expostulated, contradicted himself, confounded his principles, made nonsense of all his theories. He could not induce his son to waver in his resolve, ultimately their good night being interchanged. He understood that the happiness of random depended on Lucy's mercy. He had no fears of her sweetheart, but it was a strange thing to have come to, on 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 unwanted 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 heroically dashed his head into cold water. She shall be ready, sir, he nodded. Tom, if you don't see me back here at Rainham, 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 will do what I say. Aye, sir, that I will. Didn't Ilewhite? 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 halfway toward him. In the moment that passed, as 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 color 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. They spoke no more. His soul was drowned in her kiss. Supporting her, his 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, though 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 torrent 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 exaltation 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 underlives 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 tremor 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 side of a little rosy curtain 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 in the grip he had unwittingly given her hand. Oh, God, what an ordeal was this, that tomorrow 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 reproachfully 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 wound he was going to lay open to her eyes. Lucy, do you know why I came to you tonight? 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? Oh, beloved, cried he, the tears bursting out of his eyes. Oh, 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 dare not come to you, my wife, my beloved. I could not come because I was a coward. Because hear me, this was the reason I've broken my marriage oath. Again, her lips moved. She caught at a dim, fleshless meaning in them. But you love me, Richard, my husband, you love me. Yes, I have never loved. I never shall love woman but you. Darling, kiss me. Have you understood what I've told you? Kiss me, she said. He did not join lips. I have come to you tonight 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 I'm 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. You 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 at 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 summer morning in the field of that meadow sweet. He held her to him and thought then of a holier picture of mother and child of the sweet wonders of 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, mustn'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 powdered 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 quick and soft, bending lower till Lucy's curls as she nestled and bent with him rolled on the crimson quilt of the cot. A smile went up the plump cheeks, forthwith the butt of a mouth was in rapid motion. The young mother whispered blush, and he's dreaming of me. And the simple words did more than Richard'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 cozy position but reconsidered 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, Richard. He did not hear her immediately. It seemed a bit of heaven drop 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 soon, Lucy? Oh, no, not yet, dear, not for hours. I would have kept him awake for you, but he was so sleepy. Richard 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 forced to leave him. Then he looked down on him again, struggled to tear himself away to nature's ward 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 Ripton had not delayed to tell him of his interview with Mount Falcon, all might have been well. But pride said it was impossible, and then injury spoke for why was he thus space 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 marveled at such excessive emotion, but when his chest heaved and the extremity of mortal 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 tonight, 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'm not now. Yes, to have lived the child in your heart and never to have uttered a complaint. You are brave. Oh, my Lucy, my wife, you that have made me a man. I called you a coward. I remember it. I was the coward. I, the wretched, vain fool. Darling, I'm going to leave you now. You are brave and you won't 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, captive, speechless. You could only clutch one arm of his with both her hands going. She presently gasped for three or three days. No more, I hope. Tonight, 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, strong 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 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 drew to her, but summoning the powers of hell, Kister suddenly cried the words of parting and hurried to the door. It was over in an instant. She cried out his name, clinging to him wildly, and was absurd to be brave for he would be dishonored 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 husband with it as her strongest appeal to him, and had fainted. Oh my, oh my, Mrs. Berry moaned, and I just now thinkin' they were 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, ti, titl, ti, hidey, oh, go my love, and every horse and rain him shall be out after him. This is what men brings us to hidey, oidy, hidly, ah, o'er you take, blessed baby, an alga. 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, ram, ti, am, ti, idl, idl, idy, oh my goodness, what sorrows 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 sight of those two poor, true women, jigging on their wretched hearts to calm the town, he must have very little of the human in him. There was no more sleep for rain him that night. End of chapter 44. Chapter 45 of 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. The ordeal of Richard Feverell by George Meredith. Chapter 45. His ordeal is over. I've 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 Mount Falcon, and was lying wounded at a hamlet on the coast. His father started immediately with his poor wife, and I followed in company 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 pretensions 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 on pretending people. They were at a wretched French cabaret smelling vile, 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 myself 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 it would endanger his life. But she looked such awful eagerness. She had this 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 unevenness, 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 separating 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 Dr. Barum, and a French physician from Dieppe, a very skillful 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 supervened. 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, listen, 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. Monsieur de Pré, 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 something, I'm sure now from what I know of her character, 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 creature 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 blaming her for not having considered the child. Indeed, he made a remark to me that it was unfortunate disastrous. 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've 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 wouch. He was senseless, call him cruel and harsh, and cried that she had suffered, and I saw then his mouth contract as if he had been touched. Perhaps when he thinks his mind will be clear, but what he has done cannot be undone. I do not imagine he will abuse women anymore. The doctor called her a fort, a bell, jean, thumb. And he said she was as noble as soul as ever God molded clay upon. A noble soul fort a bell. 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 dreadfully loud. She screamed that she was drowning in fire, and that her husband would not come to her to save her. We didn't sound as much as we could, but it was impossible to 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 Richard 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 that must have killed him. His father was right for once then, but if he has saved his son's body, he is 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've had an interview with Lord M. this morning. I cannot say I think him exactly to blame. Richard forced him to fight. At least I do not select him the foremost for blame. He was deeply and sincerely affected by the calamity he has caused. Alas, he was only an instrument. Your poor aunt is utterly prostrate and talk strange things of her daughter's death. She is only happy and drudging. Dr. Barum says we must under any circumstances keep her employed whilst she is doing something she can chat freely. But the moment her hands are not occupied, she gives me an idea that she's going into a fit. We expect the dear child's uncle today. Mr. Thompson is here. I've 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 random. If you could, you would see an angel. He sits by her side for hours. I can give you no description of her beauty. You will not delay. I know dear Austin, and I want you for your presence will make me more charitable than I 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 end. End of Chapter 45. End of The Ordeal of Richard Feverell by George Meredith.