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Title: The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, v5

Author: George Meredith

Release Date: September, 2003 [Etext #4410]
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THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL

By George Meredith

1905



BOOK 5.

XXXIV.    CONQUEST OF AN EPICURE
XXXV.     CLARE'S MARRIAGE
XXXVI.    A DINNER-PARTY AT RICHMOND
XXXVII.   MRS. BERRY ON MATRIMONY
XXXVIII.  AN ENCHANTRESS



CHAPTER XXXIV


It was the month of July.  The Solent ran up green waves before a full-
blowing South-wester.  Gay little yachts bounded out like foam, and
flashed their sails, light as sea-nymphs.  A crown of deep Summer blue
topped the flying mountains of cloud.

By an open window that looked on the brine through nodding roses, our
young bridal pair were at breakfast, regaling worthily, both of them.
Had the Scientific Humanist observed them, he could not have contested
the fact, that as a couple who had set up to be father and mother of
Britons, they were doing their duty.  Files of egg-cups with
disintegrated shells bore witness to it, and they were still at work,
hardly talking from rapidity of exercise.  Both were dressed for an
expedition.  She had her bonnet on, and he his yachting-hat.  His sleeves
were turned over at the wrists, and her gown showed its lining on her
lap.  At times a chance word might spring a laugh, but eating was the
business of the hour, as I would have you to know it always will be where
Cupid is in earnest.  Tribute flowed in to them from the subject land.
Neglected lies Love's penny-whistle on which they played so prettily and
charmed the spheres to hear them.  What do they care for the spheres, who
have one another?  Come, eggs! come, bread and butter! come, tea with
sugar in it and milk! and welcome, the jolly hours.  That is a fair
interpretation of the music in them just now.  Yonder instrument was good
only for the overture.  After all, what finer aspiration can lovers have,
than to be free man and woman in the heart of plenty?  And is it not a
glorious level to have attained?  Ah, wretched Scientific Humanist! not
to be by and mark the admirable sight of these young creatures feeding.
It would have been a spell to exorcise the Manichee, methinks.

The mighty performance came to an end, and then, with a flourish of his
table-napkin, husband stood over wife, who met him on the confident
budding of her mouth.  The poetry of mortals is their daily prose.  Is it
not a glorious level to have attained?  A short, quick-blooded kiss,
radiant, fresh, and honest as Aurora, and then Richard says without lack
of cheer, "No letter to-day, my Lucy!" whereat her sweet eyes dwell on
him a little seriously, but he cries, "Never mind! he'll be coming down
himself some morning.  He has only to know her, and all's well! eh?" and
so saying he puts a hand beneath her chin, and seems to frame her fair
face in fancy, she smiling up to be looked at.

"But one thing I do want to ask my darling," says Lucy, and dropped into
his bosom with hands of petition.  "Take me on board his yacht with him
to-day--not leave me with those people!  Will he?  I'm a good sailor, he
knows!"

"The best afloat!" laughs Richard, hugging her, "but, you know, you
darling bit of a sailor, they don't allow more than a certain number on
board for the race, and if they hear you've been with me, there'll be
cries of foul play!  Besides, there's Lady Judith to talk to you about
Austin, and Lord Mountfalcon's compliments for you to listen to, and Mr.
Morton to take care of you."

Lucy's eyes fixed sideways an instant.

"I hope I don't frown and blush as I did?" she said, screwing her pliable
brows up to him winningly, and he bent his cheek against hers, and
murmured something delicious.

"And we shall be separated for--how many hours? one, two, three hours!"
she pouted to his flatteries.

"And then I shall come on board to receive my bride's congratulations."

"And then my husband will talk all the time to Lady Judith."

"And then I shall see my wife frowning and blushing at Lord Mountfalcon."

"Am I so foolish, Richard?" she forgot her trifling to ask in an earnest
way, and had another Aurorean kiss, just brushing the dew on her lips,
for answer.

After hiding a month in shyest shade, the pair of happy sinners had
wandered forth one day to look on men and marvel at them, and had chanced
to meet Mr. Morton of Poer Hall, Austin Wentworth's friend, and Ralph's
uncle.  Mr. Morton had once been intimate with the baronet, but had given
him up for many years as impracticable and hopeless, for which reason he
was the more inclined to regard Richard's misdemeanour charitably, and to
lay the faults of the son on the father; and thinking society to be the
one thing requisite to the young man, he had introduced him to the people
he knew in the island; among others to the Lady Judith Felle, a fair
young dame, who introduced him to Lord Mountfalcon, a puissant nobleman;
who introduced him to the yachtsmen beginning to congregate; so that in a
few weeks he found himself in the centre of a brilliant company, and for
the first time in his life tasted what it was to have free intercourse
with his fellow-creatures of both sews.  The son of a System was,
therefore, launched; not only through the surf, but in deep waters.

Now the baronet had so far compromised between the recurrence of his
softer feelings and the suggestions of his new familiar, that he had
determined to act toward Richard with justness.  The world called it
magnanimity, and even Lady Blandish had some thoughts of the same kind
when she heard that he had decreed to Richard a handsome allowance, and
had scouted Mrs. Doria's proposal for him to contest the legality of the
marriage; but Sir Austin knew well he was simply just in not withholding
money from a youth so situated.  And here again the world deceived him by
embellishing his conduct.  For what is it to be just to whom we love!  He
knew it was not magnanimous, but the cry of the world somehow fortified
him in the conceit that in dealing perfect justice to his son he was
doing all that was possible, because so much more than common fathers
would have done.  He had shut his heart.

Consequently Richard did not want money.  What he wanted more, and did
not get, was a word from his father, and though he said nothing to sadden
his young bride, she felt how much it preyed upon him to be at variance
with the man whom, now that he had offended him and gone against him, he
would have fallen on his knees to; the man who was as no other man to
him.  She heard him of nights when she lay by his side, and the darkness,
and the broken mutterings, of those nights clothed the figure of the
strange stern man in her mind.  Not that it affected the appetites of the
pretty pair.  We must not expect that of Cupid enthroned and in
condition; under the influence of sea-air, too.  The files of egg-cups
laugh at such an idea.  Still the worm did gnaw them.  Judge, then, of
their delight when, on this pleasant morning, as they were issuing from
the garden of their cottage to go down to the sea, they caught sight of
Tom Bakewell rushing up the road with a portmanteau on his shoulders,
and, some distance behind him, discerned Adrian.

"It's all right!" shouted Richard, and ran off to meet him, and never
left his hand till he had hauled him up, firing questions at him all the
way, to where Lucy stood.

"Lucy! this is Adrian, my cousin."--"Isn't he an angel?" his eyes seemed
to add; while Lucy's clearly answered, "That he is!"

The full-bodied angel ceremoniously bowed to her, and acted with reserved
unction the benefactor he saw in their greetings.  "I think we are not
strangers," he was good enough to remark, and very quickly let them know
he had not breakfasted; on hearing which they hurried him into the house,
and Lucy put herself in motion to have him served.

"Dear old Rady," said Richard, tugging at his hand again, "how glad I am
you've come!  I don't mind telling you we've been horridly wretched."

"Six, seven, eight, nine eggs," was Adrian's comment on a survey of the
breakfast-table.

"Why wouldn't he write?  Why didn't he answer one of my letters?  But
here you are, so I don't mind now.  He wants to see us, does he?  We'll
go up to-night.  I've a match on at eleven; my little yacht--I've called
her the 'Blandish'--against Fred Cuirie's 'Begum.'  I shall beat, but
whether I do or not, we'll go up to-night.  What's the news?  What are
they all doing?"

"My dear boy!"  Adrian returned, sitting comfortably down, "let me put
myself a little more on an equal footing with you before I undertake to
reply.  Half that number of eggs will be sufficient for an unmarried man,
and then we'll talk.  They're all very well, as well as I can recollect
after the shaking my total vacuity has had this morning.  I came over by
the first boat, and the sea, the sea has made me love mother earth, and
desire of her fruits."

Richard fretted restlessly opposite his cool relative.

"Adrian! what did he say when he heard of it?  I want to know exactly
what words he said."

"Well says the sage, my son!  'Speech is the small change of Silence.'
He said less than I do."

"That's how he took it!" cried Richard, and plunged in meditation.

Soon the table was cleared, and laid out afresh, and Lucy preceded the
maid bearing eggs on the tray, and sat down unbonneted, and like a
thorough-bred housewife, to pour out the tea for him.

"Now we'll commence," said Adrian, tapping his egg with meditative
cheerfulness; but his expression soon changed to one of pain, all the
more alarming for his benevolent efforts to conceal it.  Could it be
possible the egg was bad? oh, horror!  Lucy watched him, and waited in
trepidation.

"This egg has boiled three minutes and three-quarters," he observed,
ceasing to contemplate it.

"Dear, dear!" said Lucy, "I boiled them myself exactly that time.
Richard likes them so.  And you like them hard, Mr. Harley?"

"On the contrary, I like them soft.  Two minutes and a half, or three-
quarters at the outside.  An egg should never rashly verge upon hardness-
-never.  Three minutes is the excess of temerity."

"If Richard had told me!  If I had only known!" the lovely little hostess
interjected ruefully, biting her lip.

"We mustn't expect him to pay attention to such matters," said Adrian,
trying to smile.

"Hang it! there are more eggs in the house," cried Richard, and pulled
savagely at the bell.

Lucy jumped up, saying, "Oh, yes!  I will go and boil some exactly the
time you like.  Pray let me go, Mr. Harley."

Adrian restrained her departure with a motion of his hand.  "No," he
said, "I will be ruled by Richard's tastes, and heaven grant me his
digestion!"

Lucy threw a sad look at Richard, who stretched on a sofa, and left the
burden of the entertainment entirely to her.  The eggs were a melancholy
beginning, but her ardour to please Adrian would not be damped, and she
deeply admired his resignation.  If she failed in pleasing this glorious
herald of peace, no matter by what small misadventure, she apprehended
calamity; so there sat this fair dove with brows at work above her
serious smiling blue eyes, covertly studying every aspect of the plump-
faced epicure, that she might learn to propitiate him.  "He shall not
think me timid and stupid," thought this brave girl, and indeed Adrian
was astonished to find that she could both chat and be useful, as well as
look ornamental.  When he had finished one egg, behold, two fresh ones
came in, boiled according to his prescription.  She had quietly given her
orders to the maid, and he had them without fuss.  Possibly his look of
dismay at the offending eggs had not been altogether involuntary, and her
woman's instinct, inexperienced as she was, may have told her that he had
come prepared to be not very well satisfied with anything in Love's
cottage.  There was mental faculty in those pliable brows to see through,
and combat, an unwitting wise youth.

How much she had achieved already she partly divined when Adrian said: "I
think now I'm in case to answer your questions, my dear boy--thanks to
Mrs. Richard," and he bowed to her his first direct acknowledgment of her
position.  Lucy thrilled with pleasure.

"Ah!" cried Richard, and settled easily on his back.

"To begin, the Pilgrim has lost his Note-book, and has been persuaded to
offer a reward which shall maintain the happy finder thereof in an asylum
for life.  Benson--superlative Benson--has turned his shoulders upon
Raynham.  None know whither he has departed.  It is believed that the
sole surviving member of the sect of the Shaddock-Dogmatists is under a
total eclipse of Woman."

"Benson gone?" Richard exclaimed.  "What a tremendous time it seems since
I left Raynham!"

"So it is, my dear boy.  The honeymoon is Mahomet's minute; or say, the
Persian King's water-pail that you read of in the story: You dip your
head in it, and when you draw it out, you discover that you have lived a
life.  To resume your uncle Algernon still roams in pursuit of the lost
one--I should say, hops. 