George Meredith
The Ordeal of Richard Feverel. Complete
With the onward flow of intimacy, the two happy lovers ceased to be so shy of common themes, and their speech did not reject all as dross that was not pure gold of emotion.
Lucy was very inquisitive about everything and everybody at Raynham. Whoever had been about Richard since his birth, she must know the history of, and he for a kiss will do her bidding.
Thus goes the tender duet:
“You should know my cousin Austin, Lucy.—Darling! Beloved!”
“My own! Richard!”
“You should know my cousin Austin. You shall know him. He would take to you best of them all, and you to him. He is in the tropics now, looking out a place—it’s a secret—for poor English working-men to emigrate to and found a colony in that part of the world:—my white angel!”
“Dear love!”
“He is such a noble fellow! Nobody here understands him but me. Isn’t it strange? Since I met you I love him better! That’s because I love all that’s good and noble better now—Beautiful! I love—I love you!”
“My Richard!”
“What do you think I’ve determined, Lucy? If my father—but no! my father does love me.—No! he will not; and we will be happy together here. And I will win my way with you. And whatever I win will be yours; for it will be owing to you. I feel as if I had no strength but yours—none! and you make me—O Lucy!”
His voice ebbs. Presently Lucy murmurs—
“Your father, Richard.”
“Yes, my father?”
“Dearest Richard! I feel so afraid of him.”
“He loves me, and will love you, Lucy.”
“But I am so poor and humble, Richard.”
“No one I have ever seen is like you, Lucy.”
“You think so, because you”—
“What?”
“Love me,” comes the blushing whisper, and the duet gives place to dumb variations, performed equally in concert.
It is resumed.
“You are fond of the knights, Lucy. Austin is as brave as any of them.—My own bride! Oh, how I adore you! When you are gone, I could fall upon the grass you tread upon, and kiss it. My breast feels empty of my heart—Lucy! if we lived in those days, I should have been a knight, and have won honour and glory for you. Oh! one can do nothing now. My lady-love! My lady-love!—A tear?—Lucy?”
“Dearest! Ah, Richard! I am not a lady.”
“Who dares say that? Not a lady—the angel I love!”
“Think, Richard, who I am.”
“My beautiful! I think that God made you, and has given you to me.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and, as she lifts them heavenward to thank her God, the light of heaven strikes on them, and she is so radiant in her pure beauty that the limbs of the young man tremble.
“Lucy! O heavenly spirit! Lucy!”
Tenderly her lips part—“I do not weep for sorrow.”
The big bright drops lighten, and roll down, imaged in his soul.
They lean together—shadows of ineffable tenderness playing on their thrilled cheeks and brows.
He lifts her hand, and presses his mouth to it. She has seen little of mankind, but her soul tells her this one is different from others, and at the thought, in her great joy, tears must come fast, or her heart will break—tears of boundless thanksgiving. And he, gazing on those soft, ray-illumined, dark-edged eyes, and the grace of her loose falling tresses, feels a scarce-sufferable holy fire streaming through his members.
It is long ere they speak in open tones.
“O happy day when we met!”
What says the voice of one, the soul of the other echoes.
“O glorious heaven looking down on us!”
Their souls are joined, are made one for evermore beneath that bending benediction.
“O eternity of bliss!”
Then the diviner mood passes, and they drop to earth.
“Lucy! come with me to-night, and look at the place where you are some day to live. Come, and I will row you on the lake. You remember what you said in your letter that you dreamt?—that we were floating over the shadow of the Abbey to the nuns at work by torchlight felling the cypress, and they handed us each a sprig. Why, darling, it was the best omen in the world, their felling the old trees. And you write such lovely letters. So pure and sweet they are. I love the nuns for having taught you.”
“Ah, Richard! See! we forget! Ah!” she lifts up her face pleadingly, as to plead against herself, “even if your father forgives my birth, he will not my religion. And, dearest, though I would die for you I cannot change it. It would seem that I was denying God; and—oh! it would make me ashamed of my love.”
“Fear nothing!” He winds her about with his arm. “Come! He will love us both, and love you the more for being faithful to your father’s creed. You don’t know him, Lucy. He seems harsh and stern—he is full of kindness and love. He isn’t at all a bigot. And besides, when he hears what the nuns have done for you, won’t he thank them, as I do? And—oh! I must speak to him soon, and you must be prepared to see him soon, for I cannot bear your remaining at Belthorpe, like a jewel in a sty. Mind! I’m not saying a word against your uncle. I declare I love everybody and everything that sees you and touches you. Stay! it is a wonder how you could have grown there. But you were not born there, and your father had good blood. Desborough!—here was a Colonel Desborough—never mind! Come!”
She dreads to. She begs not to. She is drawn away.
The woods are silent, and then—
“What think you of that for a pretty pastoral?” says a very different voice.
Adrian reclined against a pine overlooking the fern-covert. Lady Blandish was recumbent upon the brown pine-droppings, gazing through a vista of the lower greenwood which opened out upon the moon-lighted valley, her hands clasped round one knee, her features almost stern in their set hard expression.
They had heard, by involuntarily overhearing about as much as may be heard in such positions, a luminous word or two.
The lady did not answer. A movement among the ferns attracted Adrian, and he stepped down the decline across the pine-roots to behold heavy Benson below; shaking fern-seed and spidery substances off his crumpled skin.
“Is that you, Mr. Hadrian?” called Benson, starting, as he puffed, and exercised his handkerchief.
“Is it you, Benson, who have had the audacity to spy upon these Mysteries?” Adrian called back, and coming close to him, added, “You look as if you had just been well thrashed.”
“Isn’t it dreadful, sir?” snuffled Benson. “And his father in ignorance, Mr. Hadrian!”
“He shall know, Benson! He shall know how, you have endangered your valuable skin in his service. If Mr. Richard had found you there just now I wouldn’t answer for the consequences.”
“Ha!” Benson spitefully retorted. “This won’t go on; Mr. Hadrian. It shan’t, sir. It will be put a stop to tomorrow, sir. I call it corruption of a young gentleman like him, and harlotry, sir, I call it. I’d have every jade flogged that made a young innocent gentleman go on like that, sir.”
“Then, why didn’t you stop it yourself, Benson? Ah, I see! you waited—what? This is not the first time you have been attendant on Apollo and Miss Dryope? You have written to headquarters?”
“I did my duty, Mr. Hadrian.”
The wise youth returned to Lady Blandish, and informed her of Benson’s zeal. The lady’s eyes flashed. “I hope Richard will treat him as he deserves,” she said.
“Shall we home?” Adrian inquired.
“Do me a favour;” the lady replied. “Get my carriage sent round to meet me at the park-gates.”
“Won’t you?”—
“I want to be alone.”
Adrian bowed and left her. She was still sitting with her hands clasped round one knee, gazing towards the dim ray-strewn valley.
“An odd creature!” muttered the wise youth. “She’s as odd as any of them. She ought to be a Feverel. I suppose she’s graduating for it. Hang that confounded old ass of a Benson! He has had the impudence to steal a march on me!”
The shadow of the cypress was lessening on the lake. The moon was climbing high. As Richard rowed the boat, Lucy, sang to him softly. She sang first a fresh little French song, reminding him of a day when she had been asked to sing to him before, and he did not care to hear. “Did I live?” he thinks. Then she sang to him a bit of one of those majestic old Gregorian chants, that, wherever you may hear them, seem to build up cathedral walls about you. The young man dropped the sculls. The strange solemn notes gave a religions tone to his love, and wafted him into the knightly ages and the reverential heart of chivalry.
Hanging between two heavens on the lake: floating to her voice: the moon stepping over and through white shoal’s of soft high clouds above and below: floating to her void—no other breath abroad! His soul went out of his body as he listened.
They must part. He rows her gently shoreward.
“I never was so happy as to-night,” she murmurs.
“Look, my Lucy. The lights of the old place are on the lake. Look where you are to live.”
“Which is your room, Richard?”
He points it out to her.
“O Richard! that I were one of the women who wait on you! I should ask nothing more. How happy she must be!”
“My darling angel-love. You shall be happy; but all shall wait on you, and I foremost, Lucy.”
“Dearest! may I hope for a letter?”
“By eleven to-morrow. And I?”
“Oh! you will have mine, Richard.”
“Tom shall wait far it. A long one, mind! Did you like my last song?”
She pats her hand quietly against her bosom, and he knows where it rests. O love! O heaven!
They are aroused by the harsh grating of the bow of the boat against the shingle. He jumps out, and lifts her ashore.
“See!” she says, as the blush of his embrace subsides—“See!” and prettily she mimics awe and feels it a little, “the cypress does point towards us. O Richard! it does!”
And he, looking at her rather than at the cypress, delighting in her arch grave ways—
“Why, there’s hardly any shadow at all, Lucy. She mustn’t dream, my darling! or dream only of me.”
“Dearest! but I do.”
“To-morrow, Lucy! The letter in the morning, and you at night. O happy to-morrow!”
“You will be sure to be there, Richard?”
“If I am not dead, Lucy.”
“O Richard! pray, pray do not speak of that. I shall not survive you.”
“Let us pray, Lucy, to die together, when we are to die. Death or life, with you! Who is it yonder? I see some one—is it Tom? It’s Adrian!”
“Is it Mr. Harley?” The fair girl shivered.
“How dares he come here!” cried Richard.
The figure of Adrian, instead of advancing, discreetly circled the lake. They were stealing away when he called. His call was repeated. Lucy entreated Richard to go to him; but the young man preferred to summon his attendant, Tom, from within hail, and send him to know what was wanted.
“Will he have seen me? Will he have known me?” whispered Lucy, tremulously.
“And if he does, love?” said Richard.
“Oh! if he does, dearest—I don’t know, but I feel such a presentiment. You have not spoken of him to-night, Richard. Is he good?”
“Good?” Richard clutched her hand for the innocent maiden phrase. “He’s very fond of eating; that’s all I know of Adrian.”
Her hand was at his lips when Tom returned.
“Well, Tom?”
“Mr. Adrian wishes particular to speak to you, sir,” said Tom.
“Do go to him, dearest! Do go!” Lucy begs him.
“Oh, how I hate Adrian!” The young man grinds his teeth.
“Do go!” Lucy urges him. “Tom—good Tom—will see me home. To-morrow, dear love! To-morrow!”
“You wish to part from me?”
“Oh, unkind! but you must not come with me now. It may be news of importance, dearest. Think, Richard!”
“Tom! go back!”
At the imperious command the well-drilled Tom strides off a dozen paces, and sees nothing. Then the precious charge is confided to him. A heart is cut in twain.
Richard made his way to Adrian. “What is it you want with me, Adrian?”
“Are we seconds, or principals, O fiery one?” was Adrian’s answer. “I want nothing with you, except to know whether you have seen Benson.”
“Where should I see Benson? What do I know of Benson’s doings?”
“Of course not—such a secret old fist as he is! I want some one to tell him to order Lady Blandish’s carriage to be sent round to the park-gates. I thought he might be round your way over there—I came upon him accidentally just now in Abbey-wood. What’s the matter, boy?”
“You saw him there?”
“Hunting Diana, I suppose. He thinks she’s not so chaste as they say,” continued Adrian. “Are you going to knock down that tree?”
Richard had turned to the cypress, and was tugging at the tough wood. He left it and went to an ash.
“You’ll spoil that weeper,” Adrian cried. “Down she comes! But good-night, Ricky. If you see Benson mind you tell him.”
Doomed Benson following his burly shadow hove in sight on the white road while Adrian spoke. The wise youth chuckled and strolled round the lake, glancing over his shoulder every now and then.
It was not long before he heard a bellow for help—the roar of a dragon in his throes. Adrian placidly sat down on the grass, and fixed his eyes on the water. There, as the roar was being repeated amid horrid resounding echoes, the wise youth mused in this wise—
“‘The Fates are Jews with us when they delay a punishment,’ says The Pilgrim’s Scrip, or words to that effect. The heavens evidently love Benson, seeing that he gets his punishment on the spot. Master Ricky is a peppery young man. He gets it from the apt Gruffudh. I rather believe in race. What a noise that old ruffian makes! He’ll require poulticing with The Pilgrim’s Scrip. We shall have a message to-morrow, and a hubbub, and perhaps all go to town, which won’t be bad for one who’s been a prey to all the desires born of dulness. Benson howls: there’s life in the old dog yet! He bays the moon. Look at her. She doesn’t care. It’s the same to her whether we coo like turtle-doves or roar like twenty lions. How complacent she looks! And yet she has dust as much sympathy for Benson as for Cupid. She would smile on if both were being birched. Was that a raven or Benson? He howls no more. It sounds guttural: frog-like—something between the brek-kek-kek and the hoarse raven’s croak. The fellow’ll be killing him. It’s time to go to the rescue. A deliverer gets more honour by coming in at the last gasp than if he forestalled catastrophe.—Ho, there, what’s the matter?”
So saying, the wise youth rose, and leisurely trotted to the scene of battle, where stood St. George puffing over the prostrate Dragon.
“Holloa, Ricky! is it you?” said Adrian. “What’s this? Whom have we here?—Benson, as I live!”
“Make this beast get up,” Richard returned, breathing hard, and shaking his great ash-branch.
“He seems incapable, my dear boy. What have you been up to?—Benson! Benson!—I say, Ricky, this looks bad.”
“He’s shamming!” Richard clamoured like a savage. “Spy upon me, will he? I tell you, he’s shamming. He hasn’t had half enough. Nothing’s too bad for a spy. Let him getup!”
“Insatiate youth! do throw away that enormous weapon.”
“He has written to my father,” Richard shouted. “The miserable spy! Let him get up!”
“Ooogh? I won’t!” huskily groaned Benson. “Mr. Hadrian, you’re a witness—he’s my back!”—Cavernous noises took up the tale of his maltreatment.
“I daresay you love your back better than any part of your body now,” Adrian muttered. “Come, Benson! be a man. Mr. Richard has thrown away the stick. Come, and get off home, and let’s see the extent of the damage.”
“Ooogh! he’s a devil! Mr. Hadrian, sir, he’s a devil!” groaned Benson, turning half over in the road to ease his aches.
Adrian caught hold of Benson’s collar and lifted him to a sitting posture. He then had a glimpse of what his hopeful pupil’s hand could do in wrath. The wretched butler’s coat was slit and welted; his hat knocked in; his flabby spirit so broken that he started and trembled if his pitiless executioner stirred a foot. Richard stood over him, grasping his great stick; no dawn of mercy for Benson in any corner of his features.
Benson screwed his neck round to look up at him, and immediately gasped, “I won’t get up! I won’t! He’s ready to murder me again!—Mr. Hadrian! if you stand by and see it, you’re liable to the law, sir—I won’t get up while he’s near.” No persuasion could induce Benson to try his legs while his executioner stood by.
Adrian took Richard aside: “You’ve almost killed the poor devil, Ricky. You must be satisfied with that. Look at his face.”
“The coward bobbed while I struck” said Richard. “I marked his back. He ducked. I told him he was getting it worse.”
At so civilized piece of savagery, Adrian opened his mouth wide.
“Did you really? I admire that. You told him he was getting it worse?”
Adrian opened his mouth again to shake another roll of laughter out.
“Come,” he said, “Excalibur has done his word. Pitch him into the lake. And see—here comes the Blandish. You can’t be at it again before a woman. Go and meet her, and tell her the noise was an ox being slaughtered. Or say Argus.”
With a whirr that made all Benson’s bruises moan and quiver, the great ash-branch shot aloft, and Richard swung off to intercept Lady Blandish.
Adrian got Benson on his feet. The heavy butler was disposed to summon all the commiseration he could feel for his bruised flesh. Every half-step he attempted was like a dislocation. His groans and grunts were frightful.
“How much did that hat cost, Benson?” said Adrian, as he put it on his head.
“A five-and-twenty shilling beaver, Mr. Hadrian!” Benson caressed its injuries.
“The cheapest policy of insurance I remember to have heard of!” said Adrian.
Benson staggered, moaning at intervals to his cruel comforter.
“He’s a devil, Mr. Hadrian! He’s a devil, sir, I do believe, sir. Ooogh! he’s a devil!—I can’t move, Mr. Hadrian. I must be fetched. And Dr. Clifford must be sent for, sir. I shall never be fit for work again. I haven’t a sound bone in my body, Mr. Hadrian.”
“You see, Benson, this comes of your declaring war upon Venus. I hope the maids will nurse you properly. Let me see: you are friends with the housekeeper, aren’t you? All depends upon that.”
“I’m only a faithful servant, Mr. Hadrian,” the miserable butler snarled.
“Then you’ve got no friend but your bed. Get to it as quick as possible, Benson.”
“I can’t move.” Benson made a resolute halt. “I must be fetched,” he whinnied. “It’s a shame to ask me to move, Mr. Hadrian.”
“You will admit that you are heavy, Benson,” said Adrian, “so I can’t carry you. However, I see Mr. Richard is very kindly returning to help me.”
At these words heavy Benson instantly found his legs, and shambled on.
Lady Blandish met Richard in dismay.
“I have been horribly frightened,” she said. “Tell me, what was the meaning of those cries I heard?”
“Only some one doing justice on a spy,” said Richard, and the lady smiled, and looked on him fondly, and put her hand through his hair.
“Was that all? I should have done it myself if I had been a man. Kiss me.”
CHAPTER XXI
By twelve o’clock at noon next day the inhabitants of Raynham Abbey knew that Berry, the baronet’s man, had arrived post-haste from town, with orders to conduct Mr. Richard thither, and that Mr. Richard had refused to go, had sworn he would not, defied his father, and despatched Berry to the Shades. Berry was all that Benson was not. Whereas Benson hated woman, Berry admired her warmly. Second to his own stately person, woman occupied his reflections, and commanded his homage. Berry was of majestic port, and used dictionary words. Among the maids of Raynham his conscious calves produced all the discord and the frenzy those adornments seem destined to create in tender bosoms. He had, moreover, the reputation of having suffered for the sex; which assisted his object in inducing the sex to suffer for him. What with his calves, and his dictionary words, and the attractive halo of the mysterious vindictiveness of Venus surrounding him, this Adonis of the lower household was a mighty man below, and he moved as one.
On hearing the tumult that followed Berry’s arrival, Adrian sent for him, and was informed of the nature of his mission, and its result.
“You should come to me first,” said Adrian. “I should have imagined you were shrewd enough for that, Berry?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Adrian,” Berry doubled his elbow to explain. “Pardon me, sir. Acting recipient of special injunctions I was not a free agent.”
“Go to Mr. Richard again, Berry. There will be a little confusion if he holds back. Perhaps you had better throw out a hint or so of apoplexy. A slight hint will do. And here—Berry! when you return to town, you had better not mention anything—to quote Johnson—of Benson’s spiflication.”
“Certainly not, sir.”
The wise youth’s hint had the desired effect on Richard.
He dashed off a hasty letter by Tom to Belthorpe, and, mounting his horse, galloped to the Bellingham station.
Sir Austin was sitting down to a quiet early dinner at his hotel, when the Hope of Raynham burst into his room.
The baronet was not angry with his son. On the contrary, for he was singularly just and self-accusing while pride was not up in arms, he had been thinking all day after the receipt of Benson’s letter that he was deficient in cordiality, and did not, by reason of his excessive anxiety, make himself sufficiently his son’s companion: was not enough, as he strove to be, mother and father to him; preceptor and friend; previsor and associate. He had not to ask his conscience where he had lately been to blame towards the System. He had slunk away from Raynham in the very crisis of the Magnetic Age, and this young woman of the parish (as Benson had termed sweet Lucy in his letter) was the consequence.
Yes! pride and sensitiveness were his chief foes, and he would trample on them. To begin, he embraced his son: hard upon an Englishman at any time—doubly so to one so shamefaced at emotion in cool blood, as it were. It gave him a strange pleasure, nevertheless. And the youth seemed to answer to it; he was excited. Was his love, then, beginning to correspond with his father’s as in those intimate days before the Blossoming Season?
But when Richard, inarticulate at first in his haste, cried out, “My dear, dear father! You are safe! I feared—You are better, sir? Thank God!” Sir Austin stood away from him.
“Safe?” he said. “What has alarmed you?”
Instead of replying, Richard dropped into a chair, and seized his hand and kissed it.
Sir Austin took a seat, and waited for his son to explain.
“Those doctors are such fools!” Richard broke out. “I was sure they were wrong. They don’t know headache from apoplexy. It’s worth the ride, sir, to see you. You left Raynham so suddenly.—But you are well! It was not an attack of real apoplexy?”
His father’s brows contorted, and he said, No, it was not. Richard pursued:
“If you were ill, I couldn’t come too soon, though, if coroners’ inquests sat on horses, those doctors would be found guilty of mare-slaughter. Cassandra’ll be knocked up. I was too early for the train at Bellingham, and I wouldn’t wait. She did the distance in four hours and three-quarters. Pretty good, sir, wasn’t it?”
“It has given you appetite for dinner, I hope,” said the baronet, not so well pleased to find that it was not simple obedience that had brought the youth to him in such haste.
“I’m ready,” replied Richard. “I shall be in time to return by the last train to-night. I will leave Cassandra in your charge for a rest.”
His father quietly helped him to soup, which he commenced gobbling with an eagerness that might pass for appetite.
“All well at Raynham?” said the baronet.
“Quite, sir.”
“Nothing new?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“The same as when I left?”
“No change whatever!”
“I shall be glad to get back to the old place,” said the baronet. “My stay in town has certainly been profitable. I have made some pleasant acquaintances who may probably favour us with a visit there in the late autumn—people you may be pleased to know. They are very anxious to see Raynham.”
“I love the old place,” cried Richard. “I never wish to leave it.”
“Why, boy, before I left you were constantly begging to see town.”
“Was I, sir? How odd! Well! I don’t want to remain here. I’ve seen enough of it.”
“How did you find your way to me?”
Richard laughed, and related his bewilderment at the miles of brick, and the noise, and the troops of people, concluding, “There’s no place like home!”
The baronet watched his symptomatic brilliant eyes, and favoured him with a double-dealing sentence—
“To anchor the heart by any object ere we have half traversed the world, is youth’s foolishness, my son. Reverence time! A better maxim that than your Horatian.”
“He knows all!” thought Richard, and instantly drew away leagues from his father, and threw up fortifications round his love and himself.
Dinner over, Richard looked hurriedly at his watch, and said, with much briskness, “I shall just be in time, sir, if we walk. Will you come with me to the station?”
The baronet did not answer.
Richard was going to repeat the question, but found his father’s eyes fixed on him so meaningly that he wavered, and played with his empty glass.
“I think we will have a little more claret,” said the baronet.
Claret was brought, and they were left alone.
The baronet then drew within arm’s-reach of his son, and began:
“I am not aware what you may have thought of me, Richard, during the years we have lived together; and indeed I have never been in a hurry to be known to you; and, if I had died before my work was done, I should not have complained at losing half my reward, in hearing you thank me. Perhaps, as it is, I never may. Everything, save selfishness, has its recompense. I shall be content if you prosper.”
He fetched a breath and continued: “You had in your infancy a great loss.” Father and son coloured simultaneously. “To make that good to you I chose to isolate myself from the world, and devote myself entirely to your welfare; and I think it is not vanity that tells me now that the son I have reared is one of the most hopeful of God’s creatures. But for that very reason you are open to be tempted the most, and to sink the deepest. It was the first of the angels who made the road to hell.”
He paused again. Richard fingered at his watch.
“In our House, my son, there is peculiar blood. We go to wreck very easily. It sounds like superstition; I cannot but think we are tried as most men are not. I see it in us all. And you, my son, are compounded of two races. Your passions are violent. You have had a taste of revenge. You have seen, in a small way, that the pound of flesh draws rivers of blood. But there is now in you another power. You are mounting to the table-land of life, where mimic battles are changed to real ones. And you come upon it laden equally with force to create and to destroy.” He deliberated to announce the intelligence, with deep meaning: “There are women in the world, my son!”
The young man’s heart galloped back to Raynham.
“It is when you encounter them that you are thoroughly on trial. It is when you know them that life is either a mockery to you, or, as some find it, a gift of blessedness. They are our ordeal. Love of any human object is the soul’s ordeal; and they are ours, loving them, or not.”
The young man heard the whistle of the train. He saw the moon-lighted wood, and the vision of his beloved. He could barely hold himself down and listen.
“I believe,” the baronet spoke with little of the cheerfulness of belief, “good women exist.”
Oh, if he knew Lucy!
“But,” and he gazed on Richard intently, “it is given to very few to meet them on the threshold—I may say, to none. We find them after hard buffeting, and usually, when we find the one fitted for us, our madness has misshaped our destiny, our lot is cast. For women are not the end, but the means, of life. In youth we think them the former, and thousands, who have not even the excuse of youth, select a mate—or worse—with that sole view. I believe women punish us for so perverting their uses. They punish Society.”
The baronet put his hand to his brow as his mind travelled into consequences.
‘Our most diligent pupil learns not so much as an earnest teacher,’ says The Pilgrim’s Scrip; and Sir Austin, in schooling himself to speak with moderation of women, was beginning to get a glimpse of their side of the case.
Cold Blood now touched on love to Hot Blood.
Cold Blood said, “It is a passion coming in the order of nature, the ripe fruit of our animal being.”
Hot Blood felt: “It is a divinity! All that is worth living for in the world.”
Cold Blood said: “It is a fever which tests our strength, and too often leads to perdition.”
Hot Blood felt: “Lead whither it will, I follow it.”
Cold Blood said: “It is a name men and women are much in the habit of employing to sanctify their appetites.”
Hot Blood felt: “It is worship; religion; life!”
And so the two parallel lines ran on.
The baronet became more personal:
“You know my love for you, my son. The extent of it you cannot know; but you must know that it is something very deep, and—I do not wish to speak of it—but a father must sometimes petition for gratitude, since the only true expression of it is his son’s moral good. If you care for my love, or love me in return, aid me with all your energies to keep you what I have made you, and guard you from the snares besetting you. It was in my hands once. It is ceasing to be so. Remember, my son, what my love is. It is different, I fear, with most fathers: but I am bound up in your welfare: what you do affects me vitally. You will take no step that is not intimate with my happiness, or my misery. And I have had great disappointments, my son.”
So far it was well. Richard loved his father, and even in his frenzied state he could not without emotion hear him thus speak.
Unhappily, the baronet, who by some fatality never could see when he was winning the battle, thought proper in his wisdom to water the dryness of his sermon with a little jocoseness, on the subject of young men fancying themselves in love, and, when they were raw and green, absolutely wanting to be—that most awful thing, which the wisest and strongest of men undertake in hesitation and after self-mortification and penance—married! He sketched the Foolish Young Fellow—the object of general ridicule and covert contempt. He sketched the Woman—the strange thing made in our image, and with all our faculties—passing to the rule of one who in taking her proved that he could not rule himself, and had no knowledge of her save as a choice morsel which he would burn the whole world, and himself in the bargain, to possess. He harped upon the Foolish Young Fellow, till the foolish young fellow felt his skin tingle and was half suffocated with shame and rage.
