The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, v6

G >> George Meredith >> The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, v6

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It seemed to him he would lose his manhood if he looked on that child's
face.

"Stop!" he cried suddenly.

Lucy turned first to him, and then to her infant, fearing it should have
been disturbed.

"Lucy, come back."

"What is it, darling?" said she, in alarm at his voice and the grip he
had unwittingly given her hand.

O God! what an Ordeal was this! that to-morrow he must face death,
perhaps die and be torn from his darling--his wife and his child; and
that ere he went forth, ere he could dare to see his child and lean his
head 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 to-night?"

She moved her lips repeating his words.

"Lucy. Have you guessed why I did not come before?"

Her head shook widened eyes.

"Lucy. I did not come because I was not worthy of my wife! Do you
understand?"

"Darling," she faltered plaintively, and hung crouching under him, "what
have I done to make you angry with me?"

"O beloved!" cried he, the tears bursting out of his eyes. "O beloved!"
was all he could say, kissing her hands passionately.

She waited, reassured, but in terror.

"Lucy. I stayed away from you--I could not come to you, because... I
dared not come to you, my wife, my beloved! I could not come because I
was a coward: because--hear me--this was the reason: I have 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 have told you?"

"Kiss me," she said.

He did not join lips. "I have come to you to-night to ask your
forgiveness."

Her answer was: "Kiss me."

"Can you forgive a man so base?"

"But you love me, Richard?"

"Yes: that I can say before God. I love you, and I have betrayed you,
and am unworthy of you--not worthy to touch your hand, to kneel at your
feet, to breathe the same air with you."

Her eyes shone brilliantly. "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 the 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 pouted
full; the dark lashes of his eyes seemed to lie on his plump cheeks.
Richard stooped lower down to him, hungering for some movement as a sign
that he lived. Lucy whispered. "He sleeps like you, Richard--one arm
under his head." Great wonder, and the stir of a grasping tenderness was
in Richard. He breathed 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 bud of a mouth
was in rapid motion. The young mother whispered, blushing: "He's
dreaming of me," and the simple words did more than 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 cosy 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 dropped there
in his likeness: the more human the fact of the child grew the more
heavenly it seemed. His son! his child! should he ever see him awake?
At the thought, he took the words that had been spoken, and started from
the dream he had been in. "Will he wake 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 force to
leave him. Then he looked down on him, again struggled to tear himself
away. Two natures warred in his bosom, or it may have been the Magian
Conflict still going on. He had come to see his child once and to make
peace with his wife before it should be too late. Might he not stop with
them? Might he not relinquish that devilish pledge? Was not divine
happiness here offered to him?--If foolish Ripton had not delayed to tell
him of his interview with Mountfalcon all might have been well. But
pride said it was impossible. And then injury spoke. For why was he
thus base and spotted to the darling of his love? A mad pleasure in the
prospect of wreaking vengeance on the villain who had laid the trap for
him, once more blackened his brain. If he would stay he could not. So
he resolved, throwing the burden on Fate. The struggle was over, but oh,
the pain!

Lucy beheld the tears streaming hot from his face on the child's cot.
She marvelled at such excess of emotion. But when his chest heaved, and
the extremity of mortal anguish appeared to have seized him, her heart
sank, and she tried to get him in her arms. He turned away from her and
went to the window. A half-moon was over the lake.

"Look!" he said, "do you remember our rowing there one night, and we saw
the shadow of the cypress? I wish I could have come early to-night that
we might have had another row, and I have heard you sing there!"

"Darling!" said she, "will it make you happier if I go with you now? I
will."

"No, Lucy. Lucy, you are brave!"

"Oh, no! that I'm not. I thought so once. I know I am not now."

"Yes! to have lived--the child on your heart--and never to have uttered a
complaint!--you are brave. O my Lucy! my wife! you that have made me
man! I called you a coward. I remember it. I was the coward--I the
wretched vain fool! Darling! I am going to leave you now. You are
brave, and you will bear it. Listen: in two days, or three, I may be
back--back for good, if you will accept me. Promise me to go to bed
quietly. Kiss the child for me, and tell him his father has seen him.
He will learn to speak soon. Will he soon speak, Lucy?"

Dreadful suspicion kept her speechless; she could only clutch one arm of
his with both her hands.

"Going?" she presently gasped.

"For two or three days. No more--I hope."

"To-night?"

"Yes. Now."

"Going now? my husband!" her faculties abandoned her.

"You will be brave, my Lucy!"

"Richard! my darling husband! Going? What is it takes you from me?"
But questioning no further, she fell on her knees, and cried piteously to
him to stay--not to leave them. Then she dragged him to the little
sleeper, and urged him to pray by his side, and he did, but rose abruptly
from his prayer when he had muttered a few broken words--she praying on
with tight-strung nerves, in the faith that what she said to the
interceding Mother above would be stronger than human hands on him. Nor
could he go while she knelt there.

And he wavered. He had not reckoned on her terrible suffering. She came
to him, quiet. "I knew you would remain." And taking his hand,
innocently fondling it: "Am I so changed from her he loved? You will not
leave me, dear?" But dread returned, and the words quavered as she spoke
them.

He was almost vanquished by the loveliness of her womanhood. She drew
his hand to her heart, and strained it there under one breast. "Come:
lie on my heart," she murmured with a smile of holy sweetness.

He wavered more, and drooped to her, but summoning the powers of hell,
kissed her suddenly, cried the words of parting, and hurried to the door.
It was over in an instant. She cried out his name, clinging to him
wildly, and was adjured to be brave, for he would be dishonoured if he
did not go. Then she was shaken off.

Mrs. Berry was aroused by an unusual prolonged wailing of the child,
which showed that no one was comforting it, and failing to get any answer
to her applications for admittance, she made bold to enter. There she
saw Lucy, the child in her lap, sitting on the floor senseless:--she had
taken it from its sleep and tried to follow her 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 was so
happy!"

Warming and caressing the poor infant, she managed by degrees to revive
Lucy, and heard what had brought her to that situation.

"Go to his father," said Mrs. Berry. "Ta-te-tiddle-te-heighty-O! Go, my
love, and every horse in Raynham shall be out after 'm. This is what men
brings us to! Heighty-oighty-iddlety-Ah! Or you take blessed baby, and
I'll go."

The baronet himself knocked at the door. "What is this?" he said. "I
heard a noise and a step descend."

"It's Mr. Richard have gone, Sir Austin! have gone from his wife and
babe! Rum-te-um-te-iddledy--Oh, my goodness! what sorrow's come on us!"
and Mrs. Berry wept, and sang to baby, and baby cried vehemently, and
Lucy, sobbing, took him and danced him and sang to him with drawn lips
and tears dropping over him. And if the Scientific Humanist to the day
of his death forgets the sight of those two poor true women jigging on
their wretched hearts to calm the child, he must have very little of the
human in him.

There was no more sleep for Raynham that night.

CHAPTER XLV

"His ordeal is over. I have just come from his room and seen him bear
the worst that could be. Return at once--he has asked for you. I can
hardly write intelligibly, but I will tell you what we know.

"Two days after the dreadful night when he left us, his father heard from
Ralph Morton. Richard had fought a duel in France with Lord Mountfalcon,
and was lying wounded at a hamlet on the coast. His father started
immediately with his poor wife, and I followed in 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 unpretending people!

"They were at a wretched French cabaret, smelling vilely, where we still
remain, and the people try as much as they can do to compensate for our
discomforts by their kindness. The French poor people are very
considerate where they see suffering. I will say that for them. The
doctors had not allowed his poor Lucy to go near him. She sat outside
his door, and none of us dared disturb her. That was a sight for
Science. His father and 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 the sort of eye I fancy mad
persons have. I was sure her reason was going. We did everything we
could think of to comfort her. A bed was made up for her and her meals
were brought to her there. Of course there was no getting her to eat.
What do you suppose his alarm was fixed on? He absolutely said to me--
but I have not patience to repeat his words. He thought her to blame for
not commanding herself for the sake of her maternal duties. He had
absolutely an idea of insisting that she should make an effort to suckle
the child. I shall love that Mrs. Berry to the end of my days. I really
believe she has twice the sense of any of us--Science and all. She asked
him plainly if he wished to poison the child, and then he gave way, but
with a bad grace.

"Poor man! perhaps I am hard on him. I remember that you said Richard
had done wrong. Yes; well, that may be. But his father eclipsed his
wrong in a greater wrong--a crime, or quite as bad; for if he deceived
himself in the belief that he was acting righteously in 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 Doctor Bairam, and a French physician from Dieppe, a
very skilful man. It was he who told us where the real danger lay. We
thought all would be well. A week had passed, and no fever 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 listened
--she had the same eager look. When I told her she might go in with me
to see her dear husband, her features did not change. M. Despres, who
held her pulse at the time, told me, in a whisper, it was cerebral fever
--brain fever coming on. We have talked of her since. I noticed that
though she did not seem to understand me, her bosom heaved, and she
appeared to be trying to repress it, and choke something. I am 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 coxcomb. 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 have lost all
charity, and I have. But I should not feel so, Austin, if I could be
quite sure that he is an altered man even now the blow has struck him.
He is reserved and simple in his speech, and his grief is evident, but I
have doubts. He heard her while she was senseless call him cruel and
harsh, and cry that she had suffered, and I saw then his mouth contract
as if he had been touched. Perhaps, when he thinks, his mind will be
clearer, but what he has done cannot be undone. I do not imagine he will
abuse women any more. The doctor called her a 'forte et belle jeune
femme:' and he said she was as noble a soul as ever God moulded clay
upon. A noble soul 'forte et belle!' She lies upstairs. If he can look
on her and not see his sin, I almost fear God will never enlighten him."

She died five days after she had been removed. The shock had utterly
deranged her. I was with her. She died very quietly, breathing her last
breath without pain--asking for no one--a death I should like to die.

"Her cries at one time were dreadfully loud. She screamed that she was
'drowning in fire,' and that her husband would not come to her to save
her. We deadened the sound as much as we could, but it was impossible to
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, it must have killed him. His father was right for
once, then. But if he has saved his son's body, he has given the death-
blow to his heart. Richard will never be what he promised.

"A letter found on his clothes tells us the origin of the quarrel. I
have had an interview with Lord M. this 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 talks strange things of her daughter's
death. She is only happy in drudging. Dr. Bairam 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 is going into a fit.

"We expect the dear child's uncle to-day. Mr. Thompson is here. I have
taken him upstairs to look at her. That poor young man has a true heart.

"Come at once. You will not be in time to see her. She will lie at
Raynham. If you could you would see an angel. 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

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

A maker of Proverbs--what is he but a narrow mind wit
Feeling, nothing beyond a lively interest in her well-being
Further she read, "Which is the coward among us?"
Gentleman who does so much 'cause he says so little
Hermits enamoured of wind and rain
Heroine, in common with the hero, has her ambition to be of use
I rather like to hear a woman swear. It embellishes her!
I beg of my husband, and all kind people who may have the care
Intensely communicative, but inarticulate
Just bad inquirin' too close among men
January was watering and freezing old earth by turns
South-western Island has few attractions to other than invalids
Take 'em somethin' like Providence--as they come
Task of reclaiming a bad man is extremely seductive to good women
This was a totally different case from the antecedent ones

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