The Essential George Meredith Collection. George Meredith
He asked whether there was bad news in the letter. For answer, he had the lie circumstancial. He ventured to remark that they were going the wrong way.
"It'd the right way," cried Richard, and his jaws were hard and square, and his eyes looked heavy and full.
Ripton said no more, but thought.
The cabman pulled up at a Club. A gentleman, in whom Ripton recognized the Hon. Peter Brayder, was just then swinging a leg over his horse, with one foot in the stirrup. Hearing his name called, the Hon. Peter turned about, and stretched an affable hand.
"Is Mountfalcon in town?" said Richard taking the horse's reins instead of the gentlemanly hand. His voice and aspect were quite friendly.
"Mount?" Brayder replied, curiously watching the action; "yes. He's off this evening."
"He is in town?" Richard released his horse. "I want to see him. Where is he?"
The young man looked pleasant: that which might have aroused Brayder's suspicions was an old affair in parasitical register by this time. "Want 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, Feverel." He indicated the lofty structure. "What do you say?"
Richard nodded back at him, crying, "Hurry." Brayder returned the nod, and those who promenaded the district soon beheld his body in elegant motion to the stepping of his well-earned horse.
"What do you want to see Lord Mountfalcon for, 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 cab, and Ripton was conscious of being examined by those strong grey 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 Raynham, Ripton. Say 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 some one speak behind him.
"You are Feverel's friend?"
Ripton had an eye for lords. An ambrosial footman, standing at the open door of Lord Mountfalcon'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 Mountfalcon, slightly ruffled, said: "Feverel has insulted me grossly. I must meet him, of course. It's a piece of infernal folly!--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, eying Ripton 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, and my lord did not look surprised.
"I will not detain you," he said, distantly bowing.
Ripton gave him a commoner's obeisance; but getting 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 to-morrow 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 Mountfalcon said: "I went out of my way, sir, in speaking to you. I saw you from the window. Your friend is mad. Deuced methodical, I 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 honour to be known to Mrs. Feverel--and I beg you will tell her. I very particularly desire you to let her know that I was not to blame."
Mountfalcon rang the bell, and bowed him out. With this on his mind Ripton hurried down to those who were waiting in joyful trust at Raynham.
CHAPTER XLIV
The watch consulted by Hippias alternately with his pulse, in occult calculation hideous to mark, 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 Raynham. They were silent as those who question the flying minutes. Ripton had said that Richard was sure to come; but the feminine eyes reading him ever and anon, 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.
"Pray, put up that watch. Impatience serves nothing," he said, half-turning hastily to his brother behind him.
Hippias relinquished his pulse and mildly 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 commiseration 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 of 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 cheerily 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 to-night," 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 save 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