The Essential George Meredith Collection. George Meredith
"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