The Ordeal of Richard Feverel: A History of a Father and SonMeredith, George
General
The Ordeal of Richard Feverel: A History of a Father and Son
Meredith, George
Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction
Such an audience, then, will participate in the baronet's
gratification at his son's demeanour, wherein he noted the calm
bearing of experience not gained in the usual wanton way: and will
not be without some excited apprehension at his twinge of
astonishment, when, just as the train went sliding into swiftness,
he beheld the grave, cold, self-possessed young man throw himself
back in the carriage violently laughing. Science was at a loss to
account for that. Sir Austin checked his mind from inquiring, that
he might keep suspicion at a distance, but he thought it odd, and
the jarring sensation that ran along his nerves at the sight,
remained with him as he rode home.
Lady Blandish's tender womanly intuition bade her say: "You see it
was the very thing he wanted. He has got his natural spirits
already."
"It was," Adrian put in his word, "the exact thing he wanted. His
spirits have returned miraculously."
"Something amused him," said the baronet, with an eye on the puffing
train.
"Probably something his uncle said or did," Lady Blandish suggested,
and led off at a gallop.
Her conjecture chanced to be quite correct. The cause for Richard's
laughter was simple enough. Hippias, on finding the carriage-door
closed on him, became all at once aware of the bright-haired hope
which dwells in Change, for one who does not woo her too frequently;
and to express his sudden relief from mental despondency at the
amorous prospect, the Dyspepsy bent and gave his hands a sharp rub
between his legs: which unlucky action brought Adrian's pastoral,
"Hippy verteth,
Sing cuckoo!"
in such comic colours before Richard, that a demon of laughter
seized him.
"Hippy verteth!"
Every time he glanced at his uncle the song sprang up, and he
laughed so immoderately that it looked like madness come upon him.
"Why, why, why, what are you laughing at, my dear boy," said
Hippias, and was provoked by the contagious exercise to a modest
"ha! ha!"
"Why, what are _you_ laughing at, uncle?" cried Richard.
"I really don't know," Hippias chuckled.
"Nor I, uncle! Sing, cuckoo!"
They laughed themselves into the pleasantest mood imaginable.
Hippias not only came above-ground, he flew about in the very skies,
_verting_ like any blithe creature of the season. He remembered old
legal jokes, and anecdotes of Circuit; and Richard laughed at them
all, but more at him--he was so genial, and childishly fresh, and
innocently joyful at his own transformation, while a lurking doubt
in the bottom of his eyes, now and then, that it might not last, and
that he must go underground again, lent him a look of pathos and
humour which tickled his youthful companion irresistibly, and made
his heart warm to him.
"I tell you what, uncle," said Richard, "I think travelling's a
capital thing."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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