The Ordeal of Richard Feverel — CompleteMeredith, George
General
The Ordeal of Richard Feverel — Complete
Meredith, George
Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Fathers and sons -- Fiction
A very philosophical remark for one who has been busily at work
building for nearly twenty years. Too philosophical to seem genuine. It
revealed where the blow struck sharpest. Richard was no longer the
Richard of his creation—his pride and his joy—but simply a human being
with the rest. The bright star had sunk among the mass.
And yet, what had the young man done? And in what had the System
failed?
The lady could not but ask herself this, while she condoled with the
offended father.
“My friend,” she said, tenderly taking his hand before she retired, “I
know how deeply you must be grieved. I know what your disappointment
must be. I do not beg of you to forgive him now. You cannot doubt his
love for this young person, and according to his light, has he not
behaved honourably, and as you would have wished, rather than bring her
to shame? You will think of that. It has been an accident—a
misfortune—a terrible misfortune”...
“The God of this world is in the machine—not out of it,” Sir Austin
interrupted her, and pressed her hand to get the good-night over.
At any other time her mind would have been arrested to admire the
phrase; now it seemed perverse, vain, false, and she was tempted to
turn the meaning that was in it against himself, much as she pitied
him.
“You know, Emmeline,” he added, “I believe very little in the fortune,
or misfortune, to which men attribute their successes and reverses.
They are useful impersonations to novelists; but my opinion is
sufficiently high of flesh and blood to believe that we make our own
history without intervention. Accidents?—Terrible misfortunes?—What are
they?—Good-night.”
“Good-night,” she said, looking sad and troubled. “When I said,
‘misfortune,’ I meant, of course, that he is to blame; but—shall I
leave you his letter to me?”
“I think I have enough to meditate upon,” he replied, coldly bowing.
“God bless you,” she whispered. “And—may I say it? do not shut your
heart.”
He assured her that he hoped not to do so and the moment she was gone
he set about shutting it as tight as he could.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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