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
“That’s how he took it!” cried Richard, and plunged in meditation.
Soon the table was cleared, and laid out afresh, and Lucy preceded the
maid bearing eggs on the tray, and sat down unbonneted, and like a
thorough-bred housewife, to pour out the tea for him.
“Now we’ll commence,” said Adrian, tapping his egg with meditative
cheerfulness; but his expression soon changed to one of pain, all the
more alarming for his benevolent efforts to conceal it. Could it be
possible the egg was bad? oh, horror! Lucy watched him, and waited in
trepidation.
“This egg has boiled three minutes and three-quarters,” he observed,
ceasing to contemplate it.
“Dear, dear!” said Lucy, “I boiled them myself exactly that time.
Richard likes them so. And you like them hard, Mr. Harley?”
“On the contrary, I like them soft. Two minutes and a half, or
three-quarters at the outside. An egg should never rashly verge upon
hardness—never. Three minutes is the excess of temerity.”
“If Richard had told me! If I had only known!” the lovely little
hostess interjected ruefully, biting her lip.
“We mustn’t expect him to pay attention to such matters,” said Adrian,
trying to smile.
“Hang it! there are more eggs in the house,” cried Richard, and pulled
savagely at the bell.
Lucy jumped up, saying, “Oh, yes! I will go and boil some exactly the
time you like. Pray let me go, Mr. Harley.”
Adrian restrained her departure with a motion of his hand. “No,” he
said, “I will be ruled by Richard’s tastes, and heaven grant me his
digestion!”
Lucy threw a sad look at Richard, who stretched on a sofa, and left the
burden of the entertainment entirely to her. The eggs were a melancholy
beginning, but her ardour to please Adrian would not be damped, and she
deeply admired his resignation. If she failed in pleasing this glorious
herald of peace, no matter by what small misadventure, she apprehended
calamity; so there sat this fair dove with brows at work above her
serious smiling blue eyes, covertly studying every aspect of the
plump-faced epicure, that she might learn to propitiate him. “He shall
not think me timid and stupid,” thought this brave girl, and indeed
Adrian was astonished to find that she could both chat and be useful,
as well as look ornamental. When he had finished one egg, behold, two
fresh ones came in, boiled according to his prescription. She had
quietly given her orders to the maid, and he had them without fuss.
Possibly his look of dismay at the offending eggs had not been
altogether involuntary, and her woman’s instinct, inexperienced as she
was, may have told her that he had come prepared to be not very well
satisfied with anything in Love’s cottage. There was mental faculty in
those pliable brows to see through, and combat, an unwitting wise
youth.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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