Were it not notorious that the straightlaced prudish dare not listen to, the natural chaste, certain things Mrs. Berry thought it advisable to impart to the young wife with regard to Berry’s infidelity, and the charity women should have toward sinful men, might here be reproduced.  Enough that she thought proper to broach the matter, and cite her own Christian sentiments, now that she was indifferent in some degree.

Oily calm is on the sea.  At Raynham they look up at the sky and speculate that Richard is approaching fairly speeded.  He comes to throw himself on his darling’s mercy.  Lucy irradiated over forest and sea, tempest and peace—­to her the hero comes humbly.  Great is that day when we see our folly!  Ripton and he were the friends of old.  Richard encouraged him to talk of the two he could be eloquent on, and Ripton, whose secret vanity was in his powers of speech, never tired of enumerating Lucy’s virtues, and the peculiar attributes of the baby.

“She did not say a word against me, Rip?”

“Against you, Richard!  The moment she knew she was to be a mother, she thought of nothing but her duty to the child.  She’s one who can’t think of herself.”

“You’ve seen her at Raynham, Rip?”

“Yes, once.  They asked me down.  And your father’s so fond of her—­I’m sure he thinks no woman like her, and he’s right.  She is so lovely, and so good.”

Richard was too full of blame of himself to blame his father:  too British to expose his emotions.  Ripton divined how deep and changed they were by his manner.  He had cast aside the hero, and however Ripton had obeyed him and looked up to him in the heroic time, he loved him tenfold now.  He told his friend how much Lucy’s mere womanly sweetness and excellence had done for him, and Richard contrasted his own profitless extravagance with the patient beauty of his dear home angel.  He was not one to take her on the easy terms that offered.  There was that to do which made his cheek burn as he thought of it, but he was going to do it, even though it lost her to him.  Just to see her and kneel to her was joy sufficient to sustain him, and warm his blood in the prospect.  They marked the white cliffs growing over the water.  Nearer, the sun made them lustrous.  Houses and people seemed to welcome the wild youth to common sense, simplicity, and home.

They were in town by mid-day.  Richard had a momentary idea of not driving to his hotel for letters.  After a short debate he determined to go there.  The porter said he had two letters for Mr. Richard Feverel—­ one had been waiting some time.  He went to the box and fetched them.  The first Richard opened was from Lucy, and as he read it, Ripton observed the colour deepen on his face, while a quivering smile played about his mouth.  He opened the other indifferently.  It began without any form of address.  Richard’s forehead darkened at the signature.  This letter was in a sloping feminine hand, and flourished with light strokes all over, like a field of the bearded barley.  Thus it ran: