conduct of his father, and throwing him aside as a terrible riddle, he
asked Mrs. Doria to tell him of his other parent. As softly as she could
she told the story. To her the shame was past: she could weep for the
poor lady. Richard dropped no tears. Disgrace of this kind is always
present to a son, and, educated as he had been, these tidings were a
vivid fire in his brain. He resolved to hunt her out, and take her from
the man. Here was work set to his hand. All her dear husband did was
right to Lucy. She encouraged him to stay for that purpose, thinking it
also served another. There was Tom Bakewell to watch over Lucy: there
was work for him to do. Whether it would please his father he did not
stop to consider. As to the justice of the act, let us say nothing.

On Ripton devolved the humbler task of grubbing for Sandoe's place of
residence; and as he was unacquainted with the name by which the poet now
went in private, his endeavours were not immediately successful. The
friends met in the evening at Lady Blandish's town-house, or at the
Foreys', where Mrs. Doria procured the reverer of the Royal Martyr, and
staunch conservative, a favourable reception. Pity, deep pity for
Richard's conduct Ripton saw breathing out of Mrs. Doria. Algernon
Feverel treated his nephew with a sort of rough commiseration, as a young
fellow who had run off the road.

Pity was in Lady Blandish's eyes, though for a different cause. She
doubted if she did well in seconding his father's unwise scheme--
supposing him to have a scheme. She saw the young husband encompassed by
dangers at a critical time. Not a word of Mrs. Mount had been breathed
to her, but the lady had some knowledge of life. She touched on delicate
verges to the baronet in her letters, and he understood her well enough.
"If he loves this person to whom he has bound himself, what fear for him?
Or are you coming to think it something that bears the name of love