“In all cases where two have joined to commit an offence, punish one of
the two lightly,” is the dictum of The Pilgrim’s’s Scrip.
It is possible for young heads to conceive proper plans of action, and
occasionally, by sheer force of will, to check the wild horses that are
ever fretting to gallop off with them. But when they have given the
reins and the whip to another, what are they to do? They may go down on
their knees, and beg and pray the furious charioteer to stop, or
moderate his pace. Alas! each fresh thing they do redoubles his ardour:
There is a power in their troubled beauty women learn the use of, and
what wonder? They have seen it kindle Ilium to flames so often! But ere
they grow matronly in the house of Menelaus, they weep, and implore,
and do not, in truth, know how terribly two-edged is their gift of
loveliness. They resign themselves to an incomprehensible frenzy;
pleasant to them, because they attribute it to excessive love. And so
the very sensible things which they can and do say, are vain.
I reckon it absurd to ask them to be quite in earnest. Are not those
their own horses in yonder team? Certainly, if they were quite in
earnest, they might soon have my gentleman as sober as a carter. A
hundred different ways of disenchanting him exist, and Adrian will
point you out one or two that shall be instantly efficacious. For Love,
the charioteer, is easily tripped, while honest jog-trot Love keeps his
legs to the end. Granted dear women are not quite in earnest, still the
mere words they utter should be put to their good account. They do mean
them, though their hearts are set the wrong way. ’Tis a despairing,
pathetic homage to the judgment of the majority, in whose faces they
are flying. Punish Helen, very young, lightly. After a certain age you
may select her for special chastisement. An innocent with Theseus, with
Paris she is an advanced incendiary.
The fair young girl was sitting as her lover had left her; trying to
recall her stunned senses. Her bonnet was un-removed, her hands clasped
on her knees; dry tears in her eyes. Like a dutiful slave, she rose to
him. And first he claimed her mouth. There was a speech, made up of all
the pretty wisdom her wild situation and true love could gather,
awaiting him there; but his kiss scattered it to fragments. She dropped
to her seat weeping, and hiding her shamed cheeks.
By his silence she divined his thoughts, and took his hand and drew it
to her lips.
He bent beside her, bidding her look at him.
“Keep your eyes so.”
She could not.
“Do you fear me, Lucy?”
A throbbing pressure answered him.
“Do you love me, darling?”
She trembled from head to foot.
“Then why do you turn from me?”
She wept: “O Richard, take me home! take me home!”
“Look at me, Lucy!”
Her head shrank timidly round.
“Keep your eyes on me, darling! Now speak!”
But she could not look and speak too. The lover knew his mastery when
he had her eyes.
“You wish me to take you home?”
She faltered: “O Richard? it is not too late.”
“You regret what you have done for me?”
“Dearest! it is ruin.”
“You weep because you have consented to be mine?”
“Not for me! O Richard!”
“For me you weep? Look at me! For me?”
“How will it end! O Richard!”
“You weep for me?”
“Dearest! I would die for you!”
“Would you see me indifferent to everything in the world? Would you
have me lost? Do you think I will live another day in England without
you? I have staked all I have on you, Lucy. You have nearly killed me
once. A second time, and the earth will not be troubled by me. You ask
me to wait, when they are plotting against us on all sides? Darling
Lucy! look on me. Fix—your fond eyes on me. You ask me to wait when
here you are given to me when you have proved my faith—when we know we
love as none have loved. Give me your eyes! Let them tell me I have
your heart!”
Where was her wise little speech? How could she match such mighty
eloquence? She sought to collect a few more of the scattered fragments.
“Dearest! your father may be brought to consent by and by, and then—oh!
if you take me home now”—
The lover stood up. “He who has been arranging that fine scheme to
disgrace and martyrize you? True, as I live! that’s the reason of their
having you back. Your old servant heard him and your uncle discussing
it. He!—Lucy! he’s a good man, but he must not step in between you and
me. I say God has given you to me.”
He was down by her side again, his arms enfolding her.
She had hoped to fight a better battle than in the morning, and she was
weaker and softer.
Ah! why should she doubt that his great love was the first law to her?
Why should she not believe that she would wreck him by resisting? And
if she suffered, oh sweet to think it was for his sake! Sweet to shut
out wisdom; accept total blindness, and be led by him!
The hag Wisdom annoyed them little further. She rustled her garments
ominously, and vanished.
“Oh, my own Richard!” the fair girl just breathed.
He whispered, “Call me that name.”
She blushed deeply.
“Call me that name,” he repeated. “You said it once today.”
“Dearest!”
“Not that.”
“O darling!”
“Not that.”
“Husband!”
She was won. The rosy gate from which the word had issued was closed
with a seal.
Ripton did not enjoy his introduction to the caged bird of beauty that
night. He received a lesson in the art of pumping from the worthy
landlady below, up to an hour when she yawned, and he blinked, and
their common candle wore with dignity the brigand’s hat of midnight,
and cocked a drunken eye at them from under it.