’Tis true, by this time, you may near me so
That you’re my cousin’s wife. You’ve gambled
As Lucifer, and won the morning-star
In that case,—and the noble house of Leigh
Must henceforth with its good roof shelter you:
I cannot speak and burn you up between
Those rafters, I who am born a Leigh,—nor speak
And pierce your breast through Romney’s, I who live
His friend and cousin!—so, you are safe. You two
Must grow together like the tares and wheat
Till God’s great fire.—But make the best of time.
‘And hide this letter! let it speak no more
Than I shall, how you tricked poor Marian Erle,
And set her own love digging her own grave
Within her green hope’s pretty garden-ground;
Ay, sent her forth with some of your sort
To a wicked house in France,—from which she fled
With curses in her eyes and ears and throat,
Her whole soul choked with curses,—mad, in short,
And madly scouring up and down for weeks
The foreign hedgeless country, lone and lost,—
So innocent, male-fiends might slink within
Remote hell-corners, seeing her so defiled!
‘But you,—you are a woman and more bold.
To do you justice, you’d not shrink to face . .
We’ll say, the unfledged life in the other room,
Which, treading down God’s corn, you trod in sight
Of all the dogs, in reach of all the guns,—
