Richard came to him: "Don't mumble on like that, Rip!" he said. "Nobody blames you."
"Ah! you're very kind, Richard," interposed the wretch, moved at the face of misery he beheld.
"Listen to me, Rip! I shall take her home to-night. Yes! If she's happier away from me!—do you think me a brute, Ripton? Rather than have her shed a tear, I'd!—I'll take her home to-night!"
Ripton suggested that it was sudden; adding from his larger experience, people perhaps might talk.
The lover could not understand what they should talk about, but he said: "If I give him who came for her yesterday the clue? If no one sees or hears of me, what can they say? O Rip! I'll give her up. I'm wrecked for ever! What of that? Yes—let them take her! The world in arms should never have torn her from me, but when she cries—Yes! all's over. I'll find him at once."
He searched in out-of-the-way corners for the hat of resolve. Ripton looked on, wretcheder than ever.
The idea struck him:—"Suppose, Richard, she doesn't want to go?"
It was a moment when, perhaps, one who sided with parents and guardians and the old wise world, might have inclined them to pursue their righteous wretched course, and have given small Cupid a smack and sent him home to his naughty Mother. Alas!(it is The Pilgrim's Scrip interjecting) women are the born accomplices of mischief! In bustles Mrs. Berry to clear away the refection, and finds the two knights helmed, and sees, though 'tis dusk, that they wear doubtful brows, and guesses bad things for her dear God Hymen in a twinkling.
"Dear! dear!" she exclaimed, "and neither of you eaten a scrap! And there's my dear young lady off into the prettiest sleep you ever see!"
"Ha?" cried the lover, illuminated.