Soph. (Bursts into tears.) Unheard of assurance! What do you seer in me to encourage such insolence? or is it the very baseness of you nature that insults a woman because she has no protection?
Tru. (Advances between them.) Protection is not so distant as you imagined.
—C. Dibdin, Jun.
Lotte’s heart, out of its own sore struggles, had been schooled to compassionate deeply and tenderly the afflictions and trials of others, especially of her own sex. She had no thought, in taking to her bosom this poor heart-crushed wanderer, of the responsibility she was entailing upon herself. The cold suggestions of worldly prudence, and the heartless promptings of mincing propriety had no trumpet-tongued voice loud enough to reach her ear. She saw only that one, lonely, helpless, pressed, as she had been, ruthlessly by a mad despair upon the brink of an awful abyss, would spring into its unfathomable depths, if she stretched not forth her hand to hold her back. She paused not in her impulse to save this young, forlorn, desolate woman—to ask in what, why, or how she had erred, or to reflect whether she was destitute, even though elegantly dressed, and, if so, that her noble purpose of restoring her, if possible, back to the sunny paths of ife, could only be accomplished by many a personal sacrifice.
No; not one selfish thought mingled itself with her sympathy; her own initiation into suffering had stimulated her, unbiassed by any personal consideration, to rescue one placed in a like peril to that in which she had stood, and she was prepared to conduct the young stranger to her own abode without further inquiry—without stipulation or condition.
“Imprudent! rash! inconsiderate!” cries rigid Decorum—“Yet a blessed sample of pure human compassion!” exclaims old single-hearted, but, alas! too often abused Philanthropy.
The young stranger read human nature by instinct, rather than by experience. She felt assured that the girl who had pleaded with her so passionately against the commission of her meditated sin, was sincere, truthful, and trustworthy, and she resolved to place confidence in her. She had been struck by the words, “I live by myself quite, quite alone—no one visits me, for I am humble.” Upon them had followed the promise of the tender, affectionate, loving services of a sister, and those words had conjured up before her eyes a young, loving, anxious face—that of one whose gentle heart would break if she came to know that the tenant of the sick couch she had so patiently watched had perished by the terrible crime of self-murder. Then she found it impossible to resist the earnest pleadings of her new found friend, and she yielded her will up to her with some vague notion that she should be conducted to a quiet retired place, where her friends—search for her as they might—would never discover her.
They proceeded slowly along the path stretching across the park, Lotte alone sustaining the conversation which she knew how to shape, so as not to jar upon the feelings of her companion. She tried, also, so to arrange her discourse as to give some knowledge of her occupation and style of life, that the young lady might have a just notion of the new home she was going to, and how it was supported.
Lotte spoke hopefully and cheerfully of the future, even though she extracted not a sound, not even a monosyllable, in reply; but she was not disconcerted at this, for she knew, by sad experience, the heart of the young mourner upon her arm was too full for speech. The increasing darkness spreading over the wide, treeless expanse, contrasted by the distant lights, made the surrounding place seem drear, and caused Lotte—who was not much more courageous, when in the midst of a wide moor-like space, in the dark, than most of her sex—to increase her speed. Her companion, who had drawn a thick veil down over her face, completely shrouding her features, offered no objection to this change in their pace, but, if anything, appeared desirous of accelerating it, seemingly wishful, now she had decided on accepting a new condition of life, to hurry to it, so as to escape the observation of the outer world.
Their walk thus became rapid, and the lights drew nearer, and grew brighter.