Or even excuse myself to honest souls Who seek to touch my lip or clasp my palm,— ‘Alas, but Lady Waldemar came first!’ ‘’Tis true, by this time, you may near me so That you’re my cousin’s wife. You’ve gambled deep 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 one 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,— Ay, Marian’s babe, her poor unfathered child, Her yearling babe!—you’d face him when he wakes And opens up his wonderful blue eyes: You’d meet them and not wink perhaps, nor fear God’s triumph in them and supreme revenge, So, righting His creation’s balance-scale (You pulled as low as Tophet) to the top Of most celestial innocence! For me Who am not as bold, I own those infant eyes Have set me praying. ‘While they look at heaven, No need of protestation in my words Against the place you’ve made them! let them look! They’ll do your business with the heavens, be sure: I spare you common curses. ‘Ponder this. If haply you’re the wife of Romney Leigh, (For which inheritance beyond your birth You sold that poisonous porridge called your soul) I charge you, be his faithful and true wife! Keep warm his hearth and clean his board, and, when He speaks, be quick with your obedience; Still grind your paltry wants and low desires To dust beneath his heel; though, even thus, The ground must hurt him,—it was writ of old, ‘Ye shall not yoke together ox and ass,’ The nobler and ignobler. Ay, but you Shall do your part as well as such ill things Can do aught good. You shall not vex him,—mark, You shall not vex him, ... jar him when he’s sad, Or cross him when he’s eager. Understand