Nor was the swift and unheralded action inspired solely by Lady Macbeth's impatience to be the wife of a king. All women run after their thoughts more eagerly than do the men. They are Atalantas without a weakness for the golden apples which are sent across the path to break up their desire for winning. But, if Atalanta secretly prefers a suitor, she will chase his golden apple. For whenever personal preferences divert a woman from her course, it is because they, too, grow in the Hesperides of her imagination. Men deliberate, study the ground, observe the obstacles, cluster round preponderating judgment and wait for its direction. Women are not heedless: they also can deliberate until the heart has become too deeply involved; but, when the heart is set upon something, they are the swift-footed couriers of the Ideal, and their only turnpike is as the bird flies. If there be any virtuous advantage to be gained, any scheme to carry out, any enthusiasm that beautifies the distance, they go across-lots for it, not minding that they may stumble upon brooks unprovided with a stepping-stone or fallen tree. They fret at obstacles, and instigate the neighborhood against them. They advocate with ardor, consult no selfishness, want to override every thing with the moral feeling that what is worth doing at all ought to be done quickly. Macbeth seizes this trait by his reflection that it would be all very fine if it were done when 'tis done: her quickness would then justify itself to his consideration. For good or evil all women who can be inspired with purposes speak in her ideal tone:-- "Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage?" Women can shame a partner into valor by venturing the worst affront when they cry,-- "From this time, Such I account thy love;" that is, I account it like thy drunken hope which wakes up penitent and pale. When a husband hears himself scorned in this style, he does not believe his own ears, but instinctively translates the phrases to mean, "From this time, count upon my love." For the ideal, in the moment of its greatest rage and dread, betrays the immortal attachment which is a man's breath, his superiority, his sole success.