True admirers of women had better stand aside from the scene.  Undoubtedly it was very sad for Adrian to be compelled to witness it.  Mrs. Doria was not generous.  The Pilgrim may be wrong about the sex not growing; but its fashion of conducting warfare we must allow to be barbarous, and according to what is deemed the pristine, or wild cat, method.  Ruin, nothing short of it, accompanied poor Berry to her bed that night, and her character bled till morning on her pillow.

The scene over, Adrian reconducted Mrs. Doria to her home.  Mice had been at the cake during her absence apparently.  The ladies and gentlemen present put it on the greedy mice, who were accused of having gorged and gone to bed.

“I’m sure they’re quite welcome,” said Mrs. Doria.  “It’s a farce, this marriage, and Adrian has quite come to my way of thinking.  I would not touch an atom of it.  Why, they were married in a married woman’s ring!  Can that be legal, as you call it?  Oh, I’m convinced!  Don’t tell me.  Austin will be in town to-morrow, and if he is true to his principles, he will instantly adopt measures to rescue his son from infamy.  I want no legal advice.  I go upon common sense, common decency.  This marriage is false.”

Mrs. Doria’s fine scheme had become so much a part of her life, that she could not give it up.  She took Clare to her bed, and caressed and wept over her, as she would not have done had she known the singular child, saying, “Poor Richard! my dear poor boy! we must save him, Clare! we must save him!” Of the two the mother showed the greater want of iron on this occasion.  Clare lay in her arms rigid and emotionless, with one of her hands tight-locked.  All she said was:  “I knew it in the morning, mama.”  She slept clasping Richard’s nuptial ring.

By this time all specially concerned in the System knew it.  The honeymoon was shoring placidly above them.  Is not happiness like another circulating medium?  When we have a very great deal of it, some poor hearts are aching for what is taken away from them.  When we have gone out and seized it on the highways, certain inscrutable laws are sure to be at work to bring us to the criminal bar, sooner or later.  Who knows the honeymoon that did not steal somebody’s sweetness?  Richard Turpin went forth, singing “Money or life” to the world:  Richard Feverel has done the same, substituting “Happiness” for “Money,” frequently synonyms.  The coin he wanted he would have, and was just as much a highway robber as his fellow Dick, so that those who have failed to recognize him as a hero before, may now regard him in that light.  Meanwhile the world he has squeezed looks exceedingly patient and beautiful.  His coin chinks delicious music to him.  Nature and the order of things on earth have no warmer admirer than a jolly brigand or a young man made happy by the Jews.

CHAPTER XXXIII