He proposed to Richard to spare her.  Vast is the distinction between women and men in this one sin, he said, and supported it with physical and moral citations.  His argument carried him so far, that to hear him one would have imagined he thought the sin in men small indeed.  His words were idle.

“She must know it,” said Richard, sternly.  “I will go to her now, sir, if you please.”

Sir Austin detained him, expostulated, contradicted himself, confounded his principles, made nonsense of all his theories.  He could not induce his son to waver in his resolve.  Ultimately, their good-night being interchanged, he understood that the happiness of Raynham depended on Lucy’s mercy.  He had no fears of her sweet heart, but it was a strange thing to have come to.  On which should the accusation fall—­on science, or on human nature?

He remained in the library pondering over the question, at times breathing contempt for his son, and again seized with unwonted suspicion of his own wisdom:  troubled, much to be pitied, even if he deserved that blow from his son which had plunged him into wretchedness.  Richard went straight to Tom Bakewell, roused the heavy sleeper, and told him to have his mare saddled and waiting at the park gates East within an hour.  Tom’s nearest approach to a hero was to be a faithful slave to his master, and in doing this he acted to his conception of that high and glorious character.  He got up and heroically dashed his head into cold water.  “She shall be ready, sir,” he nodded.

“Tom! if you don’t see me back here at Raynham, your money will go on being paid to you.”

“Rather see you than the money, Mr. Richard,” said Tom.

“And you will always watch and see no harm comes to her, Tom.”

“Mrs. Richard, sir?” Tom stared.  “God bless me, Mr. Richard”—­

“No questions.  You’ll do what I say.”

“Ay, sir; that I will.  Did’n Isle o’ Wight.”

The very name of the Island shocked Richard’s blood; and he had to walk up and down before he could knock at Lucy’s door.  That infamous conspiracy to which he owed his degradation and misery scarce left him the feelings of a man when he thought of it.

The soft beloved voice responded to his knock.  He opened the door, and stood before her.  Lucy was half-way toward him.  In the moment that passed ere she was in his arms, he had time to observe the change in her.  He had left her a girl:  he beheld a woman—­a blooming woman:  for pale at first, no sooner did she see him than the colour was rich and deep on her face and neck and bosom half shown through the loose dressing-robe, and the sense of her exceeding beauty made his heart thump and his eyes swim.

“My darling!” each cried, and they clung together, and her mouth was fastened on his.