There was a tone in the last sentence which was equivalent to the

clutch of his strong hand on Rosamond's delicate arm. But for all

that, his will was not a whit stronger than hers. She immediately

walked out of the room in silence, but with an intense determination to

hinder what Lydgate liked to do.

He went out of the house, but as his blood cooled he felt that the

chief result of the discussion was a deposit of dread within him at the

idea of opening with his wife in future subjects which might again urge

him to violent speech. It was as if a fracture in delicate crystal had

begun, and he was afraid of any movement that might make it fatal. His

marriage would be a mere piece of bitter irony if they could not go on

loving each other. He had long ago made up his mind to what he thought

was her negative character--her want of sensibility, which showed

itself in disregard both of his specific wishes and of his general

aims. The first great disappointment had been borne: the tender

devotedness and docile adoration of the ideal wife must be renounced,

and life must be taken up on a lower stage of expectation, as it is by

men who have lost their limbs. But the real wife had not only her

claims, she had still a hold on his heart, and it was his intense

desire that the hold should remain strong. In marriage, the certainty,

"She will never love me much," is easier to bear than the fear, "I

shall love her no more." Hence, after that outburst, his inward effort

was entirely to excuse her, and to blame the hard circumstances which

were partly his fault. He tried that evening, by petting her, to heal

the wound he had made in the morning, and it was not in Rosamond's

nature to be repellent or sulky; indeed, she welcomed the signs that

her husband loved her and was under control. But this was something

quite distinct from loving _him_. Lydgate would not have chosen soon to

recur to the plan of parting with the house; he was resolved to carry

it out, and say as little more about it as possible. But Rosamond

herself touched on it at breakfast by saying, mildly--

"Have you spoken to Trumbull yet?"

"No," said Lydgate, "but I shall call on him as I go by this morning.

No time must be lost." He took Rosamond's question as a sign that she

withdrew her inward opposition, and kissed her head caressingly when he

got up to go away.




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