Away from law, from self-restraint, from
refinement, from elegance, from the very sound of a church-going bell,
they were sinking gradually down to the level of the coarse men and women
whom they saw; the worse and not the better parts of both their characters
were getting the upper hand; and it was but too possible that after a
while the hero might sink into the ruffian, the lady into a slattern and a
shrew.
But in justice to them be it said, that neither of them had complained of
the other to any living soul. Their love had been as yet too perfect, too
sacred, for them to confess to another (and thereby confess to themselves)
that it could in any wise fail. They had each idolized the other, and been
too proud of their idolatry to allow that their idol could crumble or
decay.
And yet at last that point, too, was reached. One day they were wrangling
about somewhat, as they too often wrangled, and Hereward in his temper let
fall the words. "As I said to Winter the other day, you grow harder and
harder upon me."
Torfrida started and fixed on him wide, terrible, scornful eyes "So you
complain of me to your boon companions?"
And she turned and went away without a word. A gulf had opened between
them. They hardly spoke to each other for a week.
Hereward complained of Torfrida? What if Torfrida should complain of
Hereward? But to whom? Not to the coarse women round her; her pride
revolted from that thought;--and yet she longed for counsel, for
sympathy,--to open her heart but to one fellow-woman.
Pages:
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564