And Torfrida said yes, and yes, and yes, and felt in her heart that she
knew all that already. Had not she, too, taught, entreated, softened,
civilized? Had not she, too, spent her life upon a man, and that man a
wolf's-head and a landless outlaw, more utterly than Godiva could ever
have spent hers on one who lived lapped in luxury and wealth and power?
Torfrida had done her best, and she had failed, or at least fancied in her
haste that she had failed.
What she wanted was, not counsel, but love. And she clung round the Lady
Godiva, till the broken and ruined widow opened all her heart to her, and
took her in her arms, and fondled her as if she had been a babe. And the
two women spoke few words after that, for indeed there was nothing to be
said. Only at last, "My child, my child," cried Godiva, "better for thee,
body and soul, to be here with me in the house of God, than there amid
evil spirits and deeds of darkness in the wild woods."
"Not a cloister, not a cloister," cried Torfrida, shuddering, and half
struggling to get away.
"It is the only place, poor wilful child, the only place this side the
grave, in which, we wretched creatures, who for our sins are women born,
can find aught of rest or peace. By us sin came into the world, and Eve's
curse lies heavy on us to this day, and our desire is to our lords, and
they rule over us; and when the slave can work for her master no more,
what better than to crawl into the house of God, and lay down our crosses
at the foot of His cross and die? You too will come here, Torfrida, some
day, I know it well.
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