And so away over the town
wall, and ran here five-and-twenty miles before breakfast, and thought it
better as you see to give the letter to my lady first."
"You have been officious," said Torfrida, coldly. "'Tis addressed to your
master. Take it to him. Go."
Martin Lightfoot whistled and obeyed, while Torfrida walked away proudly
and silently with a beating heart.
Again Godiva's words came over her. Should she end in the convent of
Crowland? And suspecting, fearing, imagining all sorts of baseless
phantoms, she hardened her heart into a great hardness.
Martin had gone with the letter, and Torfrida never heard any more of it.
So Hereward had secrets which he would not tell to her. At last!
That, at least, was a misery which she would not confide to Lady Godiva,
or to any soul on earth.
But a misery it was. Such a misery as none can delineate, save those who
have endured it themselves, or had it confided to them by another. And
happy are they to whom neither has befallen.
She wandered on and into the wild-wood, and sat down by a spring. She
looked in it--her only mirror--at her wan, coarse face, with wild black
elf-locks hanging round it, and wondered whether Alftruda, in her luxury
and prosperity, was still so very beautiful. Ah, that that fountain were
the fountain of Jouvence, the spring of perpetual youth, which all
believed in those days to exist somewhere,--how would she plunge into it,
and be young and fair once more!
No! she would not! She had lived her life, and lived it well, gallantly,
lovingly, heroically.
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