She had given that man her youth, her beauty, her
wealth, her wit. He should not have them a second time. He had had his
will of her. If he chose to throw her away when he had done with her, to
prove himself base at last, unworthy of all her care, her counsels, her
training,--dreadful thought! To have lived to keep that man for her own,
and just when her work seemed done, to lose him! No, there was worse than
that. To have lived that she might make that man a perfect knight, and
just when her work seemed done, to see him lose himself!
And she wept till she could weep no more. Then she washed away her tears
in that well. Had it been in Greece of old, that well would have become a
sacred well thenceforth, and Torfrida's tears have changed into
forget-me-nots, and fringed its marge with azure evermore.
Then she went back, calm, all but cold: but determined not to betray
herself, let him do what he would. Perhaps it was all a mistake, a fancy.
At least she would not degrade him, and herself, by showing suspicion. It
would be dreadful, shameful to herself, wickedly unjust to him, to accuse
him, were he innocent after all.
Hereward, she remarked, was more kind to her now. But it was a kindness
which she did not like. It was shy, faltering, as of a man guilty and
ashamed; and she repelled it as much as she dared, and then, once or
twice, returned it passionately, madly, in hopes--
But he never spoke a word of that letter.
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