lood 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 mate 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.

As soon as it was late enough to make a call, Rosamond went to Mrs.
Plymdale, Mr. Ned's mother, and entered with pretty congratulations
into the subject of the coming marriage. Mrs. Plymdale's maternal view
was, that Rosamond might possibly now have retrospective glimpses of
her own folly; and feeling the advantages to be at present all on the
side of her son, was too kind a woman not to behave graciously.

"Yes, Ned is most happy,