There was something like fierceness in Lydgate’s eyes, as he answered with new violence, “Well, then, if you will have it so, I do like it.  I admit that I like it better than making a fool of myself by going to beg where it’s of no use.  Understand then, that it is what I like to do.”

There was a tone in the last sentence which was equivalent to the clutch of his strong hand on Rosamond’s delicate arm.  But for all that, his will was not a whit stronger than hers.  She immediately walked out of the room in silence, but with an intense determination to hinder what Lydgate liked to do.

He went out of the house, but as his blood 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.