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MIDDLEMARCH-Part100_GEORGE ELIOT(1819-1880)_English Literature(文学)-第2页

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but the ride had been so thorough a success, and she declared



herself so much the better in consequence, that he was informed

of it with full reliance on his consent that she should go riding again.



On the contrary Lydgate was more than hurt--he was utterly

confounded that she had risked herself on a strange horse without



referring the matter to his wish. After the first almost

thundering exclamations of astonishment, which sufficiently



warned Rosamond of what was coming, he was silent for some moments.

"However, you have come back safely," he said, at last, in a



decisive tone. "You will not go again, Rosy; that is understood.

If it were the quietest, most familiar horse in the world,



there would always be the chance of accident. And you know very

well that I wished you to give up riding the roan on that account."



"But there is the chance of accident indoors, Tertius."

"My darling, don't talk nonsense," said Lydgate, in an imploring tone;



"surely I am the person to judge for you. I think it is enough

that I say you are not to go again."



Rosamond was arranging her hair before dinner, and the reflection

of her head in the glass showed no change in its loveliness except



a little turning aside of the long neck. Lydgate had been moving

about with his hands in his pockets, and now paused near her,



as if he awaited some assurance.

"I wish you would fasten up my plaits, dear," said Rosamond, letting her



arms fall with a little sigh, so as to make a husband ashamed of standing

there like a brute. Lydgate had often fastened the plaits before,



being among the deftest of men with his large finely formed fingers.

He swept up the soft festoons of plaits and fastened in the tall



comb (to such uses do men come!); and what could he do then but kiss

the exquisite nape which was shown in all its delicate curves?



But when we do what we have done before, it is often with a difference.

Lydgate was still angry, and had not forgotten his point.



"I shall tell the Captain that he ought to have known better than

offer you his horse," he said, as he moved away.



"I beg you will not do anything of the kind, Tertius," said Rosamond,

looking at him with something more marked than usual in her speech.



"It will be treating me as if I were a child. Promise that you will

leave the subject to me."



There did seem to be some truth in her objection. Lydgate said,

"Very well," with a surly obedience, and thus the discussion ended



with his promising Rosamond, and not with her promising him.

In fact, she had been determined not to promise. Rosamond had



that victoriousobstinacy which never wastes its energy in

impetuous resistance. What she liked to do was to her the right thing,



and all her cleverness was directed to getting the means of doing it.

She meant to go out riding again on the gray, and she did go on



the next opportunity of her husband's absence, not intending that

he should know until it was late enough not to signify to her.



The temptation was certainly great: she was very fond of the exercise,

and the gratification of riding on a fine horse, with Captain Lydgate,



Sir Godwin's son, on another fine horse by her side, and of being met

in this position by any one but her husband, was something as good as



her dreams before marriage: moreover she was riveting the connection

with the family at Quallingham, which must be a wise thing to do.



But the gentle gray, unprepared for the crash of a tree that was

being felled on the edge of Halsell wood, took fright, and caused



a worse fright to Rosamond, leading finally to the loss of her baby.

Lydgate could not show his anger towards her, but he was rather



bearish to the Captain, whose visit naturally soon came to an end.

In all future conversations on the subject, Rosamond was mildly



certain that the ride had made no difference, and that if she had

stayed at home the same symptoms would have come on and would have



ended in the same way, because she had felt something like them before.

Lydgate could only say, "Poor, poor darling!"--but he secretly wondered



over the terrible tenacity of this mild creature. There was gathering

within him an amazed sense of his powerlessness over Rosamond.



His superior knowledge and mental force, instead of being, as he

had imagined, a shrine to consult on all occasions, was simply set



aside on every practical question. He had regarded Rosamond's




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