He did not speak to her on the subject, and of course she could not speak to him. It came into her mind once that she would ask her father to let her go home again; but dwelling on that prospect made it seem utter dreariness to her: a married woman gone back to live with her parents—life seemed to have no meaning for her in such a position: she could not contemplate herself in it.
The next two days Lydgate observed a change in her, and believed that she had heard the bad news.
Would she speak to him about it, or would she go on forever in the silence which seemed to imply that she believed him guilty?
We must remember that he was in a morbid state of mind, in which almost all contact was pain. Certainly Rosamond in this case had equal reason to complain of reserve and want of confidence on his part; but in the bitterness of his soul he excused himself;—was he not justified in shrinking from the task of telling her, since now she knew the truth she had no impulse to speak to him?
But a deeper-lying consciousness that he was in fault made him restless, and the silence between them became intolerable to him; it was as if they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other.
He thought, “I am a fool. Haven’t I given up expecting anything? I have married care, not help.” And that evening he said—
“Rosamond, have you heard anything that distresses you?”
“Yes,” she answered, laying down her work, which she had been carrying on with a languid semiconsciousness, most unlike her usual self.
“What have you heard?”
“Everything, I suppose. Papa told me.”