He obeyed; she called him back, with a voice half suffocated with rage, but he returned not.
Never was departing love recalled by the voice of reproach. It is not, as the poet fables, at the sight of human ties, that Cupid is frightened, for he is blind; but he has the most delicate ears imaginable: scared at the sound of female objurgation, Love claps his wings and urges his irrevocable flight.
Griselda remained for some time in her apartment to indulge her ill-humour; she had leisure for this indulgence; she was not now, as formerly, disturbed by the fond interruptions of a husband. Longer had her angry fit lasted, but for a circumstance, which may to many of our readers appear unnatural: our heroine became hungry. The passions are more under the control of the hours of meals[20] than any one, who has not observed human life out of novels, can easily believe. Dinner-time came, and Mrs. Bolingbroke appeared at dinner as usual. In the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Granby pride compelled Griselda to command herself, and no one could guess what had passed between her and her husband: but no sooner was she again tête-à-tête with him, than her reproaches recommenced with fresh violence.—“Will you only do me the justice to tell me, Mr. Bolingbroke,” cried she, “what reason you have to love me less?”
“Reason, my dear,” said he; “you know love is independent of reason, according to your own definition: love is involuntary, you cannot therefore blame me for its caprices.”
“Insulting casuistry!” said she, weeping; “sophistical nonsense! Have you any rational complaint to make against me, Bolingbroke?”
“I make no complaints, rational or irrational, my dear; they are all on your side.”
“And well they may be,” cried Griselda, “when you treat me in such a barbarous manner: but I do not complain; the world shall be my judge; the world will do me justice, if you will not. I appeal to every body who knows me, have I ever given you the slightest cause for ill-usage? Can you accuse me of any extravagance, of any imprudence, sir?”
“I accuse you of neither, Mrs. Bolingbroke.”
“No, because you cannot, sir; my character, my fidelity is unimpeached, unimpeachable: the world will do me justice.”
Griselda contrived to make even her virtues causes of torment. Upon the strength of this unimpeachable fidelity, she thought she might be as ill-humoured as she pleased; she seemed now to think that she had acquired an indefeasible right to reproach her husband, since she had extorted from him the confession that he loved her less, and that he had no crime to lay to her charge. Ten days passed on in this manner; the lady becoming every hour more irritable, the gentleman every hour more indifferent.