Whenever he gave her money for a definite
object, she still made her purchases as cheaply as possible, still
brought what was left over in the flat of an empty palm to him. But
the enfranchising influence of those two years of hard work began
to lose its effect. She lost independence at every turn and, by the
time they returned to London, was beginning to lean on Traill, rely
on him, submit subserviently to every wish he uttered.
Such had been her desertion from the cause, a conscript in which,
she had so ill-understood. The falling back into luxury, the
acceptance of those things which in her tentative, unrevolutionary
way she had always imagined to come into her right of possession,
had been very easy--very gentle--the drifting of a feather on an idle
summer wind. She had let herself be borne on it, using it, not as
an advantage, not as a step to lift her to a greater freedom and a
wider independence, but as a fit setting, a worthy environment to
this love which consumed the whole of her being and rode, the master,
with an unslacking rein, over all her actions.
If she had taken the situation as it was, faced the meaning of it
with firm lips and a steady eye, there would have been hope--more,
there would have been salvation for her.
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