And so, in truth, it was. Henceforth there lay A gulf between us, widening with delay, And which our souls were impotent to pass, The gulf of a dead secret; and, alas! Who knows what subtle treacheries within, For virtue rends its witnesses of sin, And hearts are strangely fashioned by their fears. We met no more in friendship through the years, Although I held her secret as my own, And fought her battles, her best champion, On many a stricken field in scandal's war, Till all was well forgotten. From afar I watched her fortunes still with tenderness, Yet sadly, as cast out of Paradise. For ever, spite her promise, from that day, When I met L., he looked another way; And she, Griselda, was reserved and chill. I had behaved, her women friends said, ill, And caused a needless scandal in her life, --They told not what. Enough, that as a wife She had been compelled to close her doors on me, And that her lord knew all the iniquity. And so I bore the burden of her sin. What more shall I relate? The cynic vein Has overwhelmed my tale, and I must stop. Its heroine lived to justify all hope Of her long-suffering lord, that out of pain Blessings would grow, and his house smile again With the fulfilled expectance of an heir. Griselda sat no longer in despair, Nor wasted her full life on dreams of folly; She had little time for moods of melancholy, Or heart to venture further in love's ways; She was again the theme of all men's praise, And suffered no man's passion. Once a year, In the late autumn, when the leaves grew sere She made retreat to a lay sisterhood, And lived awhile there for her soul's more good, In pious meditation, fasts and prayer. Some say she wore concealed a shirt of hair Under her dresses, even at court balls, And certain 'tis that all Rome's rituals Were followed daily at the private Mass In her new chauntry built behind Hans Place. Lord L. approved of all she did, even this, Strange as it seemed to his old fashionedness.