But who could excuse Alaric’s falseness to Linda?
And yet Linda had forgiven him.
NORMAN RETURNS TO TOWN
Harry Norman made no answer to either of his three
letters beyond that of sending Alaric’s back
unread; but this, without other reply, was sufficient
to let them all guess, nearly with accuracy, what
was the state of his mind. Alaric told Gertrude
how his missive had been treated, and Gertrude, of
course, told her mother.
There was very little of that joy at Surbiton Cottage
which should have been the forerunner of a wedding.
None of the Woodward circle were content thus to lose
their friend. And then their unhappiness on this
score was augmented by hearing that Harry had sent
up a medical certificate, instead of returning to
his duties when his prolonged leave of absence was
expired.
To Alaric this, at the moment, was a relief.
He had dreaded the return of Norman to London.
There were so many things to cause infinite pain to
them both. All Norman’s things, his books
and clothes, his desks and papers and pictures, his
whips and sticks, and all those sundry belongings
which even a bachelor collects around him—were
strewing the rooms in which Alaric still lived.
He had of course felt that it was impossible that they
should ever again reside together. Not only must
they quarrel, but all the men at their office must
know that they had quarrelled. And yet some intercourse
must be maintained between them; they must daily meet
in the rooms at the Weights and Measures; and it would
now in their altered position become necessary that
in some things Norman should receive instructions
from Alaric as his superior officer. But if Alaric
thought of this often, so did Norman; and before the
last fortnight had expired, the thinking of it had
made him so ill that his immediate return to London
was out of the question.
Mrs. Woodward’s heart melted within her when
she heard that Harry was really ill. She had
gone on waiting day after day for an answer to her
letter, but no answer came. No answer came, but
in lieu thereof she heard that Harry was laid up at
Normansgrove. She heard it, and Gertrude heard
it, and in spite of the coming wedding there was very
little joy at Surbiton Cottage.
And then Mrs. Woodward wrote again; and a man must
have had a heart of stone not to be moved by such
a letter. She had ‘heard,’ she said,
’that he was ill, and the tidings had made her
wretched—the more so inasmuch as he had
sent no answer to her last letter. Was he very
ill? was he dangerously ill? She hoped, she would
fain hope, that his illness had not arisen from any
mental grief. If he did not reply to this, or
get some of his family to do so, there would be nothing
for her but to go, herself, to Normansgrove.
She could not remain quiet while she was left in such
painful doubt about her dearest, well-loved Harry
