She then endeavoured to persuade him to see Gertrude,
or at any rate to send his love to her. But in
this also he was obdurate. ‘It could,’
he said, ‘do no good.’ He could not
answer for himself that his feelings would not betray
him. A message would be of no use; if true, it
would not be gracious; if false, it had better be
avoided. He was quite sure Gertrude would be indifferent
as to any message from him. The best thing for
them both would be that they should forget each other.
He promised, however, that he would go down to Hampton
immediately after the marriage, and he sent his kindest
love to Linda and Katie. ‘And, dear Mrs.
Woodward,’ said he, ’I know you think
me very harsh, I know you think me vindictive—but
pray, pray believe that I understand all your love,
and acknowledge all your goodness. The time will,
perhaps, come when we shall be as happy together as
we once were.’
Mrs. Woodward, trying to smile through her tears,
could only say that she would pray that that time
might soon come; and so, bidding God bless him, as
a mother might bless her child, she left him and returned
to Hampton, not with a light heart.
THE FIRST WEDDING
In spite, however, of Norman and his anger, on a cold
snowy morning in the month of February, Gertrude stood
at the altar in Hampton Church, a happy trusting bride,
and Linda stood smiling behind her, the lovely leader
of the nuptial train. Nor were Linda’s
smiles false or forced, much less treacherous.
She had taught herself to look on Alaric as her sister’s
husband, and though in doing so she had suffered,
and did still suffer, she now thought of her own lost
lover in no other guise.
A housemaid, not long since, who was known in the
family in which she lived to be affianced to a neighbouring
gardener, came weeping to her mistress.
‘Oh, ma’am!’
‘Why, Susan, what ails you?’
‘Oh, ma’am!’
‘Well, Susan—what is it?—why
are you crying?’
‘Oh, ma’am—John!’
‘Well—what of John? I hope he
is not misbehaving.’
’Indeed, ma’am, he is then; the worst
of misbehaviour; for he’s gone and got hisself
married.’ And poor Susan gave vent to a
flood of tears.
Her mistress tried to comfort her, and not in vain.
She told her that probably she might be better as
she was; that John, seeing what he had done, must
be a false creature, who would undoubtedly have used
her ill; and she ended her good counsel by trying to
make Susan understand that there were still as good
fish in the sea as had ever yet been caught out of
it.
‘And that’s true too, ma’am,’
said Susan, with her apron to her eyes.
‘Then you should not be downhearted, you know.’
’Nor I han’t down’arted, ma’am,
for thank God I could love any man, but it’s
the looks on it, ma’am; it’s that I mind.’
