BUSHEY PARK
The next day being Sunday, the whole party very properly went to church;
but during the sermon Captain Cuttwater very improperly went to sleep,
and snored ponderously the whole time. Katie was so thoroughly shocked
that she did not know which way to look; Norman, who had recovered his
good-humour, and Alaric, could not refrain from smiling as they caught
the eyes of the two girls; and Mrs. Woodward made sundry little abortive
efforts to wake her uncle with her foot. Altogether abortive they were
not, for the captain would open his eyes and gaze at her for a moment
in the most good-natured, lack-lustre manner conceivable; but then, in a
moment, he would be again asleep and snoring, with all the regularity of
a kitchen-clock. This was at first very dreadful to the Woodwards; but
after a month or two they got used to it, and so apparently did the
pastor and the people of Hampton.
After church there was a lunch of course; and then, according to their
wont, they went out to walk. These Sunday walks in general were matters
of some difficulty. The beautiful neighbourhood of Hampton Court, with
its palace-gardens and lovely park, is so popular with Londoners that it
is generally alive on that day with a thronged multitude of men, women,
and children, and thus becomes not an eligible resort for lovers of
privacy. Captain Cuttwater, however, on this occasion, insisted on
seeing the chestnuts and the crowd, and consequently, they all went into
Bushey Park.
Uncle Bat, who professed himself to be a philanthropist, and who was
also a bit of a democrat, declared himself delighted with what he saw.
It was a great thing for the London citizens to come down there with
their wives and children, and eat their dinners in the open air under
the spreading trees; and both Harry and Alaric agreed with him. Mrs.
Woodward, however, averred that it would be much better if they would
go to church first, and Gertrude and Linda were of opinion that the Park
was spoilt by the dirty bits of greasy paper which were left about on
all sides. Katie thought it very hard that, as all the Londoners were
allowed to eat their dinners in the Park, she might not have hers there
also. To which Captain Cuttwater rejoined that he should give them a
picnic at Richmond before the summer was over.
All the world knows how such a party as that of our friends by degrees
separates itself into twos and threes, when sauntering about in shady
walks. It was seldom, indeed, that Norman could induce his Dulcinea to
be so complaisant in his favour; but either accident or kindness on her
part favoured him on this occasion, and as Katie went on eliciting from
Uncle Bat fresh promises as to the picnic, Harry and Gertrude found
themselves together under one avenue of trees, while Alaric and Linda
were equally fortunate, or unfortunate, under another.
'I did so wish to speak a few words to you, Gertrude,' said Norman; 'but
it seems as though, now that this captain has come among us, all our old
habits and ways are to be upset.'
'I don't see that _you_ need say that,' said she. 'We may, perhaps, be
put out a little--that is, mamma and Linda and I; but I do not see that
you need suffer.'
'Suffer--no, not suffer--and yet it is suffering.'
'What is suffering?' said she.
'Why, to be as we were last night--not able to speak to each other.'
'Come, Harry, you should be a little reasonable,' said she, laughing.
'If you did not talk last night whose fault was it?'
'I suppose you will say it was my own. Perhaps it was. But I could not
feel comfortable while he was drinking gin-and-water--'
'It was rum,' said Gertrude, rather gravely.
'Well, rum-and-water in your mother's drawing-room, and cursing and
swearing before you and Linda, as though he were in the cockpit of a
man-of-war.'
'Alaric you saw was able to make himself happy, and I am sure he is not
more indifferent to us than you are.'
'Alaric seemed to me to be bent on making a fool of the old man; and, to
tell the truth, I cannot approve of his doing so.'
'It seems to me, Harry, that you do not approve of what any of us
are doing,' said she; 'I fear we are all in your black books--Captain
Cuttwater, and mamma, and Alaric, and I, and all of us.'
'Well now, Gertrude, do you mean to say you think it right that Katie
should sit by and hear a man talk as Captain Cuttwater talked last
night? Do you mean to say that the scene which passed, with the rum and
the curses, and the absurd ridicule which was thrown on your mother's
uncle, was such as should take place in your mother's drawing-room?'
'I mean to say, Harry, that my mother is the best and only judge of what
should, and what should not, take place there.'
Norman felt himself somewhat silenced by this, and walked on for a
time without speaking. He was a little too apt to take upon himself the
character of Mentor; and, strange to say, he was aware of his own fault
in this particular. Thus, though the temptation to preach was very
powerful, he refrained himself for a while. His present desire was to
say soft things rather than sharp words; and though lecturing was at
this moment much easier to him than love-making, he bethought himself
of his object, and controlled the spirit of morality which was strong
within him.
'But we were so happy before your uncle came,' he said, speaking with
his sweetest voice, and looking at the beautiful girl beside him with
all the love he was able to throw into his handsome face.
'And we are happy now that he has come--or at any rate ought to be,'
said Gertrude, doing a little in the Mentor line herself, now that the
occasion came in her way.
'Ah! Gertrude, you know very well there is only one thing can make me
happy,' said Harry.
'Why, you unreasonable man! just now you said you were perfectly happy
before Captain Cuttwater came, I suppose the one thing now necessary is
to send him away again.'
'No, Gertrude, the thing necessary is to take you away.'
'What! out of the contamination of poor old Uncle Bat's bottle of rum?
But, Harry, you see it would be cowardly in me to leave mamma and Linda
to suffer the calamity alone.'
'I wonder, Gertrude, whether, in your heart of hearts, you really care
a straw about me,' said Harry, who was now very sentimental and somewhat
lachrymose.
'You know we all care very much about you, and it is very wrong in
you to express such a doubt,' said Gertrude, with a duplicity that
was almost wicked; as if she did not fully understand that the kind of
'caring' of which Norman spoke was of a very different nature from the
general 'caring' which she, on his behalf, shared with the rest of her
family.
'All of you--yes, but I am not speaking of all of you; I am speaking of
you, Gertrude--you in particular. Can you ever love me well enough to be
my wife?'
'Well, there is no knowing what I may be able to do in three or four
years' time; but even that must depend very much on how you behave
yourself in the mean time. If you get cross because Captain Cuttwater
has come here, and snub Alaric and Linda, as you did last night, and
scold at mamma because she chooses to let her own uncle live in her own
house, why, to tell you the truth, I don't think I ever shall.'
All persons who have a propensity to lecture others have a strong
constitutional dislike to being lectured themselves. Such was decidedly
the case with Harry Norman. In spite of his strong love, and his anxious
desire to make himself agreeable, his brow became somewhat darkened, and
his lips somewhat compressed. He would not probably have been annoyed
had he not been found fault with for snubbing his friend Tudor. Why
should Gertrude, his Gertrude, put herself forward to defend his friend?
Let her say what she chose for her mother, or even for her profane,
dram-drinking, vulgar old uncle, but it was too much that she should
take up the cudgels for Alaric Tudor.
'Well,' said he, 'I was annoyed last night, and I must own it. It
grieved me to hear Alaric turning your uncle into ridicule, and that
before your mother's face; and it grieved me to see you and Linda
encourage him. In what Alaric said about the Admiralty he did not speak
truthfully.'
'Do you mean to say that Alaric said what was false?'
'Inasmuch as he was pretending to express his own opinion, he did say
what was false.'
'Then I must and will say that I never yet knew Alaric say a word that
was not true; and, which is more, I am quite sure that he would not
accuse you of falsehood behind your back in a fit of jealousy.'
'Jealousy!' said Norman, looking now as black as grim death itself.
'Yes, it is jealousy. It so turned out that Alaric got on better last
night with Captain Cuttwater than you did, and that makes you jealous.'
'Pish!' said Norman, somewhat relieved, but still sufficiently disgusted
that his lady-love should suppose that he could be otherwise than
supremely indifferent to the opinion of Captain Cuttwater.
The love-scene, however, was fatally interrupted; and the pair were not
long before they joined the captain, Mrs. Woodward, and Katie.
And how fared it with the other pair under the other avenue of
chestnuts?
Alaric Tudor had certainly come out with no defined intention of making
love as Harry Norman had done; but with such a companion it was very
difficult for him to avoid it. Linda was much more open to attacks
of this nature than her sister. Not that she was as a general rule
willingly and wilfully inclined to give more encouragement to lovers
than Gertrude; but she had less power of fence, less skill in protecting
herself, and much less of that naughty self-esteem which makes some
women fancy that all love-making to them is a liberty, and the want of
which makes others feel that all love-making is to them a compliment.
Alaric Tudor had no defined intention of making love; but he had a sort
of suspicion that he might, if he pleased, do so successfully; and
he had no defined intention of letting it alone. He was a far-seeing,
prudent man; for his age perhaps too prudent; but he was nevertheless
fully susceptible of the pleasure of holding an affectionate, close
intercourse with so sweet a girl as Linda Woodward; and though he knew
that marriage with a girl without a dowry would for him be a death-blow
to all his high hopes, he could hardly resist the temptation of
conjugating the verb to love. Had he been able to choose from the two
sisters, he would probably have selected Gertrude in spite of what
he had said to Norman in the boat; but Gertrude was bespoken; and it
therefore seemed all but unnatural that there should not be some love
passages between him and Linda.
Ah! Mrs. Woodward, my friend, my friend, was it well that thou shouldst
leave that sweet unguarded rosebud of thine to such perils as these?
They, also, commenced their wooing by talking over Captain Cuttwater;
but they did not quarrel over him. Linda was quite content to be told
by her friend what she ought to do, and how she ought to think about her
uncle; and Alaric had a better way of laying down the law than Norman.
He could do so without offending his hearer's pride, and consequently
was generally better listened to than his friend, though his law was
probably not in effect so sound.
But they had soon done with Captain Cuttwater, and Alaric had to choose
another subject. Gertrude and Norman were at some distance from them,
but were in sight and somewhat in advance.
'Look at Harry,' said Alaric; 'I know from the motion of his shoulder
that he is at this moment saying something very tender.'
'It is ten times more likely that they are quarrelling,' said Linda.
'Oh! the quarrels of lovers--we know all about that, don't we?'
'You must not call them lovers, Alaric; mamma would not like it, nor
indeed would Gertrude, I am sure.'
'I would not for the world do anything that Mrs. Woodward would not
like; but between ourselves, Linda, are they not lovers?'
'No; that is, not that I know of. I don't believe that they are a bit,'
said Linda, blushing at her own fib.
'And why should they not be? How indeed is it possible that they
should not be; that is--for I heartily beg Gertrude's pardon--how is it
possible that Harry should not be in love with her?'
'Indeed, Gertrude is very, very beautiful,' said Linda, with the
faintest possible sigh, occasioned by the remembrance of her own
inferior charms.
'Indeed she is, very, very beautiful,' repeated Alaric, speaking with
an absent air as though his mind were fully engaged in thinking of the
beauty of which he spoke.
It was not in Linda's nature to be angry because her sister was admired,
and because she was not. But yet there was something in Alaric's warm
tone of admiration which gave her a feeling of unhappiness which she
would have been quite unable to define, even had she attempted it. She
saw her sister and Harry Norman before her, and she knew in her heart
that they were lovers, in spite of her little weak declaration to the
contrary. She saw how earnestly her sister was loved, and she in
her kindly loving nature could not but envy her fancied happiness.
Envy--no--it certainly was not envy. She would not for worlds have
robbed her sister of her admirer; but it was so natural for her to feel
that it must be delicious to be admired!
She did not begrudge Gertrude Norman's superior beauty, nor his greater
wealth; she knew that Gertrude was entitled to more, much more, than
herself. But seeing that Norman was Gertrude's lover, was it not natural
that Alaric should be hers? And then, though Harry was the handsomer and
the richer, she liked Alaric so much the better of the two. But now that
Alaric was alone with her, the only subject he could think to talk of
was Gertrude's beauty!
It must not be supposed that these thoughts in their plainly-developed
form passed through Linda's mind. It was not that she thought all this,
but that she felt it. Such feelings are quite involuntary, whereas one's
thoughts are more or less under command. Linda would not have allowed
herself to think in this way for worlds; but she could not control her
feelings.
They walked on side by side, perfectly silent for a minute or two, and
an ill-natured tear was gathering itself in the corner of Linda's eye:
she was afraid even to raise her hand to brush it away, for fear Alaric
should see her, and thus it went on gathering till it was like to fall.
'How singular it is,' said Alaric--'how very singular, the way in which
I find myself living with you all! such a perfect stranger as I am.'
'A perfect stranger!' said Linda, who, having remembered Alaric since
the days of her short frocks and lessons, looked on him as a very old
friend indeed.
'Yes, a perfect stranger, if you think of it. What do any of you know
about me? Your mother never saw my mother; your father knew nothing of
my father; there is no kindred blood common to us. Harry Norman, there,
is your near cousin; but what am I that I should be thus allowed to
live with you, and walk with you, and have a common interest in all your
doings?'
'Why, you are a dear friend of mamma's, are you not?'
'A dear friend of mamma's! said he, 'well, indeed, I hope I am; for your
mother is at any rate a dear friend to me. But, Linda, one cannot be so
much without longing to be more. Look at Harry, how happy he is!'
'But, Alaric, surely you would not interfere with Harry,' said Linda,
whose humble, innocent heart thought still of nothing but the merits of
her sister; and then, remembering that it was necessary that she should
admit nothing on Gertrude's behalf, she entered her little protest
against the assumption that her sister acknowledged Norman for her
lover. 'That is, you would not do so, if there were anything in it.'
'I interfere with Harry!' said Alaric, switching the heads off the bits
of fern with the cane he carried. 'No, indeed. I have no wish at all to
do that. It is not that of which I was thinking. Harry is welcome to all
his happiness; that is, if Gertrude can be brought to make him happy.'
Linda, made no answer now; but the tear came running down her face, and
her eyes became dim, and her heart beat very quick, and she didn't quite
remember where she was. Up to this moment no man had spoken a word of
love to Linda Woodward, and to some girls the first word is very trying.
'Interfere with Harry!' Alaric repeated again, and renewed his attack on
the ferns. 'Well, Linda, what an opinion you must have of me!'
Linda was past answering; she could not protest--nor would it have
been expedient to do so--that her opinion of her companion was not
unfavourable.
'Gertrude is beautiful, very beautiful,' he continued, still beating
about the bush as modest lovers do, and should do; 'but she is not the
only beautiful girl in Surbiton Cottage, nor to my eyes is she the most
so.'
Linda was now quite beside herself. She knew that decorum required that
she should say something stiff and stately to repress such language, but
if all her future character for propriety had depended on it, she
could not bring herself to say a word. She knew that Gertrude, when so
addressed, would have maintained her dignity, and have concealed her
secret, even if she allowed herself to have a secret to conceal. She
knew that it behoved her to be repellent and antagonistic to the first
vows of a first lover. But, alas! she had no power of antagonism, no
energy for repulse left in her. Her knees seemed to be weak beneath her,
and all she could do was to pluck to pieces the few flowers that she
carried at her waist.
Alaric saw his advantage, but was too generous to push it closely; nor
indeed did he choose to commit himself to all the assured intentions of
a positive declaration. He wished to raise an interest in Linda's heart,
and having done so, to leave the matter to chance. Something, however,
it was necessary that he should say. He walked a while by her in
silence, decapitating the ferns, and then coming close to her, he said--
'Linda, dear Linda! you are not angry with me?' Linda, however, answered
nothing. 'Linda, dearest Linda! speak one word to me.'
'Don't!' said Linda through her tears. 'Pray don't, Alaric; pray don't.'
'Well, Linda, I will not say another word to you now. Let us walk
gently; we shall catch them up quite in time before they leave the
park.'
And so they sauntered on, exchanging no further words. Linda by degrees
recovered her calmness, and as she did so, she found herself to be, oh!
so happy. She had never, never envied Gertrude her lover; but it was so
sweet, so very sweet, to be able to share her sister's happiness.
And Alaric, was he also happy? At the moment he doubtless enjoyed the
triumph of his success. But still he had a feeling of sad care at his
heart. How was he to marry a girl without a shilling? Were all his high
hopes, was all his soaring ambition, to be thrown over for a dream of
love?
Ah! Mrs. Woodward, my friend, my friend, thou who wouldst have fed thy
young ones, like the pelican, with blood from thine own breast, had such
feeding been of avail; thou who art the kindest of mothers; has it been
well for thee to subject to such perils this poor weak young dove of
thine?
Uncle Bat had become tired with his walk, and crawled home so slowly
that Alaric and Linda caught the party just as they reached the small
wicket which leads out of the park on the side nearest to Hampton.
Nothing was said or thought of their absence, and they all entered the
house together. Four of them, however, were conscious that that Sunday's
walk beneath the chestnuts of Bushey Park would long be remembered.
Nothing else occurred to make the day memorable. In the evening, after
dinner, Mrs. Woodward and her daughters went to church, leaving her
younger guests to entertain the elder one. The elder one soon took the
matter in his own hand by going to sleep; and Harry and Alaric being
thus at liberty, sauntered out down the river side. They both made a
forced attempt at good-humour, each speaking cheerily to the other; but
there was no confidence between them as there had been on that morning
when Harry rowed his friend up to London. Ah me! what had occurred
between them to break the bonds of their mutual trust--to quench the
ardour of their firm friendship? But so it was between them now. It was
fated that they never again should place full confidence in each other.
There was no such breach between the sisters, at least not as yet; but
even between them there was no free and full interchange of their
hopes and fears. Gertrude and Linda shared the same room, and were
accustomed--as what girls are not?--to talk half through the night of
all their wishes, thoughts, and feelings. And Gertrude was generally
prone enough to talk of Harry Norman. Sometimes she would say she loved
him a little, just a little; at others she would declare that she loved
him not at all--that is, not as heroines love in novels, not as she
thought she could love, and would do, should it ever be her lot to be
wooed by such a lover as her young fancy pictured to her. Then she
would describe her beau idéal, and the description certainly gave no
counterpart of Harry Norman. To tell the truth, however, Gertrude was as
yet heart whole; and when she talked of love and Harry Norman, she did
not know what love was.
On this special Sunday evening she was disinclined to speak of him at
all. Not that she loved him more than usual, but that she was beginning
to think that she could not ever really love him at all. She had taught
herself to think that he might probably be her husband, and had hitherto
felt no such repugnance to her destiny as caused her to shun the
subject. But now she was beginning to think of the matter seriously; and
as she did so, she felt that life might have for her a lot more blessed
than that of sharing the world with her cousin Harry.
When, therefore, Linda began to question her about her lover, and to
make little hints of her desire to tell what Alaric had said of her and
Norman, Gertrude gave her no encouragement. She would speak of Captain
Cuttwater, of Katie's lessons, of the new dress they were to make for
their mother, of Mr. Everscreech's long sermon, of anything in fact but
of Harry Norman.
Now this was very hard on poor Linda. Her heart was bursting within her
to tell her sister that she also was beloved; but she could not do so
without some little encouragement.
In all their conferences she took the cue of the conversation from her
sister; and though she could have talked about Alaric by the hour, if
Gertrude would have consented to talk about Harry, she did not know how
to start the subject of her own lover, while Gertrude was so cold
and uncommunicative as to hers. She struggled very hard to obtain the
privilege for which she so anxiously longed; but in doing so she only
met with a sad and sore rebuff.
'Gertrude,' at last said Linda, when Gertrude thought that the subject
had been put to rest at any rate for that night, 'don't you think mamma
would be pleased if she knew that you had engaged yourself to Harry
Norman?'
'No,' said Gertrude, evincing her strong mind by the tone in which she
spoke; 'I do not. If mamma wished it, she would have told me; for she
never has any secrets. I should be as wrong to engage myself with Harry
as you would be with Alaric. For though Harry has property of his own,
while poor Alaric has none, he has a very insufficient income for a
married man, and I have no fortune with which to help him. If nothing
else prevented it, I should consider it wicked in me to make myself a
burden to a man while he is yet so young and comparatively so poor.'
Prudent, sensible, high-minded, well-disciplined Gertrude! But had her
heart really felt a spark of love for the man of whom she spoke, how
much would prudent, sensible, high-minded considerations have weighed
with her? Alas! not a feather.
Having made her prudent, high-minded speech, she turned round and slept;
and poor Linda also turned round and bedewed her pillow. She no longer
panted to tell her sister of Alaric's love.
On the next morning the two young men returned to town, and the
customary dullness of the week began.