“What luck some have. There is George Fielding, of the 'Grove Farm,' has made his fortune at the gold, and married yesterday to one of the prettiest girls in Sydney. I met them walking in the street to-day. She would not have looked at him but for the gold.”
Susan uttered a faint moan, and sank down slowly on her knees, like some tender tree felled by a rude stroke; her eyes seemed to swim in a mist, she tried to read the cruel words again but could not; she put her hands before her eyes.
“He is alive,” she said, “thank God, he is alive.” And at last tears forced their way through her fingers. She took her handkerchief and dried her eyes. “Why do I cry for another woman's husband?” and the hot color of shame and of wounded pride burst even through her tears.
“I will not cry,” said she, proudly, “he is alive—I will not cry—he has forgotten me; from this moment I will never shed another tear for one that is alive and unworthy of a tear. I will go home.”
She went home, crying all the way. And now a partial success attended the deep Meadows' policy. It was no common stroke of unscrupulous cunning to plunge her into the very depths of woe in order to take her out of them. The effects were manifold, and all tended his way.
First she was less sorrowful than she had been before that deadly blow, for now the heart had realized a greater woe, and had the miserable comfort of the comparison; but, above all, new and strong passions had risen and battled fiercely with grief—anger and wounded pride.
Susan had self-respect and pride, too, perhaps a shade too much though less small vanity than have most persons of her moderate caliber.
What! had she wept and sighed all these months for a man who did not care for her?
What! had she defied sneers, and despised affectionate hints, and gloried openly in her love, to be openly insulted and betrayed!
What! had she shut herself from the world, and put on mourning and been seen in mourning for one who was not dead, but well and happy and married to another!