For was not she young, well dowered, well cared for? She had Roundwood to fall back upon whenever Marshlands came to be claimed by its rightful owner. Her husband was dead; but people said if she could not please herself again, supposing she desired to do so, who could?
Society felt it was the proper thing for her to live in strict seclusion, to receive no visitors, to be in a poor state of health and in low spirits; but at the same time society concluded that when the days of mourning were expired, Mrs. Stondon would feel that it had been the will of God for Captain Stondon to die, and that as he was to die, she ought to be thankful it had likewise been the will of God to provide her with a satisfactory portion of this world’s goods.
Many people were already making inquiries as to the amount of personalty Captain Stondon had left behind him, and how he had disposed of it—whilst the value of Roundwood was known to a shilling. Those ladies who had brothers or sons anxious to marry a wife able to contribute her share towards the expenses of a household, ventured finally to remark to Mr. Aggland that they thought dear Mrs. Stondon was leading too much the life of a hermit, and that a little society, “not exactly society, but merely seeing a few intimate friends, would be extremely good for her.”
To which Mr. Aggland replied, in all truthfulness, that he thought the shock had been almost too much for his niece. “They were so much attached,” he added, “she seems to feel his loss more and more every day.”
(Which was not encouraging to the young men.)
“She will be better perhaps when we get her away from Norfolk,” went on Mr. Aggland; “change of scene will, I hope, work wonders. It is her first great sorrow in life, and you remember, madam, ‘Every one can master a grief but he that has it.’ Few are able to say just at the first—‘The hand of the Lord hath wrought this.’ In time, I have no doubt but that her present anguish will—
‘Settle down into a grief that loves
And finds relief in unreproved tears;
Then cometh sorrow like a Sabbath, and, last
Of all, there falls a kind oblivion