FENTON'S QUEST

BY

M. E. BRADDON

The Author of "Lady Audley's Secret, " "Aurora Floyd, " Etc. Etc. Etc. 

CHEAP UNIFORM EDITION OF MISS BRADDON'S NOVELS. 

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MISS BRADDON'S NOVELS

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"No one can be dull who has a novel by Miss Braddon in hand. The mosttiresome journey is beguiled, and the most wearisome illness isbrightened, by any one of her books. "

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N. B. --There are now 45 Novels always in print; For full list see book ofcover, or apply for a Catalogue, to be sent (post free), LONDON: J. AND B. MAXWELL, Milton House, 14 and 15 Shoe Lane, Fleet Street;

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CONTENTS

I. THE COMMON FEVERII. MARIAN'S STORYIII. ACCEPTEDIV. JOHN SALTRAMV. HALCYON DAYSVI. SENTENCE OF EXILEVII. "GOOD-BYE"VIII. MISSINGIX. JOHN SALTRAM'S ADVICEX. JACOB NOWELLXI. THE MARRIAGE AT WYGROVEXII. A FRIENDLY COUNSELLORXIII. MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWSXIV. FATHER AND SONXV. ON THE TRACKXVI. FACE TO FACEXVII. MISS CARLEY'S ADMIRERSXVIII. JACOB NOWELL'S WILLXIX. GILBERT ASKS A QUESTIONXX. DRIFTING AWAYXXI. FATHER AND DAUGHTERXXII. AT LIDFORD AGAINXXIII. CALLED TO ACCOUNTXXIV. TORMENTED BY DOUBTXXV. MISSING AGAINXXVI. IN BONDAGEXXVII. ONLY A WOMANXXVIII. AT FAULTXXIX. BAFFLED, NOT BEATENXXX. STRICKEN DOWNXXXI. ELLEN CARLEY'S TRIALSXXXII. THE PADLOCKED DOOR AT WYNCOMBXXXIII. "WHAT MUST BE SHALL BE"XXXIV. DOUBTFUL INFORMATIONXXXV. BOUGHT WITH A PRICEXXXVI. COMING ROUNDXXXVII. A FULL CONFESSIONXXXVIII. AN ILL-OMENED WEDDINGXXXIX. A DOMESTIC MYSTERYXL. IN PURSUITXLI. OUTWARD BOUNDXLII. THE PLEASURES OF WYNCOMBXLIII. MR. WHITELAW MAKES AN END OF THE MYSTERYXLIV. AFTER THE FIREXLV. MR. WHITELAW MAKES HIS WILLXLVI. ELLEN REGAINS HER LIBERTYXLVII. CLOSING SCENES

CHAPTER I. 

THE COMMON FEVER. 

A warm summer evening, with a sultry haze brooding over the levellandscape, and a Sabbath stillness upon all things in the village ofLidford, Midlandshire. In the remoter corners of the old gothic churchthe shadows are beginning to gather, as the sermon draws near its close;but in the centre aisle and about the pulpit there is broad daylightstill shining-in from the wide western window, across the lower half ofwhich there are tall figures of the Evangelists in old stained glass. 

There are no choristers at Lidford, and the evening service is conductedin rather a drowsy way; but there is a solemn air of repose about thegray old church that should be conducive to tranquil thoughts and piousmeditations. Simple and earnest have been the words of the sermon, simpleand earnest seem the countenances of the congregation, looking reverentlyupwards at the face of their pastor; and one might fancy, contemplatingthat grand old church, so much too spacious for the needs of the littleflock gathered there to-night, that Lidford was a forgotten, half-deserted corner of this earth, in which a man, tired of the pressand turmoil of the world, might find an almost monastic solitude andcalm. 

So thought a gentleman in the Squire's pew--a good-looking man of aboutthirty, who was finishing his first Sunday at Lidford by devoutattendance at evening service. He had been thinking a good deal aboutthis quiet country life during the service, wondering whether it was notthe best life a man could live, after all, and thinking it all thesweeter because of his own experience, which had lain chiefly in cities. 

He was a certain Mr. Gilbert Fenton, an Australian merchant, and was on avisit to his sister, who had married the principal landowner in Lidford, Martin Lister--a man whose father had been called "the Squire. " The ladysat opposite her brother in the wide old family pew to-night--ahandsome-looking matron, with a little rosy-cheeked damsel sitting by herside--a damsel with flowing auburn hair, tiny hat and feather, and brightscarlet stockings, looking very much as if she had walked out of a pictureby Mr. Millais. 

The congregation stood up to sing a hymn when the sermon was ended, andGilbert Fenton turned his face towards the opposite line of pews, in one ofwhich, very near him, there was a girl, at whom Mrs. Lister had caught herbrother looking very often, during the service just concluded. 

It was a face that a man could scarcely look upon once without findinghis glances wandering back to it afterwards; not quite a perfect face, but a very bright and winning one. Large gray eyes, with a wonderfullight in them, under dark lashes and darker brows; a complexion that hada dusky pallor, a delicate semi-transparent olive-tint that one seldomsees out of a Spanish picture; a sweet rosy mouth, and a piquant littlenose of no particular order, made up the catalogue of this young lady'scharms. But in a face worth looking at there is always a something thatcannot be put into words; and the brightest and best attributes of thisface were quite beyond translation. It was a face one might almost call"splendid"--there was such a light and glory about it at some moments. Gilbert Fenton thought so to-night, as he saw it in the full radiance ofthe western sunlight, the lips parted as the girl sang, the clear grayeyes looking upward. 

She was not alone: a portly genial-looking old man stood by her side, andaccompanied her to the church-porch when the hymn was over. Here theyboth lingered a moment to shake hands with Mrs. Lister, very much toGilbert Fenton's satisfaction. They walked along the churchyard-pathtogether, and Gilbert gave his sister's arm a little tug, which meant, "Introduce me. "

"My brother Mr. Fenton, Captain Sedgewick, Miss Nowell. "

The Captain shook hands with Gilbert. "Delighted to know you, Mr. Fenton;delighted to know any one belonging to Mrs. Lister. You are going to stopdown here for some time, I hope. "

"I fear not for very long, Captain Sedgewick. I am a business man, yousee, and can't afford to take a long holiday from the City. "

Mrs. Lister laughed. "My brother is utterly devoted to commercialpursuits, " she said; "I think he believes every hour wasted that hespends out of his counting-house. "

"And yet I was thinking in church this evening, that a man's life mightbe happier in such a place as this, drifting away in a kind of dreamyidleness, than the greatest successes possible to commerce could evermake it. "

"You would very soon be tired of your dreamy idleness, " answered hissister, "and sigh for your office and your club. "

"The country suits old people, who have played their part in life, andmade an end of it, " said the Captain. "It suits my little girl here verywell, too, " he added, with a fond glance at his companion; "she has herbirds and her flowers, and her books and music; and I don't think sheever sighs for anything gayer than Lidford. "

"Never, uncle George, " said the girl, slipping her hand through his arm. And Gilbert Fenton saw that those two were very fond of each other. 

They came to the end of a shady winding lane at this moment, and CaptainSedgewick and Miss Nowell wished Mrs. Lister and her brothergood-evening, and went away down the lane arm-in-arm. 

"What a lovely girl she is!" said Gilbert, when they were gone. 

"Lovely is rather a strong word, Gilbert, " Mrs. Lister answered coldly;"she is certainly pretty, but I hope you are not going to lose your heartin that direction. "

"There is no fear of that. A man may admire a girl's face without beingin any danger of losing his heart. But why not in that direction, Belle?Is there any special objection to the lady?"

"Only that she is a nobody, without either money or position and I thinkyou ought to have both when you marry. "

"Thanks for the implied compliment; but I do not fancy that anAustralian merchant can expect to secure a wife of very exaltedposition; and I am the last man in the world to marry for money. "

"I don't for a moment suppose you would marry any one you didn't like, from mercenary considerations; but there is no reason you should make afoolish match. "

"Of course not. I think it very doubtful whether I shall ever marry atall. I am just the kind of man to go down to my grave a bachelor. "

"Why so, Gilbert?"

"Well, I can hardly tell you, my dear. Perhaps I am rather difficult toplease--just a little stony-hearted and invulnerable. I know that since Iwas a boy, and got over my schoolboy love affairs, I have never seen thewoman who could touch my heart. I have met plenty of pretty women, andplenty of brilliant women, of course, in society; and have admired them, and there an end. I have never seen a woman whose face impressed me somuch at first sight as the face of your friend, Miss Nowell. "

"I am very sorry for that. "

"But why, Belle?"

"Because the girl is a nobody--less than nobody. There is an unpleasantkind of mystery about her birth. "

"How is that? Her uncle, Captain Sedgewick, seems to be a gentleman. "

"Captain Sedgewick is very well, but he is not her uncle; he adopted herwhen she was a very little girl. "

"But who are her people, and how did she fall into his hands?"

"I have never heard that. He is not very fond of talking about thesubject. When we first came to know them, he told us that Marian was onlyhis adopted niece; and he has never told us any more than that. "

"She is the daughter of some friend, I suppose. They seem very muchattached to each other. "

"Yes, she is very fond of him, and he of her. She is an amiable girl; Ihave nothing to say against her--but----"

"But what, Belle?"

"I shouldn't like you to fall in love with her. "

"But I should, mamma!" cried the damsel in scarlet stockings, who hadabsorbed every word of the foregoing conversation. "I should like uncleGil to love Marian just as I love her. She is the dearest girl in theworld. When we had a juvenile party last winter, it was Marian whodressed the Christmas-tree--every bit; and she played the piano for usall the evening, didn't she, mamma?"

"She is very good-natured, Lucy; but you mustn't talk nonsense; and youought not to listen when your uncle and I are talking. It is very rude. "

"But! I can't help hearing you, mamma. "

They were at home by this time, within the grounds of a handsomered-brick house of the early Georgian era, which had been the property ofthe Listers ever since it was built. Without, the gardens were a pictureof neatness and order; within, everything was solid and comfortable: thefurniture of a somewhat ponderous and exploded fashion, but handsomewithal, and brightened here and there by some concession to modernnotions of elegance or ease--a dainty little table for books, a luxuriousarm-chair, and so on. 

Martin Lister was a gentleman chiefly distinguished by good-nature, hospitable instincts, and an enthusiastic devotion to agriculture. Therewere very few things in common between him and his brother-in-law theAustralian merchant, but they got on very well together for a short time. Gilbert Fenton pretended to be profoundly interested in the thrillingquestion of drainage, deep or superficial, and seemed to enterunreservedly into every discussion of the latest invention or improvementin agricultural machinery; and in the mean time he really liked therepose of the country, and appreciated the varying charms of landscapeand atmosphere with a fervour unfelt by the man who had been born andreared amidst those pastoral scenes. 

The two men smoked their cigars together in a quietly companionablespirit, strolling about the gardens and farm, dropping out a sentence nowand then, and anon falling into a lazy reverie, each pondering upon hisown affairs--Gilbert meditating transactions with foreign houses, riskybargains with traders of doubtful solvency, or hazardous investments instocks, as the case might be; the gentleman farmer ruminating upon thechances of a good harvest, or the probable value of his Scotchshort-horns. 

Mr. Lister had preferred lounging about the farm with a cigar in hismouth to attendance at church upon this particular Sunday evening. He hadfinished his customary round of inspection by this time, and was sittingby one of the open windows of the drawing-room, with his body in oneluxurious chair, and his legs extended upon another, deep in the study ofthe _Gardener's Chronicle_, which he flung aside upon the appearanceof his family. 

"Well, Toddlekins, " he cried to the little girl, "I hope you were veryattentive to the sermon; listened for two, and made up for your lazy dad. That's a vicarious kind of devotion that ought to be permittedoccasionally to a hard-working fellow like me. --I'm glad you've come backto give us some tea, Belle. Don't go upstairs; let Susan carry up yourbonnet and shawl. It's nearly nine o'clock. Toddlekins wants her teabefore she goes to bed. "

"Lucy has had her tea in the nursery, " said Mrs. Lister, as she took herseat before the cups and saucers. 

"But she will have some more with papa, " replied Martin, who had anamiable knack of spoiling his children. There were only two--this brightfair-haired Lucy, aged nine, and a sturdy boy of seven. 

They sipped their tea, and talked a little about who had been at churchand who had not been, and the room was filled with that atmosphere ofdulness which seems to prevail in such households upon a summer Sundayevening; a kind of palpable emptiness which sets a man speculating howmany years he may have to live, and how many such Sundays he may have tospend. He is apt to end by wondering a little whether life is reallyworth the trouble it costs, when almost the best thing that can come ofit is a condition of comfortable torpor like this. 

Gilbert Fenton put down his cup and went over to one of the open windows. It was nearly as dark as it was likely to be that midsummer night. A newmoon was shining faintly in the clear evening sky; and here and there asolitary star shone with a tremulous brightness. The shadows of the treesmade spots of solemn darkness on the wide lawn before the windows, and awarm faint sweetness came from the crowded flower-beds, where all theflowers in this light were of one grayish silvery hue. 

"It's almost too warm an evening for the house, " said Gilbert; "I thinkI'll take a stroll. "

"I'd come with you, old fellow, but I've been all round the farm, and I'mdead beat, " said good-natured Martin Lister. 

"Thanks, Martin; I wouldn't think of disturbing you. You look the pictureof comfort in that easy-chair. I shall only stay long enough to finish acigar. "

He walked slowly across the lawn--a noble stretch of level greenswardwith dark spreading cedars and fine old beeches scattered about it; hewalked slowly towards the gates, lighting his cigar as he went, andthinking. He was thinking of his past life, and of his future. What wasit to be? A dull hackneyed course of money-making, chequered only by thedreary vicissitudes of trade, and brightened only by such selfishpleasures as constitute the recreations of a business man--an occasionaldinner at Blackwall or Richmond, a week's shooting in the autumn, alittle easy-going hunting in the winter, a hurried scamper over some ofthe beaten continental roads, or a fortnight at a German spa? These hadbeen his pleasures hitherto, and he had found life pleasant enough. Perhaps he had been too busy to question the pleasantness of thesethings. It was only now that he found himself away from the familiararena of his daily life, with neither employment nor distraction, thatwas able to look back upon his career deliberately, and risk himselfwhether it was one that he could go on living without weariness for theremainder of his days. 

He had been at this time a little more than seven years in business. Hehad been bred-up with no expectation of ever having to take his place inthe counting-house, had been educated at Eton and Oxford, and had beentaught to anticipate a handsome fortune from his father. All theseexpectations had been disappointed by Mr. Fenton's sudden death at aperiod of great commercial disturbance. The business was found in a stateof entanglement that was very near insolvency; and wise friends toldGilbert Fenton that the only hope of coming well out of theseperplexities lay with himself. The business was too good to besacrificed, and the business was all his father had left behind him, withthe exception of a houseful of handsome furniture, two or threecarriages, and a couple of pairs of horses, which were sold by auctionwithin a few weeks of the funeral. 

Gilbert Fenton took upon himself the management of the business. He had aclear comprehensive intellect, which adapted itself very easily tocommerce. He put his shoulder to the wheel with a will, and worked forthe first three years of his business career as it is not given to manymen to work in the course of their lives. By that time the ship had beensteered clear of all rocks and quicksands, and rode the commercial watersgallantly. Gilbert was not a rich man, but was in a fair way to become arich man; and the name of Fenton stood as high as in the palmiest days ofhis father's career. 

His sister had fortunately married Martin Lister some years before herfather's death, and had received her dowry at the time of her marriage. Gilbert had only himself to work for. At first he had worked for the sakeof his dead father's honour and repute; later he fell into a groove, likeother men, and worked for the love of money-making--not with any sordidlove of money, but with that natural desire to accumulate which grows outof a business career. 

To-night he was in an unusually thoughtful humour, and inclined to weighthings in the balance with a doubtfulness as to their value which was newto him. The complete idleness and emptiness of his life in the countryhad made him meditative. Was it worth living, that monotonous businesslife of his? Would not the time soon come in which its dreariness wouldoppress him as the dulness of Lidford House had oppressed him to-night?His youth was fast going--nay, had it not indeed gone from him for ever?had not youth left him all at once when he began his commercialcareer?--and the pleasures that had been fresh enough within the last fewyears were rapidly growing stale. He knew the German spas, thepine-groves where the hand played, the gambling-saloons and theircompany, by heart, though he had never stayed more than a fortnight atany one of them. He had exhausted Brittany and the South of France inthese rapid scampers; skimmed the cream of their novelty, at any rate. Hedid not care very much for field-sports, and hunted and shot in ajog-trot safe kind of way, with a view to the benefit of his health, which savoured of old bachelorhood. And as for the rest of hispleasures--the social rubber at his club, the Blackwall or Richmonddinners--it seemed only custom that made them agreeable. 

"If I had gone to the Bar, as I intended to do before my father's death, I should have had an object in life, " he thought, as he puffed slowly athis cigar; "but a commercial man has nothing to hope for in the way offame--nothing to work for except money. I have a good mind to sell thebusiness, now that it is worth selling, and go in for the Bar after all, late as it is. "

He had thought of this more than once; but he knew the fancy was afoolish one, and that his friends would laugh at him for his folly. 

He was beyond the grounds of Lidford House by this time, saunteringonward in the fair summer night; not indifferent to the calm lovelinessof the scene around him, only conscious that there was some void withinhimself which these things could not fill. He walked along the road bywhich he and his sister had come back from church, and turned into thelane at the end of which Captain Sedgewick had bidden them good night. Hehad been down this lane before to-night, and knew that it was one of theprettiest walks about Lidford; so there was scarcely anything strange inthe fact that he should choose this promenade for his evening saunter. 

The rustic way, wide enough for a wagon, and with sloping grassy banks, and tall straggling hedges, full of dog-roses and honeysuckle, ledtowards a river--a fair winding stream, which was one of the glories ofLidford. A little before one came to the river, the lane opened upon agreen, where there was a mill, and a miller's cottage, a rustic inn, andtwo or three other houses of more genteel pretensions. 

Gilbert Fenton wondered which of these was the habitation of CaptainSedgewick, concluding that the half-pay officer and his niece must needslive in one of them. He reconnoitred them as he went by the lowgarden-fences, over which he could see the pretty lawns and flower-beds, with clusters of evergreens here and there, and a wealth of roses andseringa. One of them, the prettiest and most secluded, was also thesmallest; a low white-walled cottage, with casement windows above, andold-fashioned bow-windows below, and a porch overgrown with roses. Thehouse lay back a little way from the green; and there was a tiny brookrunning beside the holly hedge that bounded the garden, spanned by alittle rustic bridge before the gate. 

Pausing just beside this bridge, Mr. Fenton heard the joyous barking of adog, and caught a brief glimpse of a light muslin dress flitting acrossthe little lawn at one side of the cottage While he was wondering aboutthe owner of this dress, the noisy dog came rushing towards the gate, andin the next moment a girlish figure appeared in the winding path thatwent in and out among the flower-beds. 

Gilbert Fenton knew that tall slim figure very well. He had guessedrightly, and this low white-walled cottage was really CaptainSedgewick's. It seemed to him as if a kind of instinct brought him tothat precise spot. 

Miss Nowell came to the gate, and stood there looking out, with a Skyeterrier in her arms. Gilbert drew back a little, and flung his cigar intothe brook. She had not seen him yet. Her looks were wandering far awayacross the green, as if in search of some one. 

Gilbert Fenton stood quite still watching her. She looked even prettierwithout her bonnet than she had looked in the church, he thought: therich dark-brown hair gathered in a great knot at the back of the gracefulhead; the perfect throat circled by a broad black ribbon, from whichthere hung an old-fashioned gold cross; the youthful figure set-off bythe girlish muslin dress, so becoming in its utter simplicity. 

He could not stand there for ever looking at her, pleasant as it might beto him to contemplate the lovely face; so he made a little movement atlast, and came a few steps nearer to the gate. 

"Good-evening once more, Miss Nowell, " he said. 

She looked up at him, surprised by his sudden appearance, but in nomanner embarrassed. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Fenton. I did not see you till this moment. I waslooking for my uncle. He has gone out for a little stroll while he smokeshis cigar, and I expect him home every minute. "

"I have been indulging in a solitary cigar myself, " answered Gilbert. "One is apt to be inspired with an antipathy to the house on this kind ofevening. I left the Listers yawning over their tea-cups, and came out fora ramble. The aspect of the lane at which we parted company this eveningtempted me down this way. What a pretty house you have! Do you know Iguessed that it was yours before I saw you. "

"Indeed! You must have quite a talent for guessing. "

"Not in a general way; but there is a fitness in things. Yes, I felt surethat this was your house. "

"I am glad you like it, " she answered simply. "Uncle George and I arevery fond of it. But it must seem a poor little place to you afterLidford House. "

"Lidford House is spacious, and comfortable, and commonplace. One couldhardly associate the faintest touch of romance with such a place. Butabout this one might fancy anything. Ah, here is your uncle, I see. "

Captain Sedgewick came towards them, surprised at seeing Mr. Fenton, withwhom he shook hands again very cordially, and who repeated his storyabout the impossibility of enduring to stop in the house on such a night. 

The Captain insisted on his going in-doors with them, however; and heexhibited no disinclination to linger in the cottage drawing-room, thoughit was only about a fourth of the size of that at Lidford House. Itlooked a very pretty room in the lamplight, with quaint old-fashionedfurniture, the freshest and most delicate chintz hangings and coveringsof chairs and sofas, and some valuable old china here and there. 

Captain Sedgewick had plenty to say for himself, and was pleased to findan intelligent stranger to converse with. His health had failed him longago, and he had turned his back upon the world of action for ever; but hewas as cheerful and hopeful as if his existence had been the gayestpossible to man. 

Of course they talked a little of military matters, the changes that hadcome about in the service--none of them changes for the better, accordingto the Captain, who was a little behind the times in his way of lookingat these things. 

He ordered in a bottle of claret for his guest, and Gilbert Fenton foundhimself seated by the open bow-window looking out at the dusky lawn anddrinking his wine, as much at home as if he had been a visitor at theCaptain's for the last ten years. Marian Nowell sat on the other side ofthe room, with the lamplight shining on her dark-brown hair, and withthat much-to-be-envied Skye terrier on her lap. Gilbert glanced across ather every now and then while he was talking with her uncle; and by and byshe came over to the window and stood behind the Captain's chair, withher clasped hands resting upon his shoulder. 

Gilbert contrived to engage her in the conversation presently. He foundher quite able to discuss the airy topics which he started--the last newvolume of poems, the picture of the year, and so on. There was nothingawkward or provincial in her manner; and if she did not say anythingparticularly brilliant, there was good sense in all her remarks, and shehad a bright animated way of speaking that was very charming. 

She had lived a life of peculiar seclusion, rarely going beyond thevillage of Lidford, and had contrived to find perfect happiness in thatsimple existence. The Captain told Mr. Fenton this in the course of theirtalk. 

"I have not been able to afford so much as a visit to London for mydarling, " he said; "but I do not know that she is any the worse for herignorance of the great world. The grand point is that she should behappy, and I thank God that she has been happy hitherto. "

"I should be very ungrateful if I were not, uncle George, " the girl saidin a half whisper. 

Captain Sedgewick gave a thoughtful sigh, and was silent for a littlewhile after this; and then the talk went on again until the clock uponthe chimney-piece struck the half-hour after ten, and Gilbert Fenton roseto say good-night. "I have stayed a most unconscionable time, I fear, " hesaid; "but I had really no idea it was so late. "

"Pray, don't hurry away, " replied the Captain. "You ought to help me tofinish that bottle. Marian and I are not the earliest people in Lidford. "

Gilbert would have had no objection to loiter away another half-hour inthe bow-window, talking politics with the Captain, or light literaturewith Miss Nowell, but he knew that his prolonged absence must havealready caused some amount of wonder at Lidford House; so he held firmlyto his good-night, shook hands with his new friends, holding MarianNowell's soft slender hand in his for the first time, and wondering atthe strange magic of her touch, and then went out into the dreamyatmosphere of the summer night a changed creature. 

"Is this love at first sight?" he asked himself, as he walked homewardalong the rustic lane, where dog-roses and the starry flowers of the wildconvolvulus gleamed whitely in the uncertain light. "Is it? I should havebeen the last of men to believe such a thing possible yesterday; and yetto-night I feel as if that girl were destined to be the ruling influenceof my future life. Why is it? Because she is lovely? Surely not. Surely Iam not so weak a fool as to be caught by a beautiful face! And yet whatelse do I know of her? Absolutely nothing. She may be the shallowest ofliving creatures--the most selfish, the falsest, the basest. No; I do notbelieve she could ever be false or unworthy. There is something noble inher face--something more than mere beauty. Heaven knows, I have seenenough of that in my time. I could scarcely be so childish as to bebewitched by a pair of gray eyes and a rosy mouth; there must besomething more. And, after all, this is most likely a passing fancy, bornout of the utter idleness and dulness of this place. I shall go back toLondon in a week or two, and forget Marian Nowell. Marian Nowell!"

He repeated the name with unspeakable tenderness in his tone--a deeperfeeling than would have seemed natural to a passing fancy. It was morelike a symptom of sickening for life's great fever. 

It was close upon eleven when he made his appearance in his sister'sdrawing-room, where Martin Lister was enjoying a comfortable nap, whilehis wife stifled her yawns over a mild theological treatise. 

He had to listen to a good deal of wonderment about the length of hisabsence, and was fain to confess to an accidental encounter with CaptainSedgewick, which had necessitated his going into the cottage. 

"Why, what could have taken you that way, Gilbert?"

"A truant fancy, I suppose, my dear. It is as good a way as any other. "

Mrs. Lister sighed, and shook her head doubtfully. "What fools you menare, " she said, "about a pretty face!" "Including Martin, Belle, when hefell in love with your fair self?"

"Martin did not stare me out of countenance in church, sir. But you havealmost kept us waiting for prayers. "

The servants came filing in. Martin Lister woke with a start, and GilbertFenton knelt down among his sister's household to make his eveningorisons. But his thoughts were not easily to be fixed that night. Theywandered very wide of that simple family prayer, and made themselves intoa vision of the future, in which he saw his life changed and brightenedby the companionship of a fair young wife. 

CHAPTER II. 

MARIAN'S STORY. 

The days passed, and there was no more dulness or emptiness for GilbertFenton in his life at Lidford. He went every day to the white-walledcottage on the green. It was easy enough to find some fresh excuse foreach visit--a book or a piece of music which he had recommended to MissNowell, and had procured from London for her, or something of an equallyfrivolous character. The Captain was always cordial, always pleased tosee him. His visits were generally made in the evening; and it was hisdelight to linger over the pretty little round table by the bow-window, drinking tea dispensed by Marian. The bright home-like room, the lovelyface turned so trustingly to his; these were the things which made thatfair vision of the future that haunted him so often now. He fanciedhimself the master of some pretty villa in the suburbs--at Kingston orTwickenham, perhaps--with a garden sloping down to the water's edge, alawn on which he and his wife and some chosen friend might sit afterdinner in the long summer evenings, sipping their claret or their tea, asthe case might be, and watching the last rosy glow of the sunset fade anddie upon the river. He fancied himself with this girl for his wife, andthe delight of going back from the dull dryasdust labours of his citylife to a home in which she would bid him welcome. He behaved with a dueamount of caution, and did not give the young lady any reason to suspectthe state of the case yet awhile. Marian was perfectly devoid ofcoquetry, and had no idea that this gentleman's constant presence at thecottage could have any reference to herself. He liked her uncle; whatmore natural than that he should like that gallant soldier, whom Marianadored as the first of mankind? And it was out of his liking for theCaptain that he came so often. 

The Captain, however, had not been slow to discover the real state ofaffairs, and the discovery had given him unqualified satisfaction. For along time his quiet contentment in this pleasant, simple, easy-going lifehad been clouded by anxious thoughts about Marian's future. Hisdeath--should that event happen before she married--must needs leave herutterly destitute. The little property from which his income was derivedwas not within his power to bequeath. It would pass, upon his death, toone of his nephews. The furniture of the cottage might realize a fewhundreds, which would most likely be, for the greater part, absorbed bythe debts of the year and the expenses of his funeral. Altogether, theoutlook was a dreary one, and the Captain had suffered many a sharp pangin brooding over it. Lovely and attractive as Marian was, the chances ofan advantageous marriage were not many for her in such a place asLidford. It was natural, therefore, that Captain Sedgewick should welcomethe advent of such a man as Gilbert Fenton--a man of good position andample means; a thoroughly unaffected and agreeable fellow into thebargain, and quite handsome enough to win any woman's heart, the Captainthought. He watched the two young people together, after the notion ofthis thing came into his mind, and about the sentiments of one of them hefelt no shadow of doubt. He was not quite so clear about the feelings ofthe other. There was a perfect frankness and ease about Marian thatseemed scarcely compatible with the growth of that tender passion whichgenerally reveals itself by a certain amount of reserve, and is moreeloquent in silence than in speech. Marian seemed always pleased to seeGilbert, always interested in his society; but she did not seem more thanthis, and the Captain was sorely perplexed. 

There was a dinner-party at Lidford House during the second week ofGilbert's acquaintance with these new friends, and Captain Sedgewick andhis adopted niece were invited. 

"They are pleasant people to have at a dinner-party, " Mrs. Lister said, when she discussed the invitation with her husband and brother; "so Isuppose they may as well come, --though I don't want to encourage yourfolly, Gilbert. "

"My folly, as you are kind enough to call it, is not dependent on yourencouragement, Belle. "

"Then it is really a serious case, I suppose, " said Martin. 

"I really admire Miss Nowell--more than I ever admired any one before, ifthat is what you call a serious case, Martin. "

"Rather like it, I think, " the other answered with a laugh. 

The dinner was a very quiet business--a couple of steady-going countrygentlemen, with their wives and daughters, a son or two more or lessdashing and sportsmanlike in style, the rector and his wife, CaptainSedgewick and Miss Nowell. Gilbert had to take one of the portly matronsin to dinner, and found himself placed at some distance from Miss Nowellduring the repast; but he was able to make up for this afterwards, whenhe slipped out of the dining-room some time before the rest of thegentlemen, and found Marian seated at the piano, playing a dreamy reverieof Goria's, while the other ladies were gathered in a little knot, discussing the last village scandal. 

He went over to the piano and stood by her while she played, looking fondlydown at the graceful head, and the white hands gliding gently over thekeys. He did not disturb her by much talk: it was quite enough happinessfor him to stand there watching her as she played. Later, when a couple ofwhist-tables had been established, and the brilliantly-lighted room hadgrown hot, these two sat together at one of the open windows, looking outat the moonlit lawn; one of them supremely happy, and yet with a kind ofundefined sense that this supreme happiness was a dangerous thing--a thingthat it would be wise to pluck out of his heart, and have done with. 

"My holiday is very nearly over, Miss Nowell, " Gilbert Fenton said by andby. "I shall have to go back to London and the old commercial life, theletter-writing and interview-giving, and all that kind of thing. "

"Your sister said you were very fond of the counting-house, Mr. Fenton, "she answered lightly. "I daresay, if you would only confess the truth, you are heartily tired of the country, and will be delighted to resumeyour business life. "

"I should never be tired of Lidford. "

"Indeed! and yet it is generally considered such a dull place. "

"It has not been so to me. It will always be a shining spot in my memory, different and distinct from all other places. "

She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnest tone, and theireyes met--his full of tenderness, hers only shy and surprised. It was notthen that the words he had to speak could be spoken, and he let theconversation drift into a general discussion of the merits of town orcountry life. But he was determined that the words should be spoken verysoon. 

He went to the cottage next day, between three and four upon a drowsysummer afternoon, and was so fortunate as to find Marian sitting underone of the walnut-trees at the end of the garden reading a novel, withher faithful Skye terrier in attendance. He seated himself on a lowgarden-chair by her side, and took the book gently from her hand. 

"I have come to spoil your afternoon's amusement, " he said. "I have notmany days more to spend in Lidford, you know, and I want to make the mostof a short time. "

"The book is not particularly interesting, " Miss Nowell answered, laughing. "I'll go and tell my uncle you are here. He is taking anafternoon nap; but I know he'll be pleased to see you. "

"Don't tell him just yet, " said Mr. Fenton, detaining her. "I havesomething to say to you this afternoon, --something that it is wiser tosay at once, perhaps, though I have been willing enough to put off thehour of saying it, as a man may well be when all his future life dependsupon the issue of a few words. I think you must know what I mean, MissNowell. Marian, I think you can guess what is coming. I told you lastnight how sweet Lidford had been to me. "

"Yes, " she said, with a bright inquiring look in her eyes. "But what haveI to do with that?"

"Everything. It is you who have made the little country village myparadise. O Marian, tell me that it has not been a fool's paradise! Mydarling, I love you with all my heart and soul, with an honest man'sfirst and only love. Promise that you will be my wife. "

He took the hand that lay loosely on her lap, and pressed it in both hisown. She withdrew it gently, and sat looking at him with a face that hadgrown suddenly pale. 

"You do not know what you are asking, " she said; "you cannot know. Captain Sedgewick is not my uncle. He does not even know who my parentswere. I am the most obscure creature in the world. "

"Not one degree less dear to me because of that, Marian; only the dearer. Tell me, my darling, is there any hope for me?"

"I never thought----" she faltered; "I had no idea----"

"That to know you was to love you. My life and soul, I have loved youfrom the hour I first saw you in Lidford church. I was a doomed man fromthat moment, Marian. O my dearest, trust me, and it shall go hard if I donot make your future life a happy one. Granted that I am ten years--morethan ten years--your senior, that is a difference on the right side. Ihave fought the battle of life, and have conquered, and am strong enoughto protect and shelter the woman I love. Come, Marian, I am waiting for aword of hope. "

"And do you really love me?" she asked wonderingly. "It seems so strangeafter so short a time. "

"I loved you from that first evening in the church, my dear. "

"I am very grateful to you, " she said slowly, "and I am proud--I havereason to be proud--of your preference. But I have known you such a shorttime. I am afraid to give you any promise. "

"Afraid of me, or of yourself, Marian?"

"Of myself. "

"In what way?"

"I am only a foolish frivolous girl. You offer me so much more than Ideserve in offering me your love like this. I scarcely know if I have aheart to give to any one. I know that I have never loved anybody exceptmy one friend and protector my dear adopted uncle. "

"But you do not say that you cannot love me, Marian. Perhaps I havespoken too soon, after all. It seems to me that I have known you for alifetime; but that is only a lover's fancy. I seem almost a stranger toyou, perhaps?"

"Almost, " she answered, looking at him with clear truthful eyes. 

"That is rather hard upon me, my dear. But I can wait. You do not knowhow patient I can be. "

He began to talk of indifferent subjects after this, a little depressedand disheartened by the course the interview had taken. He felt that hehad been too precipitate. What was there in a fortnight's intimacy tojustify such a step, except to himself, with whom time had been measuredby a different standard since he had known Marian Nowell? He was angrywith his own eagerness, which had brought upon him this semi-defeat. 

Happily Miss Nowell had not told him that his case was hopeless, had notforbidden him to approach the subject again; nor had she exhibited anyinvoluntary sign of aversion to him. Surprise had appeared the chiefsentiment caused by his revelation. Surprise was natural to such girlishinexperience; and after surprise had passed away, more tender feelingsmight arise, a latent tenderness unsuspected hitherto. 

"I think a woman can scarcely help returning a man's love, if he is onlyas thoroughly in earnest as I am, " Gilbert Fenton said to himself, as hesat under the walnut-trees trying to talk pleasantly, and to ignore theserious conversation which had preceded that careless talk. 

He saw the Captain alone next day, and told him what had happened. GeorgeSedgewick listened to him with profound attention and a grave anxiousface. 

"She didn't reject you?" he said, when Gilbert had finished his story. 

"Not in plain words. But there was not much to indicate hope. And yet Icling to the fancy that she will come to love me in the end. To thinkotherwise would be utter misery to me. I cannot tell you how dearly Ilove her, and how weak I am about this business. It seems contemptiblefor a man to talk about a broken heart; but I shall carry an empty one tomy grave unless I win Marian Nowell for my wife. "

"You shall win her!" cried the Captain energetically. "You are a noblefellow, sir, and will make her an excellent husband. She will not be sofoolish as to reject such a disinterested affection. Besides, " he added, hesitating a little, "I have a very shrewd notion that all this apparentindifference is only shyness on my little girl's part, and that she lovesyou. "

"You believe that!" cried Gilbert eagerly. 

"It is only guesswork on my part, of course. I am an old bachelor, yousee, and have had very little experience as to the signs and tokens ofthe tender passion. But I will sound my little girl by and by. She willbe more ready to confess the truth to her old uncle than she would toyou, perhaps. I think you have been a trifle hasty about this affair. There is so much in time and custom. "

"It is only a cold kind of love that grows out of custom, " Gilbertanswered gloomily. "But I daresay you are right, and that it would havebeen better for me to have waited. "

"You may hope everything, if you can-only be patient, " said the Captain. "I tell you frankly, that nothing would make me happier than to see mydear child married to a good man. I have had many dreary thoughts abouther future of late. I think you know that I have nothing to leave her. "

"I have never thought of that. If she were destined to inherit all thewealth of the Rothschilds, she could be no dearer to me than she is. "

"Ah, what a noble thing true love is! And do you know that she is notreally my niece--only a poor waif that I adopted fourteen years ago?"

"I have heard as much from her own lips. There is nothing, except someunworthiness in herself, that could make any change in my estimation ofher. "

"Unworthiness in herself! You need never fear that. But I must tell youMarian's story before this business goes any farther. Will you come andsmoke your cigar with me to-night? She is going to drink tea at aneighbour's, and we shall be alone. They are all fond of her, poorchild. "

"I shall be very happy to come. And in the meantime, you will try andascertain the real state of her feelings without distressing her in anyway; and you will tell me the truth with all frankness, even if it is tobe a deathblow to all my hopes?"

"Even if it should be that. But I do not fear such a melancholy result. Ithink Marian is sensible enough to know the value of an honest man'sheart. "

Gilbert quitted the Captain in a more hopeful spirit than that in whichhe had gone to the cottage that day. It was only reasonable that this manshould be the best judge of his niece's feelings. 

Left alone, George Sedgewick paced the room in a meditative mood, withhis hands thrust deep into his trousers-pockets, and his gray head bentthoughtfully. 

"She must like him, " he muttered to himself. "Why should not she likehim?--good-looking, generous, clever, prosperous, well-connected, andover head and ears in love with her. Such a marriage is the very thing Ihave been praying for. And without such a marriage, what would be herfate when I am gone? A drudge and dependent in some middle-class familyperhaps--tyrannised over and tormented by a brood of vulgar children. "

Marian came in at the open window while he was still pacing to and frowith a disturbed countenance. 

"My dear uncle, what is the matter?" she asked, going up to him andlaying a caressing hand upon his shoulder. "I know you never walk aboutlike that unless you are worried by something. "

"I am not worried to-day, my love; only a little perplexed, " answered theCaptain, detaining the caressing little hand, and planting himself faceto face with his niece, in the full sunlight of the broad bow-window. "Marian, I thought you and I had no secrets from each other?"

"Secrets, uncle George!"

"Yes, my dear. Haven't you something pleasant to tell your olduncle--something that a girl generally likes telling? You had a visitoryesterday afternoon while I was asleep. "

"Mr. Fenton. "

"Mr. Fenton. He has been here with me just now; and I know that he askedyou to be his wife. "

"He did, uncle George. "

"And you didn't refuse him, Marian?"

"Not positively, uncle George. He took me so much by surprise, you see;and I really don't know how to refuse any one; but I think I ought tohave made him understand more clearly that I meant no. "

"But why, my dear?"

"Because I am sure I don't care about him as much as I ought to care. Ilike him very well, you know, and think him clever and agreeable, and allthat kind of thing. "

"That will soon grow into a warmer feeling, Marian; at least I trust inGod that it will do so. "

"Why, dear uncle?"

"Because I have set my heart upon this marriage. O Marian, my love, Ihave never ventured to speak to you about your future--the days that mustcome when I am dead and gone; and you can never know how many anxioushours I have spent thinking of it. Such a marriage as this would secureyou happiness and prosperity in the years to come. "

She clung about him fondly, telling him she cared little what mightbecome of her life when he should be lost to her. _That_ grief mustneeds be the crowning sorrow of her existence; and it would matternothing to her what might come afterwards. 

"But my dear love, 'afterwards' will make the greater part of your life. We must consider these things seriously, Marian. A good man's affectionis not to be thrown away rashly. You have known Mr. Fenton a very shorttime; and perhaps it is only natural you should think of him withcomparative indifference. "

"I did not say I was indifferent to him, uncle George; only that I do notlove him as he seems to love me. It would be a kind of sin to accept somuch and to give so little. "

"The love will come, Marian; I am sure that it will come. "

She shook her head playfully. 

"What a darling match-making uncle it is!" she said, and then kissed himand ran away. 

She thought of Gilbert Fenton a good deal during the rest of that day;thought that it was a pleasant thing to be loved so truly, and hoped thatshe might always have him for her friend. When she went out to drink teain the evening his image went with her; and she found herself makinginvoluntary comparisons between a specimen of provincial youth whom sheencountered at her friend's house and Mr. Fenton, very much to theadvantage of the Australian merchant. 

While Marian Nowell was away at this little social gathering, CaptainSedgewick and Gilbert Fenton sat under the walnut-trees smoking theircigars, with a bottle of claret on a little iron table before them. 

"When I came back from India fourteen years ago on the sick-list, " beganthe Captain, "I went down to Brighton, a place I had been fond of in myyoung days, to recruit. It was in the early spring, quite out of thefashionable season, and the town was very empty. My lodgings were in adull street at the extreme east, leading away from the sea, but withinsight and sound of it. The solitude and quiet of the place suited me; andI used to walk up and down the cliff in the dusk of evening enjoying theperfect loneliness of the scene. The house I lived in was a comfortableone, kept by an elderly widow who was a pattern of neatness andpropriety. There were no children; for some time no other lodgers; andthe place was as quiet as the grave. All this suited me very well. Iwanted rest, and I was getting it. 

"I had been at Brighton about a month, when the drawing-room floor overmy head was taken by a lady, and her little girl of about five years old. I used to hear the child's feet pattering about the room; but she was nota noisy child by any means; and when I did happen to hear her voice, ithad a very pleasant sound to me. The lady was an invalid, and was a gooddeal of trouble, my landlady took occasion to tell me, as she had nomaid of her own. Her name was Nowell. 

"Soon after this I encountered her on the cliff one afternoon with herlittle girl. The child and I had met once or twice before in the hall;and her recognition of me led to a little friendly talk between me andthe mother. She was a fragile delicate-looking woman, who had once beenvery pretty, but whose beauty had for the most part been worn away, either by ill-health or trouble. She was very young, five-and-twenty atthe utmost. She told me that the little girl was her only child, and thather husband was away from England, but that she expected his returnbefore long. 

"After this we met almost every afternoon; and I began to look out forthese meetings, and our quiet talk upon the solitary cliff, as thepleasantest part of my day. There was a winning grace about this Mrs. Nowell's manner that I had never seen in any other woman; and I grew tobe more interested in her than I cared to confess to myself. It matterslittle now; and I may freely own how weak I was in those days. 

"I could see that she was very ill, and I did not need the ominous hintsof the landlady, who had contrived to question Mrs. Nowell's doctor, toinspire me with the dread that she might never recover. I thought of hera great deal, and watched the fading light in her eyes, and listened tothe weakening tones of her voice, with a sense of trouble that seemedutterly disproportionate to the occasion. I will not say that I lovedher; neither the fact that she was another man's wife, nor the fact thatshe was soon to die, was ever absent from my mind when I thought of her. I will only say that she was more to me than any woman had ever beenbefore, or has ever been since. It was the one sentimental episode of mylife, and a very brief one. 

"The weeks went by, and her husband did not come. I think the trouble andanxiety caused by his delay did a good deal towards hastening theinevitable end; but she bore her grief very quietly, and never uttered acomplaint of him in my hearing. She paid her way regularly enough for aconsiderable time, and then all at once broke down, and confessed to thelandlady that she had not a shilling more in the world. The woman was ahard creature, and told her that if that was the case, she must find someother lodgings, and immediately. I heard this, not from Mrs. Nowell, butfrom the landlady, who seemed to consider her conduct thoroughlyjustified by the highest code of morals. She was a lone unprotectedwoman, and how was she to pay her rent and taxes if her best floor wasoccupied by a non-paying tenant?

"I was by no means a rich man; but I could not endure to think of thathelpless dying creature thrust out into the streets; and I told mylandlady that I would be answerable for Mrs. Nowell's rent, and for thedaily expenses incurred on her behalf. Mr. Nowell would in allprobability appear in good time to relieve me from the responsibility, but in the mean while that poor soul upstairs was not to be distressed. Ibegged that she might know nothing of this undertaking on my part. 

"It was not long after this when our daily meetings on the cliff came toan end. Mild as the weather was by this time, Mrs. Nowell's doctor hadforbidden her going out any longer. I knew that she had no maid to sendout with the child, so I sent the servant up to ask her if she wouldtrust the little one for a daily walk with me. This she was very pleasedto do, and Marian became my dear little companion every afternoon. Shehad taken to me, as the phrase goes, from the very first. She was thegentlest, most engaging child I had ever met with--a little grave for heryears, and tenderly thoughtful of others. 

"One evening Mrs. Nowell sent for me. I went up to the drawing-roomimmediately, and found her sitting in an easy-chair propped up bypillows, and very much changed for the worse since I had seen her last. She told me that she had discovered the secret of my goodness to her, asshe called it, from the landlady, and that she had sent for me to thankme. 

"'I can give you nothing but thanks and blessings, ' she said, 'for I amthe most helpless creature in this world. I suppose my husband will comehere before I die, and will relieve you from the risk you have taken forme; but he can never repay you for your goodness. '

"I told her to give herself no trouble on my account; but I could nothelp saying, that I thought her husband had behaved shamefully in notcoming to England to her long ere this. 

"'He knows that you are ill, I suppose?' I said. 

"'O yes, he knows that. I was ill when he sent me home. We had beentravelling about the Continent almost ever since our marriage. He marriedme against his father's will, and lost all chance of a great fortune bydoing so. I did not know how much he sacrificed at the time, or I shouldnever have consented to his losing so much for my sake. I think theknowledge of what he had lost came between us very soon. I know that hislove for me has grown weaker as the years went by, and that I have beenlittle better than a burden to him. I could never tell you how lonely mylife has been in those great foreign cities, where there seems suchperpetual gaiety and pleasure. I think I must have died of the solitudeand dulness--the long dreary summer evenings, the dismal winter days--ifit had not been for my darling child. She has been all the world to me. And, O God!' she cried, with a look of anguish that went to my heart, 'what will become of her when I am dead, and she is left to the care of aselfish dissipated man?'

"'You need never fear that she will be without one friend while I live, 'I said. 'Little Marian is very dear to me, and I shall make it mybusiness to watch over her career as well as I can. '

"The poor soul clasped my hand, and pressed her feverish lips to it in atransport of gratitude. What a brute a man must have been who couldneglect such a woman!

"After this I went up to her room every evening, and read to her alittle, and cheered her as well as I could; but I believe her heart wasbroken. The end came very suddenly at last. I had intended to questionher about her husband's family; but the subject was a difficult one toapproach, and I had put it off from day to day, hoping that she mightrally a little, and would be in a better condition to discuss businessmatters. 

"She never did rally. I was with her when she died, and her last act wasto draw her child towards her with her feeble arms and lay my hand uponthe little one's head, looking up at me with sorrowful pleading eyes. Shewas quite speechless then, but I knew what the look meant, and answeredit. 

"'To the end of my life, my dear, ' I said, 'I shall love and cherishher--to the end of my life. '

"After this the child fell asleep in my arms as I sat by the bedsidesharing the long melancholy watch with the landlady, who behaved verywell at this sorrowful time. We sat in the quiet room all night, thelittle one wrapped in a shawl and nestled upon my breast. In the earlysummer morning Lucy Nowell died, very peacefully; and I carried Mariandown to the sofa in the parlour, and laid her there still asleep. Shecried piteously for her mother when she awoke, and I had to tell her thatwhich it is so hard to tell a child. 

"I wrote to Mr. Nowell at an address in Brussels which I found at the topof his last letter to his wife. No answer came. I wrote again, after alittle while, with the same result; and, in the mean time, the child hadgrown fonder of me and dearer to me every day. I had hired a nursemaidfor her, and had taken an upper room for her nursery; but she spent thegreater part of her life with me, and I began to fancy that Providenceintended I should keep her with me for the rest of her days. She told me, in her innocent childish way, that papa had never loved her as her mammadid. He had been always out of doors till very, very late at night. Shehad crept from her little bed sometimes when it was morning, quite light, and had found mamma in the sitting-room, with no fire, and the candlesall burnt out, waiting for papa to come home. 

"I put an advertisement, addressed to Mr. Percival Nowell, in the_Times_ and in _Galignani_, for I felt that the child's future mightdepend upon her father's acknowledgment of her in the present; but noreply came to these advertisements, and I settled in my own mind thatthis Nowell was a scoundrel, who had deliberately deserted his wife andchild. 

"The possessions of the poor creature who was gone were of no greatvalue. There were some rather handsome clothes and a small collection ofjewelry--some of it modern, the rest curious and old-fashioned. Theselatter articles I kept religiously, believing them to be family relics. The clothes and the modern trinkets I caused to be sold, and the smallsum realised for them barely paid the expense of the funeral and grave. The arrears of rent and all other arrears fell upon me. I paid them, andthen left Brighton with the child and nurse. I was born not twenty milesfrom this place, and I had a fancy for ending my days in my nativecounty; so I came down to this part of the world, and looked about me alittle, living in farm-house lodgings here and there, until I found thiscottage to let one day, and decided upon settling at Lidford. And now youknow the whole story of Marian's adoption, Mr. Fenton. How happy we havebeen together, or what she has been to me since that time, I could nevertell you. "

"The story does you credit, sir; and I honour you for your goodness, "said Gilbert Fenton. 

"Goodness, pshaw!" cried the Captain, impetuously; "it has been a merematter of self-indulgence on my part. The child made herself necessary tome from the very first. I was a solitary man, a confirmed bachelor, withevery prospect of becoming a hard, selfish old fogey. Marian Nowell hasbeen the sunshine of my life!"

"You never made any farther discoveries about Mr. Nowell?"

"Never. I have sometimes thought, that I ought to have made some strongerefforts to place myself in communication with him. I have thought this, especially when brooding upon the uncertainties of my darling's future. From the little Mrs. Nowell told me about her marriage, I had reason tobelieve her husband's father must have been a rich man. He might havesoftened towards his grandchild, in spite of his disapproval of themarriage. I sometimes think I ought to have sought out the grandfather. But, you see, it would have been uncommonly difficult to set about this, in my complete ignorance as to who or what he was. "

"Very difficult. And if you had found him, the chances are that he wouldhave set his face against the child. Marian Nowell will have no need tosupplicate for protection from an indifferent father or a hard-heartedgrandfather, if she will be my wife. 

"Heaven grant that she may love you as you deserve to be loved by her!"Captain Sedgewick answered heartily. 

He thought it would be the best thing that could happen to his darling tobecome this young man's wife, and he had a notion that a simple, inexperienced girl could scarcely help responding to the hopes of such alover. To his mind Gilbert Fenton seemed eminently adapted to win awoman's heart. He forgot the fatality that belongs to these things, andthat a man may have every good gift, and yet just miss the magic power totouch one woman's heart. 

CHAPTER III. 

ACCEPTED. 

Mr. Fenton lingered another week at Lidford, with imminent peril to thesafe conduct of affairs at his offices in Great St. Helens. He could nottear himself away just yet. He felt that he must have some more definiteunderstanding of his position before he went back to London; and in themeantime he pondered with a dangerous delight upon that sunny vision of asuburban villa to which Marian should welcome him when his day's work wasdone. 

He went every day to the cottage, and he bore himself in no manner like arejected lover. He was indeed very hopeful as to the issue of his wooing. He knew that Marian Nowell's heart was free, that there was no rivalimage to be displaced before his own could reign there, and he thoughtthat it must go hard with him if he did not win her love. 

So Marian saw him every day, and had to listen to the Captain's praisesof him pretty frequently during his absence. And Captain Sedgewick's talkabout Gilbert Fenton generally closed with a regretful sigh, the meaningof which had grown very clear to Marian. 

She thought about her uncle's words and looks and sighs a good deal inthe quiet of her own room. What was there she would not do for the loveof that dearest and noblest of men? Marry a man she disliked? No, thatwas a sin from which the girl's pure mind would have recoiledinstinctively. But she did like Gilbert Fenton--loved him perhaps--thoughshe had never confessed as much to herself. 

This calm friendship might really be love after all; not quite such loveas she had read of in novels and poems, where the passion was alwaysrendered desperate by the opposing influence of adverse circumstances andunkind kindred; but a tranquil sentiment, a dull, slow, smoulderingfire, that needed only some sudden wind of jealousy or misfortune to fanit into a flame. 

She knew that his society was pleasant to her, that she would miss himvery much when he left Lidford; and when she tried to fancy himreconciled to her rejection of him, and returning to London to transferhis affections to some other woman, the thought was very obnoxious toher. He had not flattered her, he had been in no way slavish in hisattentions to her; but he had surrounded her with a kind of atmosphere oflove and admiration, the charm of which no girl thus beloved for thefirst time in her life could be quite proof against. 

Thus the story ended, as romances so begun generally do end. There came asummer twilight, when Gilbert Fenton found himself once more upon thedewy lawn under the walnut-trees alone with Marian Nowell. He repeatedhis appeal in warmer, fonder tones than before, and with a kind ofimplied certainty that the answer must be a favourable one. It wassomething like taking the fortress by storm. He had his arm round herslim waist, his lips upon her brow, before she had time to consider whather answer ought to be. 

"My darling, I cannot live without you!" he said, in a low passionatevoice. "Tell me that you love me. "

She disengaged herself gently from his embrace, and stood a little wayfrom him, with shy, downcast eyelids. 

"I think I do, " she said slowly. 

"That is quite enough, Marian!" cried Gilbert, joyously. "I knew you weredestined to be my wife. "

He drew her hand through his arm and took her back to the house, wherethe Captain was sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window, with areading lamp on the little table by his side, and the _Times_ newspaperin his hand. 

"Your niece has brought you a nephew, sir, " said Gilbert. 

The Captain threw aside his paper, and stretched out both his hands tothe young man. 

"My dear boy, I cannot tell you how happy this makes me!" he cried. "Didn't I promise you that all would go well if you were patient? Mylittle girl is wise enough to know the value of a good man's love. "

"I am very grateful, uncle George, " faltered Marian, taking shelterbehind the Captain's chair; "only I don't feel that I am worthy of somuch thought. "

"Nonsense, child; not worthy! You are the best girl in Christendom, andwill make the brightest and truest wife that ever made a man's home dearto him. "

The evening went on very happily after that: Marian at the piano, playingplaintive dreamy melodies with a tender expressive touch; Gilbert sittingclose at hand, watching the face he loved so dearly--an evening inParadise, as it seemed to Mr. Fenton. He went homewards in the moonlighta little before eleven o'clock, thinking of his new happiness--suchperfect happiness, without a cloud. The bright suburban villa was nolonger an airy castle, perhaps never to be realized; it was a delightfulcertainty. He began to speculate as to the number of months that mustneeds pass before he could make Marian his wife. There was no reason fordelay. He was well-off, his own master, and it was only her will thatcould hinder the speedy realization of that sweet domestic dream whichhad haunted him lately. 

He told his sister what had happened next morning, when Martin Lister hadleft the breakfast table to hold audience with his farm bailiff, andthose two were together alone. He was a little tired of having his visitsto the cottage criticised in Mrs. Lister's somewhat supercilious manner, and was very glad to be able to announce that Marian Nowell was to be hiswife. 

"Well, Gilbert, " exclaimed the matron, after receiving his tidings withtightly-closed lips and a generally antagonistic demeanour, "I can onlysay, that if you must marry at all--and I am sure I thought you had quitesettled down as a bachelor, with your excellent lodgings in WigmoreStreet, and every I possible comfort in life--I think you might havechosen much better than this. Of course, I don't want to be rude orunpleasant; but I cannot help saying, that I consider any man a fool whoallows himself to be captivated by a pretty face. "

"I have found a great deal more than a pretty face to admire in MarianNowell. "

"Indeed! Can you name any other advantages which she possesses?"

"Amiability, good sense, and a pure and refined nature. "

"What warrant have you for all those things? Mind, Gilbert, I like thegirl well enough; I have nothing to say against her; but I cannot helpthinking it a most unfortunate match for you. "

"How unfortunate?"

"The girl's position is so very doubtful. "

"Position!" echoed Gilbert impatiently. "That sort of talk is one of theconsequences of living in such a place as Lidford. You talk aboutposition, as if I were a prince of the blood-royal, whose marriage wouldbe registered in every almanac in the kingdom. "

"If she were really the Captain's niece, it would be a different thing, "harped Mrs. Lister, without noticing this contemptuous interruption; "butto marry a girl about whose relations nobody knows anything! I supposeeven you have not been told who her father and mother were. "

"I know quite enough about them. Captain Sedgewick has been candouritself upon the subject. "

"And are the father and mother both dead?"

"Miss Nowell's mother has been dead many years. "

"And her father?"

"Captain Sedgewick does not know whether he is dead or living. "

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Lister with a profound sigh; "I should have thoughtas much. And you are really going to marry a girl with this disreputablemystery about her belongings?"

"There is nothing either disreputable or mysterious. People are sometimeslost sight of in this world. Mr. Nowell was a bad husband and anindifferent father, and Captain Sedgewick adopted his daughter; that isall. "

"And no doubt, after you are married, this Mr. Nowell will make hisappearance some day, and be a burden upon you. "

"I am not afraid of that. And now, Belle, as this is a subject upon whichwe don't seem very likely to agree, I think we had better drop it. Iconsidered it only right to tell you of my engagement. "

On this his sister softened a little, and promised Gilbert that she woulddo her best to be kind to Miss Nowell. 

"You won't be married for some time to come, of course, " she said. 

"I don't know about that, Belle. There is nothing to prevent a speedymarriage. "

"O, surely you will wait a twelvemonth, at least. You have known MarianNowell such a short time. You ought to put her to the test in some mannerbefore you make her your wife. "

"I have no occasion to put her to any kind of test. I have a mostprofound and perfect belief in her goodness. "

"Why, Gilbert, this is utter infatuation--about a girl whom you have onlyknown a little more than three weeks!"

It does seem difficult for a matter-of-fact, reasonable matron, whoseromantic experiences are things of the remote past, to understand thissudden trust in, and all-absorbing love for, an acquaintance of a briefsummer holiday. But Gilbert Fenton believed implicitly in his owninstinct, and was not to be shaken. 

He went back to town by the afternoon express that day, for he dared notdelay his return any longer. He went back regretfully enough to thedryasdust business life, after spending the greater part of the morningunder the walnut-trees in Captain Sedgewick's garden, playing with Fritzthe Skye terrier, and talking airy nonsense to Marian, while she sat in agarden-chair hemming silk handkerchiefs for her uncle, and lookingdistractingly pretty in a print morning dress with tiny pink rosebuds ona white ground, and a knot of pink ribbon fastening the dainty collar. Heventured to talk a little about the future too; painting, with all theenthusiasm of Claude Melnotte, and a great deal more sincerity, the homewhich he meant to create for her. 

"You will have to come to town to choose our house, you know, Marian, " hesaid, after a glowing description of such a villa as never yet existed, except in the florid imagination of an auctioneer; "I could never ventureupon such an important step without you: apart from all sentimentalconsiderations, a woman's judgment is indispensable in these matters. Thehouse might be perfection in every other point, and there might be noboiler, or no butler's pantry, or no cupboard for brooms on the landing, or some irremediable omission of that kind. Yes, Marian, your uncle mustbring you to town for a week or so of house-hunting, and soon. "

She looked at him with a startled expression. 

"Soon!" she repeated. 

"Yes, dear, very soon. There is nothing in the world to hinder ourmarriage. Why should we delay longer than to make all necessaryarrangements? I long so for my new home, Marian, I have never had a homein my life since I was a boy. "

"O Mr. Fenton--Gilbert, "--she pronounced his Christian name shyly, and inobedience to his reproachful look, --"remember how short a time we haveknown each other. It is much too soon to talk or think of marriage yet. Iwant you to have plenty of leisure to consider whether you really carefor me, whether it isn't only a fancy that will die out when you go backto London. And we ought to have time to know each other very well, Gilbert, to be quite sure we are suited to one another. "

This seemed an echo of his sister's reasoning, and vexed him a little. 

"Have _you_ any fear that we shall not suit each other, Marian?" he askedanxiously. 

"I know that you are only too good for me, " she answered. Upon whichGilbert hindered the hemming of the Captain's handkerchiefs by stoopingdown to kiss the little hands at work upon them. And then the talkdrifted back to easier subjects, and he did not again press that questionas to the date of the marriage. 

At last the time came for going to the station. He had arranged for Mr. Lister's gig to call for him at the cottage, so that he might spend everypossible moment with Marian. And at three o'clock the gig appeared, driven by Martin Lister himself, and Gilbert was fain to say good-bye. His last lingering backward glance showed him the white figure under thewalnut-trees, and a little hand waving farewell. 

How empty and dreary his comfortable bachelor lodgings seemed to him thatnight when he had dined, and sat by the open window smoking his solitarycigar, listening to the dismal street-noises, and the monotonous roll ofceaseless wheels yonder in Oxford-street; not caring to go out to hisclub, caring still less for opera or theatre, or any of the old wayswhereby he had been wont to dispose of his evenings!

His mind was full of Marian Nowell. All that was grave and earnest in hisnature gave force to this his first love. He had had flirtations in thepast, of course; but they had been no more than flirtations, and atthirty his heart was as fresh and inexperienced as a boy's. It pleasedhim to think of Marian's lonely position. Better, a hundred times better, that she should be thus, than fettered by ties which might come betweenthem and perfect union. The faithful and generous protector of herchildhood would of necessity always claim her love; but beyond this oneaffection, she would be Gilbert's, and Gilbert's only. There would be nomother, no sisters, to absorb her time and distract her thoughts from herhusband, perhaps prejudice her against him. Domestic life for those twomust needs be free from all the petty jars, the overshadowing clouds nobigger than a man's hand, forerunners of tempest, which Mr. Fenton hadheard of in many households. 

He was never weary of thinking about that life which was to be. Everything else he thought of was now considered only in relation to thatone subject. He applied himself to business with a new ardour; neverbefore had he been so anxious to grow rich. 

CHAPTER IV. 

JOHN SALTRAM. 

The offices of Fenton and Co. In Great St. Helens were handsome, prosperous-looking premises, consisting of two large outer rooms, wherehalf-a-dozen indefatigable clerks sat upon high stools before ponderousmahogany desks, and wrote industriously all day long; and an inner andsmaller apartment, where there was a faded Turkey-carpet instead of thekamptulicon that covered the floor of the outer offices, a couple ofcapacious, red-morocco-covered arm-chairs, and a desk of substantial andsomewhat legal design, on which Gilbert Fenton was wont to write the moreimportant letters of the house. In all the offices there were iron safes, which gave one a notion of limitless wealth stored away in the shape ofbonds and bills, if not actual gold and bank-notes; and upon all thewalls there were coloured and uncoloured engravings of ships framed andglazed, and catalogues of merchandise that had been sold, or was to besold, hanging loosely one on the other. Besides these, there were a greatmany of those flimsy papers that record the state of things on 'Change, hanging here and there on the brass rails of the desks, from little hooksin the walls, and in any other available spot. And in all the premisesthere was an air of business and prosperity, which seemed to denote thatFenton and Co. Were travelling at a rapid pace on the high-road tofortune. 

Gilbert Fenton sat in the inner office at noon one day about a week afterhis return from Lidford. He had come to business early that morning, hadinitialed a good many accounts, and written half-a-dozen letters already, and had thrown himself back in his easy-chair for a few minutes' idlemusing--musing upon that one sweet dream of his new existence, of course. From whatever point his thoughts started, they always drifted into thatchannel. 

While he was sitting like this, with his hands in his pockets and hischair tilted upon its hind legs, the half-glass door opened, and agentleman came into the office--a man a little over middle height, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, with a naturally dark complexion, which had been tanned still darker by sun and wind, black eyes and heavyblack eyebrows, a head a little bald at the top, and a face that mighthave been called almost ugly but for the look of intellectual power inthe broad open forehead and the perfect modelling of the flexiblesensitive mouth; a remarkable face altogether, not easily to be forgottenby those who had once looked upon it. 

This man was John Saltram, the one intimate and chosen friend of GilbertFenton's youth and manhood. They had met first at Oxford, and had seldomlost sight of each other since the old university days. They hadtravelled a good deal together during the one idle year that had precededGilbert's sudden plunge into commerce. They had been up the Nile togetherin the course of these wanderings; and here, remote from all civilizedaid, Gilbert had fallen ill of a fever--a long tedious business whichbrought him to the very point of death, and throughout which John Saltramhad nursed him with a womanly tenderness and devotion that knew noabatement. If this had been wanting to strengthen the tie betweenthem--which it was not--it would have brought them closer together. As itwas, that dreary time of sickness and peril was only a memory whichGilbert Fenton kept in his heart of hearts, never to grow less sacred tohim until the end of life. 

Mr. Saltram was a barrister, almost a briefless one at present, for hishabits were desultory, not to say idle, and he had not taken very kindlyto the slow drudgery of the Bar. He had some money of his own, and addedto his income by writing for the press in a powerful trenchant manner, with a style that was like the stroke of a sledge-hammer. In spite ofthis literary work, for which he got very well paid, Mr. Saltramgenerally contrived to be in debt; and there were few periods of his lifein which he was not engaged more or less in the delicate operation ofraising money by bills of accommodation. Habit had given him quite anartistic touch for this kind of thing, and he did his work fondly, likesome enthusiastic horticulturist who gives his anxious days to thebudding forth of some new orchid or the production of a hithertounobtainable tulip. It is doubtful whether money procured from any othersource was ever half so sweet to this gentleman as the cash for which hepaid sixty per cent to the Jews. With these proclivities he managed torub on from year to year somehow, getting about five hundred per annum insolid value out of an income of seven, and adding a little annually tothe rolling mass of debt which he had begun to accumulate while he was atBalliol. 

"Why, Jack, " cried Gilbert, starting up from his reverie at the entranceof his friend, and greeting him with a hearty handshaking, "this is anagreeable surprise! I was asking for you at the Pnyx last night, and JoeHawdon told me you were away--up the Danube he thought, on a canoeexpedition. "

"It is only under some utterly impossible dispensation that Joseph Hawdonwill ever be right about anything. I have been on a walking expedition inBrittany, dear boy, alone, and have found myself very bad company. Istarted soon after you went to your sister's, and only came back lastnight. That scoundrel Levison promised me seventy-five this afternoon;but whether I shall get it out of him is a fact only known to himself andthe powers with which he holds communion. And was the rustic businesspleasant, Gil? Did you take kindly to the syllabubs and new milk, thesummer sunrise over dewy fields, the pretty dairy-maids, and prize pigs, and daily inspections of the home-farm? or did you find life rather dulldown at Lidford? I know the place well enough, and all the country roundabout there. I have stayed at Heatherly with Sir David Forster more thanonce for the shooting season. A pleasant fellow Forster, in a dissipatedgood-for-nothing kind of way, always up to his eyes in debt. Did youhappen to meet him while you were down there?"

"No, I don't think the Listers know him. "

"So much the better for them! It is a vice to know him. And you were notdull at Lidford?"

"Very far from it, Jack. I was happier there than I have ever been in mylife before. "

"Eh, Gil!" cried John Saltram; "that means something more than a quietfortnight with a married sister. Come, old fellow, I have a vested rightto a share in all your secrets. "

"There is no secret, Jack. Yes, I have fallen in love, if that's what youmean, and am engaged. "

"So soon! That's rather quick work, isn't it, dear boy?"

"I don't think so. What is that the poet says?--'If not an Adam at hisbirth, he is no love at all. ' My passion sprang into life full-grownafter an hour's contemplation of a beautiful face in Lidford church. "

"Who is the lady?"

"O, her position is not worth speaking of. She is the adopted niece of ahalf-pay captain--an orphan, without money or connections. "

"Humph!" muttered John Saltram with the privileged candour of friendship;"not a very advantageous match for you, Gilbert, from a worldly point ofview. "

"I have not considered the matter from that point of view. "

"And the lady is all that is charming, of course?"

"To my mind, yes. "

"Very young?"

"Nineteen. "

"Well, dear old follow, I wish you joy with all heartiness. You canafford to marry whom you please, and are very right to let inclinationand not interest govern your choice. Whenever I tie myself in the bondageof matrimony, it will be to a lady who can pay my debts and set me on mylegs for life. Whether such a one will ever consider my ugly face a fairequivalent for her specie, is an open question. You must introduce me toyour future wife, Gilbert, on the first opportunity. I shall be veryanxious to discover whether your marriage will be likely to put an end toour friendship. "

"There is no fear of that, Jack. That is a contingency never to arise. Ihave told Marian a great deal about you already. She knows that I owe mylife to you, and she is prepared to value you as much as I do. "

"She is very good; but all wives promise that kind of thing beforemarriage. And there is apt to come a day when the familiar bachelorfriend falls under the domestic taboo, together with smoking in thedrawing-room, brandy-and-soda, and other luxuries of the old, easy-going, single life. "

"Marian is not very likely to prove a domestic tyrant. She is thegentlest dearest girl, and is very well used to bachelor habits in theperson of her uncle. I don't believe she will ever extinguish our cigars, Jack, even in the drawing-room. I look forward to the happiest home thatever a man possessed; and it would be no home of mine if you were notwelcome and honoured in it. I hope we shall spend many a summer eveningon the lawn, Jack, with a bottle of Pomard or St. Julien between us, watching the drowsy old anglers in their punts, and the swift outriggersflashing past in the twilight. I mean to find some snug little place bythe river, you know, Saltram--somewhere about Teddington, where thegardens slope down to the water's edge. "

"Very pleasant! and you will make an admirable family man, Gil. You havenone of the faults that render me ineligible for the married state. Ithink your Marian is a very fortunate girl. What is her surname, by theway?"

"Nowell. "

"Marian Nowell--a very pretty name! When do you think of going back toLidford?"

"In about a month. My brother-in-law wants me to go back to them for the1st of September. "

"Then I think I shall run down to Forster's, and have a pop at thepheasants. It will give me an opportunity of being presented to MissNowell. "

"I shall be very pleased to introduce you, old fellow. I know that youwill admire her. "

"Well, I am not a very warm admirer of the sex in general; but I am sureto like your future wife, Gil, if it is only because you have chosenher. "

"And your own affairs, Jack--how have they been going on?"

"Not very brightly. I am not a lucky individual, you know. Destiny and Ihave been at odds ever since I was a schoolboy. "

"Not in love yet, John?"

"No, " the other answered, with rather a gloomy look. 

He was sitting on a corner of the ponderous desk in a lounging attitude, gazing meditatively at his boots, and hitting one of them now and thenwith a cane he carried, in a restless kind of way. 

"You see, the fact of the matter is, Gil, " he began at last, "as I toldyou just now, if ever I do marry, mercenary considerations are likely tobe at the bottom of the business. I don't mean to say that I would marrya woman I disliked, and take it out of her in ill-usage or neglect. I amnot quite such a scoundrel as that. But if I had the luck to meet with awoman I _could_ like, tolerably pretty and agreeable, and all that kindof thing, and weak enough to care for me--a woman with a handsomefortune--I should be a fool not to snap at such a chance. "

"I see, " exclaimed Gilbert, "you have met with such a woman. "

"I have. "

Again the gloomy look came over the dark strongly-marked face, the thickblack eyebrows contracted in a frown, and the cane was struck impatientlyagainst John Saltram's boot. 

"But you are not in love with her; I see that in your face, Jack. You'llthink me a sentimental fool, I daresay, and fancy I look at things in anew light now that I'm down a pit myself; but, for God's sake, don'tmarry a woman you can't love. Tolerably pretty and agreeable won't do, Jack, --that means indifference on your part; and, depend upon it, when aman and woman are tied together for life, there is only a short step fromindifference to dislike. "

"No, Gilbert, it's not that, " answered the other, still moodilycontemplative of his boots. "I really like the lady well enough--loveher, I daresay. I have not had much experience of the tender passionsince I was jilted by an Oxford barmaid--whom I would have married, byJove. But the truth is, the lady in question isn't free to marry justyet. There's a husband in the case--a feeble old Anglo-Indian, who can'tlive very long. Don't look so glum, old fellow; there has been nothingwrong, not a word that all the world might not hear; but there are signsand tokens by which a man, without any vanity--and heaven knows I have nojustification for that--may be sure a woman likes him. In short, Ibelieve that if Adela Branston were a widow, the course would lie clearbefore me, and I should have nothing to do but go in and win. And thestakes will be worth winning, I assure you. "

"But this Mr. Branston may live for an indefinite number of years, duringwhich you will be wasting your life on a shadow. "

"Not very likely. Poor old Branston came home from Calcutta a confirmedinvalid, and I believe his sentence has been pronounced by all thedoctors. In the mean time he makes the best of life, has his good daysand bad days, and entertains a great deal of company at a delightfulplace near Maidenhead--with a garden sloping to the river like that youwere talking of just now, only on a very extensive scale. You know howoften I have wanted you to run down there with me, and how there has beenalways something to prevent your going. "

"Yes, I remember. Rely upon it, I shall contrive to accept the nextinvitation, come what may. But I can't say I like the idea of thisprospective kind of courtship, or that I consider it quite worthy of you, Saltram. "

"My dear Gilbert, when a fellow is burdened with debt and of a naturallyidle disposition, he is apt to take rather a liberal view of such meansof advancement in life as may present themselves to him. But there is noprospective courtship--nothing at all resembling a courtship in thiscase, believe me. Mrs. Branston knows that I like and admire her. Sheknows as much of almost every man who goes to Rivercombe; for there areplenty who will be disposed to go in against me for the prize by-and-by. But I think that she likes me better than any one else, and that thechances will be all in my favour. From first to last there has not been aword spoken between us which old Branston himself might not hear. As toAdela's marrying again when he is gone, he could scarcely be so fatuousas not to foresee the probability of that. "

"Is she pretty?"

"Very pretty, in rather a childish way, with blue eyes and fair hair. Sheis not my ideal among women, but no man ever marries his ideal. The manwho has sworn by eyes as black as a stormy midnight and raven hairgenerally unites himself to the most insipid thing in blondes, and theidolater of golden locks takes to wife some frizzy-haired West Indianwith an unmistakable dip of the tar-brush. When will you go down toRivercombe?"

"Whenever you like. "

"The nabob is hospitality itself, and will be delighted to see you if heis to the fore when you go. I fancy there is some kind of regatta--a raceor two, at any rate--on Saturday afternoon. Will that suit you?"

"Very well indeed. "

"Then we can meet at the station. There is a train down at 2. 15. But weare going to see something of each other in the meantime, I hope. I knowthat I am a sore hindrance to business at such an hour as this. Will youdine with me at the Pnyx at seven to-night? I shall be able to tell youhow I got on with Levison. "

"With pleasure. "

And so they parted--Gilbert Fenton to return to his letter-writing, andto the reception of callers of a more commercial and profitablecharacter; John Saltram to loiter slowly through the streets on his wayto the money-lender's office. 

They dined together very pleasantly that evening. Mr. Levison had provedaccommodating for the nonce; and John Saltram was in high spirits, almostboisterously gay, with the gaiety of a man for whom life is made up ofswift transitions from brightness to gloom, long intervals ofdespondency, and brief glimpses of pleasure; the reckless humour of a manwith whom thought always meant care, and whose soul had no higheraspiration than to beguile the march of time by such evenings as these. 

They met on the following Saturday at the Great Western terminus, JohnSaltram still in high spirits, and Gilbert Fenton quietly happy. Thatmorning's post had brought him his first letter from Marian--an innocentgirlish epistle, which was as delicious to Gilbert as if it had been the_chef-d'oeuvre_ of a Sevigné. What could she say to him? Verylittle. The letter was full of gratitude for his thoughtfulness abouther, for the pretty tributes of his love which he had sent her, the booksand music and ribbons and gloves, in the purchase whereof he had foundsuch a novel pleasure. It had been a common thing for him to execute suchcommissions for his sister; but it was quite a new sensation to him todiscuss the colours of gloves and ribbons, now that the trifles he chosewere to give pleasure to Marian Nowell. He knew every tint thatharmonised or contrasted best with that clear olive complexion--thebrilliant blue that gave new brightness to the sparkling grey eyes, thepink that cast warm lights upon the firmly-moulded throat and chin--andhe found a childish delight in these trivialities. There was one ribbonhe selected for her at this time which he had strange reason to rememberin the days to come--a narrow blue ribbon, with tiny pink rosebuds uponit, a daring mixture of the two colours. 

He had the letter in the breast-pocket of his coat when he met JohnSaltram at the station, and entertained that gentleman with certainpassages from it as they sped down to Maidenhead. To which passages Mr. Saltram listened kindly, with a very vague notion of the writer. 

"I am afraid she is rather a namby-pamby person, " he thought, "withnothing but her beauty to recommend her. That wonderful gift of beautyhas such power to bewitch the most sensible man upon occasion. "

They chartered a fly at Maidenhead, and drove about a mile and a halfalong a pleasant road before they came to the gates of Rivercombe--a lowstraggling house with verandahs, over which trailed a wealth of floweringcreepers, and innumerable windows opening to the ground. The gardens wereperfection, not gardens of yesterday, with only the prim splendours ofmodern horticulture to recommend them, but spreading lawns, on which thedeep springy turf had been growing a hundred years--lawns made deliciousin summer time by the cool umbrage of old forest-trees; fertilerose-gardens screened from the biting of adverse winds by tall hedges ofholly and yew, the angles whereof were embellished by vases and peacocksquaintly cut in the style of a bygone age; and for chief glory of all, the bright blue river, which made the principal boundary of the place, washing the edge of the wide sloping lawn, and making perpetual music ona summer day with its joyous ripple. 

There was a good deal of company already scattered about the lawn whenJohn Saltram and his friend were ushered into the pretty drawing-room. The cheerful sound of croquet-balls came from a level stretch of grassvisible from the windows, and quite a little fleet of boats were jostlingone another at the landing by the Swiss boat-house. 

Mrs. Branston came in from the garden to welcome them, looking verypretty in a coquettish little white-chip hat with a scarlet feather, anda pale-gray silk dress looped up over an elaborately-flounced muslinpetticoat. She was a slender little woman, with a brilliant complexion, sunny waving hair, and innocent blue eyes; the sort of woman whom a manwould wish to shelter from all the storms of life, but whom he mightscarcely care to choose for the companion of a perilous voyage. 

She professed herself very much pleased to see Gilbert Fenton. 

"I have heard so much of you from Mr. Saltram, " she said. "He is alwayspraising you. I believe he cares more for you than anyone else in theworld. "

"I have not many people to care for, " answered John Saltram, "and Gilbertis a friend of long standing. "

A sentimental expression came over Mrs. Branston's girlish face, and shegave a little regretful sigh. 

"I am sorry you will not see my husband to-day, " she said, after a briefpause. "It is one of his bad days. "

The two gentlemen both expressed their regret upon this subject; and thenthey went out to the lawn with Mrs. Branston, and joined the group by theriver-brink, who were waiting for the race. Here Gilbert found somepleasant people to talk to; while Adela Branston and John Saltramstrolled, as if by accident, to a seat a little way apart from the rest, and sat there talking in a confidential manner, which might not reallyconstitute a flirtation, but which had rather that appearance to the eyeof the ignorant observer. 

The boats came flashing by at last, and there was the usual excitementamongst the spectators; but it seemed to Gilbert that Mrs. Branston foundmore interest in John Saltram's conversation than in the race. It ispossible she had seen too many such contests to care much for the resultof this one. She scarcely looked up as the boats shot by, but sat withher little gloved hands clasped upon her knee, and her bright face turnedtowards John Saltram. 

They all went into the house at about seven o'clock, after a good deal ofcroquet and flirtation, and found a free-and-easy kind of banquet, halftea, half luncheon, but very substantial after its kind, waiting for themin the long low dining-room. Mrs. Branston was very popular as a hostess, and had a knack of bringing pleasant people round her--journalists andmusical men, clever young painters who were beginning to make their markin the art-world, pretty girls who could sing or play well, or talk moreor less brilliantly. Against nonentities of all kinds Adela Branston sether face, and had a polite way of dropping people from whom she derivedno amusement, pleading in her pretty childish way that it was so muchmore pleasant for all parties. That this mundane existence of ours wasnot intended to be all pleasure, was an idea that never yet troubledAdela Branston's mind. She had been petted and spoiled by everyone abouther from the beginning of her brief life, and had passed from thefrivolous career of a school-girl to a position of wealth andindependence as Michael Branston's wife; fully believing that, in makingthe sacrifice involved in marrying a man forty years her senior, sheearned the right to take her own pleasure, and to gratify every capriceof her infantile mind, for the remainder of her days. She was supremelyselfish in an agreeable unconscious fashion, and considered herself adomestic martyr whenever she spent an hour in her husband's sick-room, listening to his peevish accounts of his maladies, or reading a _Times_leader on the threatening aspect of things in the City for the solace ofhis loneliness and pain. 

The popping of corks sounded merrily amidst the buzz of conversation, andgreat antique silver tankards of Badminton and Moselle cup were emptiedas by magic, none knowing how except the grave judicial-looking butler, whose omniscient eye reigned above the pleasant confusion of the scene. And after about an hour and a half wasted in this agreeable indoorpicnic, Mrs. Branston and her friends adjourned to the drawing-room, where the grand piano had been pushed into a conspicuous position, andwhere the musical business of the evening speedily began. 

It was very pleasant sitting by the open windows in the summer twilight, with no artificial light in the room, except the wax candles on thepiano, listening to good music, and talking a little now and then in thatsubdued confidential tone to which music makes such an agreeableaccompaniment. 

Adela Branston sat in the midst of a group in a wide bay window, andalthough John Saltram was standing near her chair, he did not this timeengage the whole of her attention. Gilbert found himself seated next avery animated young lady, who rather bored him with her raptures aboutthe music, and who seemed to have assisted at every morning and eveningconcert that had been given within the last two years. To any remoterperiod her memory did not extend, and she implied that she had beenbefore that time in a chrysalis or non-existent condition. She told Mr. Fenton, with an air of innocent wonder, that she had heard there werepeople living who remembered the first appearance of Jenny Lind. 

A little before ten o'clock there was a general movement for the rail, the greater number of Mrs. Branston's guests having come from town. Therewas a scarcity of flys at this juncture, so John Saltram and GilbertFenton walked back to the station in the moonlight. 

"Well, Gilbert, old fellow, what do you think of the lady?" Mr. Saltramasked, when they were a little way beyond the gates of Rivercombe. 

"I think her very pretty, Jack, and--well--yes--upon the wholefascinating. But I don't like the look of the thing altogether, and Ifancy there's considerable bad taste in giving parties with an invalidhusband upstairs. I was wondering how Mr. Branston liked the noise of allthat talk and laughter in the dining-room, or the music that cameafterwards. "

"My dear fellow, old Branston delights in society. He is generally wellenough to sit in the drawing-room and look on at his wife's parties. Hedoesn't talk much on those occasions. Indeed, I believe he is quiteincapable of conversing about anything except the rise and fall of Indianstock, or the fluctuations in the value of indigo. And, you see, Adelamarried him with the intention of enjoying her life. She confesses asmuch sometimes with perfect candour. "

"I daresay she is very candid, and just as shallow, " said Gilbert Fenton, who was inclined to set his face against this entanglement of hisfriend's. 

"Well--yes, I suppose she is rather shallow. Those pretty pleasant littlewomen generally are, I think. Depth of feeling and force of mind are soapt to go along with blue spectacles and a rugged aspect. A woman'sprettiness must stand for something. There is so much real pleasure inthe contemplation of a charming face, that a man had need rescind alittle in the way of mental qualifications. And I do not think AdelaBranston is without a heart. "

"You praise her very warmly. Are you really in love with her, John?" hisfriend asked seriously. 

"No, Gilbert, upon my honour. I heartily wish I were. I wish I could giveher more by-and-by, when death brings about her release from MichaelBranston, than the kind of liking I feel for her. No, I am not in lovewith her; but I think she likes me; and a man must be something worsethan a brute if he is not grateful for a pretty woman's regard. "

They said no more about Mrs. Branston. Gilbert had a strong distaste forthe business; but he did not care to take upon himself the office ofmentor to a friend whose will he knew to be much stronger than his own, and to whose domination he had been apt to submit in most things, as tothe influence of a superior mind. It disappointed him a little to findthat John Saltram was capable of making a mercenary marriage, capableeven of the greater baseness involved in the anticipation of a dead man'sshoes; but his heart was not easily to be turned against the chosenfriend of his youth, and he was prompt in making excuses for the line ofconduct he disapproved. 

CHAPTER V. 

HALCYON DAYS. 

It was still quite early in September when Gilbert Fenton went back toLidford and took up his quarters once more in the airy chintz-curtainedbedchamber set apart for him in his sister's house. He had devotedhimself very resolutely to business during the interval that had gone bysince his last visit to that quiet country house; but the time had seemedvery long to him, and he fancied himself a kind of martyr to thenecessities of commerce. The aspect of his affairs of late had not beenquite free from unpleasantness. There were difficulties in the conduct ofbusiness in the Melbourne branch of the house, that branch which wasunder the charge of a cousin of Gilbert's, about whose businesscapacities the late Mr. Fenton had entertained the most exalted opinion. 

The Melbourne trading had not of late done much credit to thisgentleman's commercial genius. He had put his trust in firms that hadcrumbled to pieces before the bills drawn upon them came due, involvinghis cousin in considerable losses. Gilbert was rich enough to stand theselosses, however; and he reconciled himself to them as best he might, taking care to send his Australian partner imperative instructions for amore prudent system of trading in the future. 

The uneasiness and vexation produced by this business was still upon himwhen he went down to Lidford; but he relied upon Marian Nowell's presenceto dissipate all his care. 

He did find himself perfectly happy in her society. He was troubled by nodoubts as to her affection for him, no uncertainty as to the brightnessof the days that were to come. Her manner seemed to him all that a mancould wish in the future partner of his life. An innocent trustfulness inhis superior judgment, a childlike submission to his will which Mariandisplayed upon all occasions, were alike flattering and delightful. Nordid she ever appear to grow tired of that talk of their future which wasso pleasant to her lover. There was no shadow of doubt upon her face whenhe spoke of the serene happiness which they two were to find in anexistence spent together. He was the first who had ever spoken to her ofthese things, and she listened to him with an utter simplicity andfreshness of mind. 

Time had reconciled Isabella Lister to her brother's choice, and she nowdeigned to smile upon the lovers, very much to Gilbert's satisfaction. Hehad been too proud to supplicate her good graces; but he was pleased thathis only sister should show herself gracious and affectionate to the girlhe loved so fondly. During this second visit of his, therefore, Mariancame very often to Lidford House; sometimes accompanied by her uncle, sometimes alone; and there was perfect harmony between the elder andyounger lady. 

The partridges upon Martin Lister's estate did not suffer much damagefrom his brother-in-law's gun that autumn. Gilbert found it a great dealpleasanter to spend his mornings dawdling in the little cottagedrawing-room or under the walnut-trees with Marian, than to waste hisnoontide hours in the endeavour to fill a creditable game-bag. There isnot very much to tell of the hours which those two spent together sohappily. It was an innocent, frivolous, useless employment of time, andleft little trace behind it, except in the heart of one of those two. Gilbert wondered at himself when, in some sober interval of reflection, he happened to consider those idle mornings, those tranquil uneventfulafternoons and evenings, remembering what a devoted man of business hehad once been, and how a few months ago he would have denounced such alife in another. 

"Well, " he said to himself, with a happy laugh, "a man can take thisfever but once in his life, and it is only wise in him to surrenderhimself utterly to the divine delirium. I shall have no excuse forneglecting business by-and-by, when my little wife and I are settled downtogether for the rest of our days. Let me be her lover while I may. Can Iever be less than her lover, I wonder? Will marriage, or custom, or theassurance that we belong to each other for the rest of our days, take thepoetry out of our lives? I think not; I think Marian must always be to mewhat she has seemed to me from the very first--something better andbrighter than the common things of this life. "

Custom, which made Marian Nowell dearer to Gilbert Fenton every day, hadby this time familiarised her with his position as her future husband. She was no longer surprised or distressed when he pleaded for a shortengagement, and a speedy realization of that Utopian home which they wereto inhabit together. The knowledge of her uncle's delight in thisengagement of hers might have reconciled her to it, even if she had notloved Gilbert Fenton. And she told herself that she did love him; or, more often putting the matter in the form of a question, asked herselfwhether she could be so basely ungrateful as not to love one who regardedher with such disinterested affection?

It was settled finally, after a good deal of pleasant discussion, thatthe wedding should take place early in the coming spring--at latest inApril. Even this seemed a long delay to Gilbert; but he submitted to itas an inevitable concession to the superior instinct of his betrothed, which harmonised so well with Mrs. Lister's ideas of wisdom andpropriety. There was the house to be secured, too, so that he might havea fitting home to which to take his darling when their honeymoon wasover; and as he had no female relation in London who could take the careof furnishing this earthly paradise off his hands, he felt that the wholebusiness must devolve upon himself, and could not be done without time. 

Captain Sedgewick promised to bring Marian to town for a fortnight inOctober, in order that she might assist her lover in that delightful dutyof house-hunting. She looked forward to this visit with quite a childlikepleasure. Her life at Lidford had been completely happy; but it was amonotonous kind of happiness; and the notion of going about London, evenat the dullest time of the year, was very delightful to her. 

The weather happened to be especially fine that September. It was thebrightest month of the year, and the lovers took long rambles together inthe woodland roads and lanes about Lidford, sometimes alone, more oftenwith the Captain, who was a very fair pedestrian, in spite of having hada bullet or two through his legs in the days gone by. When the weatherwas too warm for walking, Gilbert borrowed Martin Lister's dog-cart, anddrove them on long journeys of exploration to remote villages, or to thecheery little market-town ten miles away. 

They all three set out for a walk one afternoon, when Gilbert had beenabout a fortnight at Lidford, with no particular destination, only benton enjoying the lovely weather and the rustic beauty of woodland andmeadow. The Captain chose their route, as he always did on theseoccasions, and under his guidance they followed the river-bank for somedistance, and then turned aside into a wood in which Gilbert Fenton hadnever been before. He said so, with an expression of surprise at thebeauty of the place, where the fern grew deep under giant oaks andbeeches, and where the mossy ground dipped suddenly down to a deep stillpool which reflected the sunlit sky through a break in the dark foliagethat sheltered it. 

"What, have you never been here?" exclaimed the Captain; "then you havenever seen Heatherly, I suppose?"

"Never. By the way, is not that Sir David Forster's place?" askedGilbert, remembering John Saltram's promise. 

He had seen very little more of his friend after that visit toRivercombe, and had half forgotten Mr. Saltram's talk of coming down tothis neighbourhood on purpose to be presented to Marian. 

"Yes. It is something of a show-place, too; and we think a good deal ofit in these parts. There are some fine Sir Joshuas among the familyportraits, painted in the days when the Forsters were better off and ofmore importance in the county than they are now. And there are a fewother good pictures--Dutch interiors, and some seascapes by Bakhuysen. Decidedly you ought to see Heatherly. Shall we push on there thisafternoon?"

"Is it far from here?"

"Not much more than a mile. This wood joins the park, and there is apublic right of way across the park to the Lidford road, so the gate isalways open. We can't waste our walk, and I know Sir David quite wellenough to ask him to let you see the pictures, if he should happen to beat home. "

"I should like it of all things, " said Gilbert eagerly. "My friend JohnSaltram knows this Sir David Forster, and he talked of being down here atthis time: I forgot all about it till you spoke of Heatherly just now. Ihave a knack of forgetting things now-a-days. "

"I wonder that you should forget anything connected with Mr. Saltram, Gilbert, " said Marian; "that Mr. Saltram of whom you think so much. Icannot tell you how anxious I am to see what kind of person he is; nothandsome--you have confessed as much as that. "

"Yes, Marian, I admit the painful fact. There are people who call JohnSaltram ugly. But his face is not a common one; it is a very picturesquekind of ugliness--a face that Velasquez would have loved to paint, Ithink. It is a rugged, strongly-marked countenance with a villanouslydark complexion; but the eyes are very fine, the mouth perfection; andthere is a look of power in the face that, to my mind, is better thanbeauty. "

"And I think you owned that Mr. Saltram is hardly the most agreeableperson in the world. "

"Well, no, he is not what one could well call an eminently agreeableperson. And yet he exercises a good deal of influence over the men heknows, without admitting many of them to his friendship. He is veryclever; not a brilliant talker by any means, except on rare occasions, when he chooses to give full swing to his powers; he does not lay himselfout for social successes; but he is a man who seems to know more of everysubject than the men about him. I doubt if he will ever succeed at theBar. He has so little perseverance or steadiness, and indulges in such anerratic, desultory mode of life; but he has made his mark in literaturealready, and I think he might become a great man if he chose. Whether heever will choose is a doubtful question. "

"I am afraid he must be rather a dissipated, dangerous kind of person, "said Marian. 

"Well, yes, he is subject to occasional outbreaks of dissipation. Theydon't last long, and they seem to leave not the faintest impression uponhis herculean constitution; but of course that sort of thing does more orless injury to a man's mind, however comparatively harmless the form ofhis dissipation may be. There are very few men whom John Saltram cannotdrink under the table, and rise with a steady brain himself when thewassail is ended; yet I believe, in a general way, few men drink lessthan he does. At cards he is equally strong; a past-master in all gamesof skill; and the play is apt to be rather high at one or two of theclubs he belongs to. He has a wonderful power of self-restraint when hecares to exert it; will play six or seven hours every night for threeweeks at a stretch, and then not touch a card for six months. Poor oldJohn, " said Gilbert Fenton, with a half-regretful sigh; "under happycircumstances, he might be such a good man. "

"But I fear he is a dangerous friend for you, Gilbert, " exclaimed Marian, horrified by this glimpse of bachelor life. 

"No, darling, I have never shared his wilder pleasures. There are a fewchosen spirits with whom he consorts at such times. I believe this SirDavid Forster is one of them. "

"Sir David has the reputation of leading rather a wild life in London, "said the Captain, "and of bringing a dissipated set down here everyautumn. Things have not gone well with him. His wife, who was a verybeautiful girl, and whom he passionately loved, was killed by a fall fromher horse a few months after the birth of her first child. The child diedtoo, and the double loss ruined Sir David. He used to spend the greaterpart of his life at Heatherly, and was a general favourite among thecounty people; but since that time he has avoided the place, exceptduring the shooting season. He has a hunting-box in the shires, and is aregular daredevil over a big country they tell me. "

They had reached the little gate opening from the wood into the park bythis time. There was not much difference in the aspect of the sylvanscene upon the other side of the fence. Sir David's domain had been agood deal neglected of late years, and the brushwood and brambles grewthick under the noble old trees. The timber had not yet suffered by itsowner's improvidence. The end of all things must have come for Sir Davidbefore he would have consented to the spoliation of a place he fondlyloved, little as he had cared to inhabit it since the day that shatteredall that was brightest and best in his life. 

For some time Captain Sedgewick and his companions went along a footpathunder the shelter of the trees, and then emerged upon a wide stretch ofsmooth turf, across which they commanded a perfect view of the principalfront of the old house. It was a quadrangular building of the Elizabethanperiod, very plainly built, and with no special beauty to recommend it tothe lover of the picturesque. Whatever charm of form it may havepossessed in the past had been ruthlessly extirpated by the modernisationof the windows, which were now all of one size and form--a long gauntrange of unsheltered casements staring blankly out upon the spectator. There were no flower-beds, no terraced walks, or graceful flights ofsteps before the house; only a bare grassplot, with a stiff line of tallelms on each side, and a wide dry moat dividing it from the turf in thepark. Two lodges--ponderous square brick buildings with very smallwindows, each the exact counterpart of the other, and a marvel ofsubstantial ugliness--kept guard over a pair of tall iron gates, aboutsix hundred yards apart, approached by stone bridges that spanned themoat. 

Captain Sedgewick rang a bell hanging by the side of one of these gates, whereat there arose a shrill peal that set the rooks screaming in thetall elms overhead. An elderly female appeared in answer to this summons, and opened the gate in a slow mechanical way, without the faintest showof interest in the people about to enter, and looking as if she wouldhave admitted a gang of obvious burglars with equal indifference. 

"Rather a hideous style of place, " said Gilbert, as they walked towardsthe house; "but I think show-places, as a general rule, excel inugliness. I daresay the owners of them find a dismal kind of satisfactionin considering the depressing influence their dreary piles ofbricks-and-mortar must exercise on the minds of strangers; may be a sortof compensation for being obliged to live in such a gaol of a place. "

There was a clumsy low stone portico over the door, wide enough to admita carriage; and lounging upon a bench under this stony shelter they founda sleepy-looking man-servant, who informed Captain Sedgewick that SirDavid was at Heatherly, but that he was out shooting with his friends atthis present moment. In his absence the man would be very happy to showthe house to Captain Sedgewick and his party. 

Gilbert Fenton asked about John Saltram. 

Yes, Mr. Saltram had arrived at Heatherly on Tuesday evening, two nightsago. 

They went over the state-rooms, and looked at the pictures, which werereally as good as the Captain had represented them. The inspectionoccupied a little more than an hour, and they were ready to take theirdeparture, when the sound of masculine voices resounded loudly in thehall, and their conductor announced that Sir David and his friends hadcome in. 

There were only two gentlemen in the hall when they went into thatspacious marble-paved chamber, where there were great logs burning on thewide open hearth, in spite of the warmth of the September day. One ofthese two was Sir David Forster, a big man, with a light-brown beard anda florid complexion. The other was John Saltram, who sat in a loungingattitude on one of the deep window-seats examining his breech-loader. Hisback was turned towards the window, and the glare of the blazing logsshone full upon his dark face with a strange Rembrandt-like effect. 

One glance told Marian Nowell who this man was. That powerful face, withits unfathomable eyes and thoughtful mouth, was not the countenance shehad conjured up from the depths of her imagination when Gilbert Fentonhad described his friend; yet she felt that this stranger lounging in thewindow was John Saltram, and no other. He rose, and set down his gun veryquietly, and stood by the window waiting while Captain Sedgewickintroduced Gilbert to Sir David. Then he came forward, shook hands withhis friend, and was thereupon presented to Marian and her uncle byGilbert, who made these introductions with a kind of happy eagerness. 

Sir David was full of friendliness and hospitality, and insisted onkeeping them to show Gilbert and Miss Nowell some pictures in thebilliard-room and in his own private snuggery, apartments which were notshown to ordinary visitors. 

They strolled through these rooms in a leisurely way, Sir David makingconsiderable pains to show Gilbert Fenton the gems of his collection, John Saltram acting as cicerone to Marian. He was curious to discoverwhat this girl was like, whether she had indeed only her beauty torecommend her, or whether she was in sober reality the perfect beingGilbert Fenton believed her to be. 

She was very beautiful. The first brief look convinced Mr. Saltram thatupon this point at least her lover had indulged in no loverlikeexaggeration. There was a singular charm in the face; a higher, morepenetrating loveliness than mere perfection of feature; a kind of beautythat would have been at once the delight and desperation of a painter--sofitting a subject for his brush, so utterly beyond the power of perfectreproduction, unless by one of those happy, almost accidental successeswhich make the triumphs of genius. 

John Saltram watched Marian Nowell's face thoughtfully as he talked toher, for the most part, about the pictures which they were looking attogether. Before their inspection of these art-treasures was ended, hewas fain to confess to himself that she was intelligent as well asbeautiful. It was not that she had said anything particularly brilliant, or had shown herself learned in the qualities of the old Dutch masters;but she possessed that charming childlike capacity for receivinginformation from a superior mind, and that perfect and rapid power ofappreciating a clever man's conversation, which are apt to seem sodelightful to the sterner sex when exhibited by a pretty woman. At firstshe had been just a little shy and constrained in her talk with JohnSaltram. Her lover's account of this man had not inspired her with anyexalted opinion of his character. She was rather inclined to look uponhim as a person to be dreaded, a friend whose influence was dangerous atbest, and who might prove the evil genius of Gilbert Fenton's life. Butwhatever her opinion on this point might remain, her reserve soon meltedbefore John Saltram's clever talk and kindly conciliating manner. He laidhimself out to please on this occasion, and it was very rarely he didthat without succeeding. 

"I want you to think of me as a kind of brother, Miss Nowell, " he said inthe course of their talk. "Gilbert and I have been something likebrothers for the last twelve years of our lives, and it would be a hardthing, for one of us at least, if our friendship should ever be lessened. You shall find me discretion itself by-and-by, and you shall see that Ican respect Gilbert's altered position; but I shouldn't like to lose him, and I don't think you look capable of setting your face against yourhusband's old friend. "

Marian blushed a little at this, remembering that only an hour or two agoshe had been thinking that this friendship was a perilous one forGilbert, and that it would be well if John Saltram's influence over himcould be lessened somehow in the future. 

"I don't believe I should ever have the power to diminish Gilbert'sregard for you, Mr. Saltram, even were I inclined to do so, " she said. 

"O yes, you would; your power over him will be illimitable, depend uponit. But now I have seen you, I think you will only use it wisely. "

Marian shook her head, laughing gaily. 

"I am much more fitted to be ruled than to rule, Mr. Saltram, " she said. "I am utterly inexperienced in the world, you know, and Mr. Fenton is mysuperior in every way. "

"Your superior in years, I know, but in what else?"

"In everything else. In intellect and judgment, as well as in knowledgeof the world. You could never imagine what a quiet changeless life I haveled. "

"Your intellect is so much the clearer for that, I think. It has not beendisturbed by all the narrow petty influences of a life spent in what iscalled 'society. '"

Before they left the house, Gilbert and the Captain were obliged topromise to dine at Heatherly next day, very much to the secret distasteof the former, who must thus lose an evening with Marian, but who wasashamed to reveal his hopeless condition by a persistent refusal. Captain Sedgewick begged John Saltram to choose an early day for diningat the cottage, and Gilbert gave him a general invitation to LidfordHouse. 

These matters being settled, they departed, accompanied by Mr. Saltram, who proposed to walk as far as the wood with them, and who extended hiswalk still farther, only leaving them at the gate of the Captain's modestdomain. The conversation was general throughout the way back; and theyall found plenty to talk about, as they loitered slowly on among thewaving shadows of the trees flickering darkly on the winding path bywhich they went. Gilbert lingered outside the gate after Marian and heruncle had gone into the cottage--he was so eager to hear his friendpraise the girl he loved. 

"Well, John?" he asked. 

"Well, dear old boy, she is all that is beautiful and charming, and I canonly congratulate you upon your choice. Miss Nowell's perfection is asubject about which there cannot be two opinions. "

"And you think she loves me, Jack?"

"Do I think she loves you? Why, surely, Gil, that is not a question uponwhich you want another man's judgment?"

"No, of course not, but one is never tired of receiving the assurance ofthat fact. And you could see by her way of speaking about me----"

"She spoke of you in the prettiest manner possible. She seems to consideryou quite a superior being. "

"Dear girl, she is so good and simple-hearted. Do you know, Jack, I feelas if I could never be sufficiently grateful to Providence for myhappiness in having won such an angel. "

"Well, you certainly have reason to consider yourself a very luckyfellow; but I doubt if any man ever deserved good fortune better than youdo, Gilbert. And now, good-bye. It's getting unconscionably late, and Ishall scarcely get back in time to change my clothes for dinner. We spendall our evenings in pious devotion to billiards, with a rubber or two, ora little lansquenet towards the small hours. Don't forget your engagementto-morrow; good-bye. "

They had a very pleasant evening at Heatherly. Sir David's guests at thistime consisted of a Major Foljambe, an elderly man who had seen a gooddeal of service in India; a Mr. Harker, who had been in the church, andhad left it in disgust as alike unsuited to his tastes and capacity; Mr. Windus Carr, a prosperous West-end solicitor, who had inherited afirst-rate practice from his father, and who devoted his talents to theenjoyment of life, leaving his clients to the care of his partner, asteady-going stout gentleman, with a bald head, and an inexhaustiblecapacity for business; and last, but by no means least, John Saltram, who possessed more influence over David Forster than any one else in theworld. 

CHAPTER VI. 

SENTENCE OF EXILE. 

After the dinner at Heatherly, John Saltram came very often to thecottage. He did not care much for the fellows who were staying with SirDavid this year, he told Gilbert. He knew all Major Foljambe's tigerstories by heart, and had convicted him of glaring discrepancies in hisdescription of the havoc he and his brother officers had made among thebig game. Windus Carr was a conceited presuming cad, who was alwaysboring them with impossible accounts of his conquests among the fair sex;and that poor Harker was an unmitigated fool, whose brains had run intohis billiard-cue. This was the report which John Saltram gave of hisfellow-guests; and he left the shooting-party morning after morning to goout boating with Gilbert and Marian, or to idle away the sunny hours onthe lawn listening to the talk of the two others, and dropping in a wordnow and then in a sleepy way as he lay stretched on the grass near them, looking up to the sky, with his arms crossed above his head. 

He called at Lidford House one day when Gilbert had told him he shouldstay at home to write letters, and was duly presented to the Listers, whomade a little dinner-party in his honour a few days afterwards, to whichCaptain Sedgewick and Marian were invited--a party which went off withmore brightness and gaiety than was wont to distinguish the Lidford Houseentertainments. After this there was more boating--long afternoons spenton the winding river, with occasional landings upon picturesque littleislands or wooded banks, where there were the wild-flowers Marian Nowellloved and understood so well; more idle mornings in the cottage garden--ahappy innocent break in the common course of life, which seemed almost aspleasant to John Saltram as to his friend. He had contrived to makehimself popular with every one at Lidford, and was an especial favouritewith Captain Sedgewick. 

He seemed so thoroughly happy amongst them, and displayed such a perfectsympathy with them in all things, that Gilbert Fenton was taken utterlyby surprise by his abrupt departure, which happened one day without aword of warning. He had dined at the cottage on the previous evening, andhad been in his wildest, most reckless spirits--that mood to which he wassubject at rare intervals, and in which he exercised a potent fascinationover his companions. He had beguiled the little party at the cottageinto complete forgetfulness of the hour by his unwonted eloquence uponsubjects of a deeper, higher kind than it was his habit to speak about;and then at the last moment, when the clock on the mantelpiece had strucktwelve, he had suddenly seated himself at the piano, and sung themMoore's "Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour, " in tones that wentstraight to the hearts of the listeners. He had one of those raresympathetic voices which move people to tears unawares, and before thesong was ended Marian was fairly overcome, and had made a hasty escapefrom the room ashamed of her emotion. 

Late as it was, Gilbert accompanied his friend for a mile of his homewardroute. He had secured a latch-key during his last visit to Lidford House, and could let himself in quietly of a night without entrenching upon theregular habits of Mrs. Lister's household. 

Once clear of the cottage, John Saltram's gaiety vanished all in amoment, and gave place to a moody silence which Gilbert was powerless todissipate. 

"Is there anything amiss, Jack?" he asked. "I know high spirits are notalways a sign of inward contentment with you. Is there anything wrongto-night?"

"No. "

"Are you sure of that?"

"Quite sure. I may be a little knocked up perhaps; that's all. "

No hint of his intended departure fell from him when they shook hands andwished each other good-night; but early next morning a brief note wasdelivered to Mr. Fenton at his sister's house to the following effect:--

 "MY DEAR GILBERT, --I find myself obliged to leave this place for London at once, and have not time to thank anyone for the kindness I have received during my stay. Will you do the best to repair this omission on my part, and offer my warmest expressions of gratitude to Captain Sedgewick and Miss Nowell for their goodness to me? Pray apologise for me also to Mr. And Mrs. Lister for my inability to make my adieux in a more formal manner than this, a shortcoming which I hope to atone for on some future visit. Tell Lister I shall be very pleased to see him if he will look me up at the Pnyx when he is next in town. 

 "Ever yours, --JOHN SALTRAM. "

This was all. There was no explanation of the reason for this hurriedjourney, --a strange omission between men who were on terms of such perfectconfidence as obtained with these two. Gilbert Fenton was not a littledisturbed by this unlooked-for event, fearing that some kind of evil hadbefallen his friend. 

"His money matters may have fallen into a desperate condition, " hethought; "or perhaps that woman--that Mrs. Branston, is at the bottom ofthe business. "

He went to the cottage that morning as usual, but not with his accustomedfeeling of unalloyed happiness. The serene heaven of his tranquil lifewas clouded a little by this strange conduct of John Saltram's. Itwounded him to think that his old companion was keeping a secret fromhim. 

"I suppose it is because I lectured him a little about Mrs. Branston theother day, " he said to himself. "The business is connected with her insome way, I daresay, and poor Jack does not care to arouse my virtuousindignation. That comes of taking a high moral tone with one's friend. Heswallows the pill with a decent grace at the time, and shuts one out ofhis confidence ever afterwards. "

Captain Sedgewick expressed himself much surprised and disappointed byMr. Saltram's departure. Marian said very little upon the subject. Thereseemed nothing extraordinary to her in the fact that a gentleman shouldbe summoned to London by the claims of business. 

Gilbert might have brooded longer upon the mystery involved in hisfriend's conduct, but that evening's post brought him trouble in theshape of bad news from Melbourne. His confidential clerk--an old man whohad been with his father for many years, and who knew every intricacy ofthe business--wrote him a very long letter, dwelling upon the evilfortune which attended all their Australian transactions of late, andhinting at dishonesty and double-dealing on the part of Gilbert's cousin, Astley Fenton, the local manager. 

The letter was a very sensible one, calculated to arouse a careless manfrom a false sense of security. Gilbert was so much disturbed by it, thathe determined upon going back to London by the earliest fast train nextmorning. It was cutting short his holiday only by a few days. He hadmeant to return at the beginning of the following week, and he felt thathe had already some reason to reproach himself for his neglect ofbusiness. 

He left Lidford happy in the thought that Captain Sedgewick and Marianwere to come to London in October. The period of separation would besomething less than a month. And after that? Well, he would of coursespend Christmas at Lidford; and he fancied how the holly and mistletoe, the church-decorations and carol-singing, and all the stereotypedgenialities of the season, --things that had seemed trite and dreary tohim since the days of his boyhood, --would have a new significance andbeauty for him when he and Marian kept the sacred festival together. Andthen how quickly would begin the new year, the year whose spring-tidewould see them man and wife! Perhaps there is no period of this mortallife so truly happy as that in which all our thoughts are occupied inlooking forward to some great joy to come. Whether the joy, when it doescome, is ever so unqualified a delight as it seemed in the distance, orwhether it ever comes at all, are questions which we have all solved forourselves somehow or other. To Gilbert Fenton these day-dreams werebright and new, and he was troubled by no fear of their not beingrealized. 

He went at his business with considerable ardour, and made a careful anddetailed investigation of all affairs connected with their Melbournetrading, assisted throughout by Samuel Dwyer, the old clerk. The resultof his examination convinced him that his cousin had been playing himfalse; that the men with whom his pretended losses had been made were menof straw, and the transactions were shadows invented to cover his ownembezzlements. It was a complicated business altogether; and it was notuntil Gilbert Fenton had been engaged upon it for more than a week, andhad made searching inquiries as to the status of the firms with which thesupposed dealings had taken place, that he was able to arrive at thisconclusion. Having at last made himself master of the real state ofthings, as far as it was in any way possible to do so at that distancefrom the scene of action, Gilbert saw that there was only one line ofconduct open to him as a man of business. That was to go at once toMelbourne, investigate his cousin's transactions on the spot, and takethe management of the colonial house into his own hands. To do this wouldbe a sore trial to him, for it would involve the postponement of hismarriage. He could scarcely hope to do what he had to do in Melbourne andto get back to England before a later date than that which he had hopedwould be his wedding-day. Yet to do anything less than this would befutile and foolish; and it was possible that the future stability of hisposition was dependent upon his arrangement of these Melbournedifficulties. It was his home, the prosperity of his coming life that hehad to fight for; and he told himself that he must put aside allweakness, as he had done once before, when he turned away from theeasy-going studies and pleasures of young Oxford life to undertake ahand-to-hand fight with evil fortune. 

He had conquered then, as he hoped to conquer now, having an energeticnature, and a strong faith in man's power to master fortune by honestwork and patience. 

There was no time lost after once his decision was arrived at. He beganto put his affairs in order for departure immediately, and wrote toMarian within a few hours of making up his mind as to the necessity ofthis voyage. He told her frankly all that had happened, that theirfortune was at stake, and that it was his bounden duty to take this stephard as it might seem to him. He could not leave England without seeingher once more, he said, recently as they had parted, and brief as hisleisure must needs be. There were so many things he would have to say toher on the eve of this cruel separation. 

He went down to Lidford one evening when all the arrangements for hisvoyage were complete, and he had two clear days at his disposal beforethe vessel he was to go in left Liverpool. The Listers were very muchsurprised and shocked when he told them what he was going to do; Mrs. Lister bitterly bewailing the insecurity of all commercial positions, andappearing to consider her brother on the verge of bankruptcy. 

He found a warm welcome at the cottage from the Captain, who heartilyapproved of the course he was taking, and was full of hopefulness aboutthe future. 

"A few months more or less can make little difference, " he said, whenGilbert was lamenting the postponement of his wedding. "Marian will bequite safe in her old uncle's care; and I do not suppose either of youwill love each other any the less for the delay. I have such perfectconfidence in you, Gilbert, you see; and it is such a happiness to me toknow that my darling's future is in the hands of a man I can sothoroughly trust. Were you reduced to absolute poverty, with the battleof life to fight all over again, I would give you my dear girl withoutfear of the issue. I know you are of the stuff that is not to be beaten;and I believe that neither time nor circumstance could ever change yourlove for her. "

"You may believe that. Every day makes her dearer to me. I should beashamed to tell you how bitterly I feel this parting, and what adesperate mental struggle I went through before I could make up my mindto go. "

Marian came into the room in the midst of this conversation. She was verypale, and her eyes had a dull, heavy look. The bad news in Gilbert'sletter had distressed her even more than he had anticipated. 

"My darling, " he said tenderly, looking down at the changed face, withher cold hand clasped in his own, "how ill you are looking! I fear I mademy letter too dismal, and that it frightened you. "

"Oh no, no. I am very sorry you should have this bad fortune, Gilbert, that is all. "

"There is nothing which I do not hope to repair, dear. The losses are notmore than I can stand. All that I take to heart is the separation fromyou, Marian. "

"I am not worth so much regret, " she said, with her eyes fixed upon theground, and her hands clasping and unclasping each other nervously. 

"Not worth so much regret, Marian!" he exclaimed. "You are all the worldto me; the beginning and end of my universe. "

She looked a little brighter by-and-by, when her lover had done his bestto cheer her with hopeful talk, which cost him no small effort in thedepressed state of his mind. The day went by very slowly, although it wasthe last which those two were to spend together until Gilbert Fenton'sreturn. It was a hopelessly wet day, with a perpetual drizzling rain anda leaden-gray sky; weather which seemed to harmonise well enough with thepervading gloom of Gilbert's thoughts as he stood by the fire, leaningagainst an angle of the mantelpiece, and watching Marian's needle movingmonotonously in and out of the canvas. 

The Captain, who led an easy comfortable kind of life at all times, wasapt to dispose of a good deal of his leisure in slumber upon such a dayas this. He sat down in his own particular easy-chair, dozing behind theshelter of a newspaper, and lulled agreeably by the low sound of Gilbertand Marian's conversation. 

So the quiet hours went by, overshadowed by the gloom of that approachingseparation. After dinner, when they had returned to the drawing-room, andCaptain Sedgewick had refreshed his intellectual powers with copiousdraughts of strong tea, he began to talk of Marian's childhood, and thecircumstances which had thrown her into his hand. 

"I don't suppose my little girl ever showed you her mother's jewel-case, did she, Gilbert?" he asked. 

"Never. "

"I thought as much. It contains that old-fashioned jewelry I spokeof--family relics, which I have sometimes fancied might be of use to her, if ever her birthright were worth claiming. But I doubt if that will everhappen now that so many years have gone by, and there has been noendeavour to trace her. Run and fetch the case, Marian. There are some ofits contents which Gilbert ought to see before he leaves England--paperswhich I intended to show him when I first told him your mother's story. "

Marian left them, and came back in a few minutes carrying anold-fashioned ebony jewel-case, inlaid with brass. She unlocked it with alittle key hanging to her watch-chain, and exhibited its contents toGilbert Fenton. There were some curious old rings, of no great value; aseal-ring with a crest cut on a bloodstone--a crest of that common kindof device which does not imply noble or ancient lineage on the part ofthe bearer thereof; a necklace and earrings of amethyst; a gold braceletwith a miniature of a young man, whose handsome face had a harddisagreeable expression; a locket containing grey hair, and having adate and the initials "M. G. " engraved on the massive plain gold case. 

These were all the trinkets. In a secret drawer there was a certificateof marriage between Percival Nowell, bachelor, gentleman, and LucyGeoffry, spinster, at St. Pancras Church, London. The most interestingcontents of the jewel-case consisted of a small packet of letters writtenby Percival Nowell to Lucy Geoffry before their marriage. 

"I have read them carefully ever so many times, with the notion that theymight throw some light upon Mr. And Mrs. Nowell's antecedents, " said theCaptain, as Gilbert held these in his hands, disinclined to look atdocuments of so private and sacred a character; "but they tell verylittle. I fancy that Miss Geoffry was a governess in some family inLondon--the envelopes are missing, you see, so there is no evidence as towhere she was living, except that it _was_ in London--and that she lefther employment to marry this Percival Nowell. You'd like to read theletters yourself, I daresay, Gilbert. Put them in your pocket, and lookthem over at your leisure when you get home. You can bring them backbefore you leave Lidford. "

Mr. Fenton glanced at Marian to see if she had any objection to hisreading the letters. She was quite silent, looking absently at thetrinkets lying in the tray before her. 

"You don't mind my reading your father's letters, Marian?" he asked. 

"Not at all. Only I think you will find them very uninteresting. "

"I am interested in everything that concerns you. "

He put the papers in his pocket, and sat up for an hour in his room thatnight reading Percival Nowell's love letters. They revealed very littleto him, except the unmitigated selfishness of the writer. That qualityexhibited itself in every page. The lovers had met for the first time atthe house of some Mr. Crosby, in whose family Miss Geoffry seemed to beliving; and there were clandestine meetings spoken of in the Regent'sPark, for which reason Gilbert supposed Mr. Crosby's house must have beenin that locality. There were broken appointments, for which Miss Geoffrywas bitterly reproached by her lover, who abused the whole Crosbyhousehold in a venomous manner for having kept her at home at thesetimes. 

"If you loved me, as you pretend, Lucy, " Mr. Nowell wrote on oneoccasion, "you would speedily exchange this degrading slavery for libertyand happiness with me, and would be content to leave the future _utterly_in my hands, without question or fear. A really generous woman would dothis. "

There was a good deal more to the same effect, and it seemed as if theproposal of marriage came at last rather reluctantly; but it did come, and was repeated, and urged in a very pressing manner; while Lucy Geoffryto the last appeared to have hung back, as if dreading the result of thatunion. 

The letters told little of the writer's circumstances or social status. Whenever he alluded to his father, it was with anger and contempt, and ina manner that implied some quarrel between them; but there was nothing toindicate what kind of man the father was. 

Gilbert Fenton took the packet back to the cottage next morning. He wasto return to London that afternoon, and had only a few hours to spendwith Marian. The day was dull and cold, but there was no rain; and theywalked together in the garden, where the leaves were beginning to fall, and whence every appearance of summer seemed to have vanished sinceGilbert's last visit. 

For some time they were both rather silent, pacing thoughtfully up anddown the sheltered walk that bounded the lawn. Gilbert found itimpossible to put on an appearance of hopefulness on this last day. Itwas better wholly to give up the attempt, and resign himself to the gloomthat brooded over him, shutting out the future. That airy castle ofhis--the villa on the banks of the Thames--seemed to have faded andvanished altogether. He could not look beyond the Australian journey tothe happy time of his return. The hazards of time and distance bewilderedhim. He felt an unspeakable dread of the distance that was to divide himfrom Marian Nowell--a dread that grew stronger with every hour. He wasdestined to suffer a fresh pang before the moment of parting came. Marianturned to him by-and-by with an earnest anxious face, and said, --

"Gilbert, there is something which I think I ought to say to you beforeyou go away. "

"What is that, my darling?"

"It is rather hard to say. I fear it will give you pain. I have beenthinking about it for a long time. The thought has been a constantreproach to me. Gilbert, it would be better if we were both free; betterif you could leave England without any tie to weigh you down withanxieties when you are out yonder, and will have so much occasion forperfect freedom of mind. "

"Marian!"

"O, pray, pray don't think me ungrateful or unmindful of your goodness tome. I am only anxious for your happiness. I am not steady enough, orfixed enough, in my mind. I am not worthy of all the thought and care youhave given me. "

"Marian, have I done anything to forfeit your love?"

"O no, no. "

"Then why do you say these things to me? Do you want to break my heart?"

"Would it break your heart if I were to recall my promise, Gilbert?"

"Yes, Marian, " he answered gravely, drawing her suddenly to him, andlooking into her face with earnest scrutinising eyes; "but if you do notlove me, if you cannot love me--and God knows how happy I have been inthe belief that I had won your love long ago--let the word be spoken. Iwill bear it, my dear, I will bear it. "

"O no, no, " she cried, shocked by the dead whiteness of his face, andbursting into tears. "I will try to be worthy of you. I will try to loveyou as you deserve to be loved. It was only a fancy of mine that it wouldbe better for you to be free from all thoughts of me. I think it wouldseem very hard to me to lose your love. I don't think I could bear that, Gilbert. "

She looked up at him with an appealing expression through her tears--aninnocent, half-childish look that went to his heart--and he clasped herto his breast, believing that this proposal to set him free had beenindeed nothing more than a girlish caprice. 

"My dearest, my life is bound up with your love, " he said. "Nothing canpart us except your ceasing to love me. "

CHAPTER VII. 

"GOOD-BYE. "

The hour for the final parting came at last, and Gilbert Fenton turnedhis back upon the little gate by which he had watched Marian Nowellstanding upon that first summer Sunday evening which sealed his destiny. 

He left Lidford weary at heart, weighed down by a depression he hadvainly struggled against, and he brooded over his troubles all the wayback to town. It seemed as if all the hopes that had made life so sweetto him only a week ago had been swept away. He could not look beyond thatdreary Australian exile; he could not bring his thoughts to bear upon thetime that was to come afterwards, and which need be no less brightbecause of this delay. 

"She may die while I am away, " he thought. "O God, if that were tohappen! If I were to come back and find her dead! Such things have been;and men and women have borne them, and gone on living. "

He had one more duty to perform before he left England. He had to saygood-bye to John Saltram, whom he had not seen since they parted thatnight at Lidford. He could not leave England without some kind offarewell to his old friend, and he had reserved this last evening for theduty. 

He went to the Pnyx on the chance of finding Saltram there, and failingin that, ate his solitary dinner in the coffee-room. The waiters told himthat Mr. Saltram had not been at the club for some weeks. Gilbert did notwaste much time over his dinner, and went straight from the Pnyx to theTemple, where John Saltram had a second-floor in Figtree-court. 

Mr. Saltram was at home. It was his own sonorous voice which answeredGilbert's knock, bidding him enter with a muttered curse upon theinterruption by way of addendum. The room into which Mr. Fenton went uponreceiving this unpromising invitation was in a state of chaoticconfusion. An open portmanteau sprawled upon the floor, and a wholewardrobe of masculine garments seemed to have been shot at random on tothe chairs near it; a dozen soda-water bottles, full and empty, werehuddled in one corner; a tea-tray tottered on the extreme edge of a tableheaped with dusty books and papers; and at a desk in the centre of theroom, with a great paraffin lamp flaring upon his face as he wrote, satJohn Saltram, surrounded by fallen slips of copy, writing as if to win awager. 

"Who is it? and what do you want?" he asked in a husky voice, withoutlooking up from his paper or suspending the rapid progress of his pen. 

"Why, Jack, I don't think I ever caught you so hard at work before. "

John Saltram dropped his pen at the sound of his friend's voice and gotup. He gave Gilbert his hand in a mechanical kind of way. 

"No, I don't generally go at it quite so hard; but you know I have aknack of doing things against time. I have been giving myself a spell ofhard work in order to pick up a little cash for the children of Israel. "

He dropped back into his chair, and Gilbert took one opposite him. Thelamp shone full upon John Saltram's face as he sat at his desk; and afterlooking at him for a moment by that vivid light, Gilbert Fenton gave acry of surprise. 

"What is the matter, Gil?"

"You are the matter. You are looking as worn and haggard as if you'd hada long illness since I saw you last. I never remember you looking so ill. This kind of thing won't do, John. You'd soon kill yourself at thisrate. "

"Not to be done, my dear fellow. I am the toughest thing in creation. Ihave been sitting up all night for the last week or so, and that doesrather impair the freshness of one's complexion; but I assure youthere's nothing so good for a man as a week or two of unbroken work. Ihave been doing an exhaustive review of Roman literature for one of thequarterlies, and the subject involved a little more reading than I wasquite prepared for. "

"And you have really not been ill?"

"Not in the least. I am never ill. "

He pushed aside his papers, and sat with his elbow on the desk and hishead leaning on his hand, waiting for Gilbert to talk. He was evidentlyin one of those silent moods which were common to him at times. 

Gilbert told him of his Melbourne troubles, and of his immediatedeparture. The announcement roused him from his absent humour. He droppedhis arm from the table suddenly, and sat looking full at Gilbert with avery intent expression. 

"This is strange news, " he said, "and it will cause the postponement ofyour marriage, I suppose?"

"Unhappily, yes; that is unavoidable. Hard lines, isn't it, Jack?"

"Well, yes; I daresay the separation seems rather a hardship; but you areyoung enough to stand a few months' delay. When do you sail?"

"To-morrow. "

"So soon?"

"Yes. It is a case in which everything depends upon rapidity of action. Ileave Liverpool to-morrow afternoon. I came up from Lidford to-day onpurpose to spend a few farewell hours with you. And I have been thinking, Jack, that you might run down to Liverpool with me to-morrow, and see thelast of me, eh, old fellow?"

John Saltram hesitated, looking doubtfully at his papers. 

"It would be only a kind thing to do, Jack, and a wholesome change foryourself into the bargain. Anything would be better for you than beingshut up in these chambers another day. "

"Well, Gilbert, I'll go with you, " said Mr. Saltram presently with a kindof recklessness. "It is a small thing to do for friendship. Yes, I'll seeyou off, dear boy. Egad, I wish I could go to Australia with you. Iwould, if it were not for my engagements with the children and sundryother creditors. I think a new country might do me good. But there's nouse in talking about that. I'm bound hand and foot to the old one. "

"That reminds me of something I had to say to you, John. There must havebeen some reason for your leaving Lidford in that sudden way the otherday, and your note explained nothing. I thought you and I had no secretsfrom each other, It's scarcely fair to treat me like that. "

"The business was hardly worth explaining, " answered the other moodily. "A bill that I had forgotten for the time fell due just then, and Ihurried off to set things straight. "

"Let me help you somehow or other, Jack. "

"No, Gilbert; I will never suffer you to become entangled in thelabyrinth of my affairs. You don't know what a hopeless wilderness youwould enter if you were desperate enough to attempt my rescue. I havebeen past redemption for the last ten years, ever since I left Oxford. Nothing but a rich marriage will ever set me straight; and I sometimesdoubt if that game is worth the candle, and whether it would not bebetter to make a clean sweep of my engagements, offer up my name to theexecration of mankind and the fiery indignation of solventjournalists, --who would find subject for sensation leaders in myiniquities, --emigrate, and turn bushranger. A wild free life in thewilderness must be a happy exchange for all the petty worries andperplexities of this cursed existence. "

"And how about Mrs. Branston, John? By the way, I thought that she mighthave had something to do with your sudden journey to London. "

"No; she had nothing to do with it. I have not seen her since I came backfrom Lidford. "

"Indeed!"

"No. Your lecture had a potent effect, you see, " said Mr. Saltram, withsomething of a sneer. "You have almost cured me of that passion. "

"My opinion would have very little influence if you were far gone, John. The fact is, Mrs. Branston, pretty and agreeable as she may be, is notthe sort of woman to acquire any strong hold upon you. "

"You think not?"

"I am sure of it. "

After this John Saltram became more expansive. They sat together untillate in the night, talking chiefly of the past, old friends, andhalf-forgotten days; recalling the scenes through which they hadtravelled together with a pensive tenderness, and dwelling regretfullyupon that careless bygone time when life was fresh for both of them, andthe future seemed to lie across the straightest, easiest high-road toreputation and happiness. 

Gilbert spoke of that perilous illness of his in Egypt, the fever inwhich he had been given over by every one, and only saved at last by theexemplary care and devotion of his friend. John Saltram had a profoundobjection to this thing being talked about, and tried immediately tochange the drift of the conversation; but to-night Gilbert was not to bestopped. 

"You refuse the help of my purse, Jack, " he said, "and forget that I oweyou my life. I should never have been to the fore to navigate the goodship Fenton and Co. , if it hadn't been for your care. The doctor fellowat Cairo told me as much in very plain terms. Yes, John, I considermyself your debtor to the amount of a life. "

"Saving a man's life is sometimes rather a doubtful boon. I think if Ihad a fever, and some officious fool dragged me through it when I was ina fair way to make a decent end, I should be very savagely disposedtowards him. "

"Why, John Saltram, you are the last man in the world from whom I shouldexpect that dreary kind of talk. Yet I suppose it's only a naturalconsequence of shutting yourself up in these rooms for ten days at astretch. "

"What good use have I made of my life in the past, Gilbert?" demanded theother bitterly; "and what have I to look forward to in the future? Tomarry, and redeem my position by the aid of a woman's money. That'shardly the noblest destiny that can befall a man. And yet I think ifAdela Branston were free, and willing to marry me, I might make somethingof my life. I might go into Parliament, and make something of a name formyself. I could write books instead of anonymous articles. I shouldscarcely sink down into an idle mindless existence of dinner-giving anddinner-eating. Yes, I think the best thing that could happen to me wouldbe to marry Adela Branston. "

They parted at last, John Saltram having faithfully promised his friendto work no more that night, and they met at Euston Square early the nextmorning for the journey to Liverpool. Gilbert had never found hisfriend's company more delightful than on this last day. It seemed as ifJohn Saltram put away every thought of self in his perfect sympathy withthe thoughts and feelings of the traveller. They dined together, and itwas dusk when they wished each other good-bye on the deck of the vessel. 

"Good-bye, Gilbert, and God bless you! If--if anything should happen tome--if I should have gone to the bad utterly before you come back, youmust try to remember our friendship of the past. Think that I have lovedyou very dearly--as well as one man ever loved another, perhaps. "

"My dear John, you have no need to tell me to think that. Nothing canever weaken the love between us. And you are not likely to go to the bad. Good bye, dear old friend. I shall remember you every day of my life. Youare second only to Marian in my heart. I shall write you an account of myproceedings, and shall expect to hear from you. Once more, good bye. "

The bell rang. Gilbert Fenton and his friend shook hands in silence forthe last time, and in the next moment John Saltram ran down the steps tothe little steamer which had brought them out to the larger vessel. Thesails spread wide in the cool evening wind, and the mighty ship glidedaway into the dusk. John Saltram's last look showed him his friend's facegazing down upon him over the bulwarks full of trust and affection. 

He went back to London by the evening express, and reached his chambersat a late hour that night. There had been some attempt at tidying therooms in his absence; but his books and papers had been undisturbed. Someletters were lying on the desk, amongst them one in a big scrawling handthat was very familiar to Mr. Saltram, the envelope stamped "Lidford. " Hetore this open eagerly. It was from Sir David Forster. 

 "DEAR SALTRAM" (wrote the Baronet), --"What do you mean by this iniquitous conduct? You only obtained my consent to your hurried departure the other day on condition you should come back in a week, yet there are no signs of you. Foljambe and the lawyer are gone, and I am alone with Harker, whose stupidity is something marvellous. I am dying by inches of this dismal state of things. I can't tell the man to go, you see, for he is really a most worthy creature, although such a consummate fool. For pity's sake come to me. You can do your literary work down here as well as in London, and I promise to respect your laborious hours. --Ever yours, "DAVID FORSTER. "

John Saltram stood with this letter open in his hand, staring blankly atit, like a man lost in a dream. 

"Go back!" he muttered at last--"go back, when I thought I did such agreat thing in coming away! No, I am not weak enough for that folly. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

MISSING. 

On the 5th of July in the following year, Gilbert Fenton landed inEngland, after nearly ten months of exile. He had found hard work to doin the colonial city, and had done it; surmounting every difficulty by asteady resolute course of action. 

Astley Fenton had tried to shelter his frauds, heaping falsehood uponfalsehood; and had ended by making a full confession, after receiving hiscousin's promise not to prosecute. The sums made away with by himamounted to some thousands. Gilbert found that he had been leading a lifeof reckless extravagance, and was a notorious gambler. So there came anevening when after a prolonged investigation of affairs, Astley Fentonput on his hat, and left his cousin's office for ever. When Gilbert heardof him next, he was clerk to a bookseller in Sydney. 

The disentanglement of the Melbourne trading had occupied longer thanGilbert expected; and his exile had been especially dreary to him duringthe last two months he spent in Australia, from the failure of hisEnglish letters. The first two mails after his arrival had brought himletters from Marian and her uncle, and one short note from John Saltram. The mails that followed brought him nothing, and he was inexpressiblyalarmed and distressed by this fact. If he could by any possibility havereturned to England immediately after the arrival of the first mail whichbrought him no letter, he would have done so. But his journey would havebeen wasted had he not remained to complete the work of reorganization hehad commenced; so he stayed, sorely against the grain, hoping to get aletter by the next mail. 

That came, and with the same dispiriting result to Gilbert Fenton. Therewas a letter from his sister, it is true; but that was written fromSwitzerland, where she was travelling with her husband, and brought himno tidings of Marian. He tried to convince himself that if there had beenbad news, it must needs have come to him; that the delay was only theresult of accident, some mistake of Marian's as to the date of the mail. What more natural than that she should make such a mistake, at a placewith such deficient postal arrangements as those which obtained atLidford? But, argue with himself as he might, this silence of hisbetrothed was none the less perplexing to him, and he was a prey toperpetual anxiety during the time that elapsed before the sailing of thevessel that was to convey him back to England. 

Then came the long monotonous voyage, affording ample leisure for gloomythoughts, for shapeless fears in the dead watches of the night, when thesea washed drearily against his cabin window, and he lay broad awakecounting the hours that must wear themselves out before he could set footon English ground. As the time of his arrival drew nearer, his mind grewrestless and fitful, now full of hope and happy visions of his meetingwith Marian, now weighed down by the burden of some unspeakable terror. 

The day dawned at last, that sultry summer day, and Gilbert was amongstthose eager passengers who quitted the vessel at daybreak. 

He went straight from the quay to the railway-station, and the delay ofan hour which he had to endure here seemed almost interminable to him. Ashe paced to and fro the long platform waiting for the London express, hewondered how he had borne all the previous delay, how he had been ableto live through that dismal agonizing time. His own patience was amystery to him now that the ordeal was over. 

The express started at last, and he sat quietly in his corner trying toread a newspaper; while his fellow-travellers discussed the state oftrade in Liverpool, which seemed from their account to be as desperateand hopeless as the condition of all commerce appears invariably to bewhenever commercial matters come under discussion. Gilbert Fenton was notinterested in the Liverpool trade at this particular crisis. He knew thathe had weathered the storm which had assailed his own fortunes, and thatthe future lay clear and bright before him. 

He did not waste an hour in London, but went straight from one station toanother, and was in time to catch a train for Fairleigh, the stationnearest to Lidford. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when he arrivedat this place, and chartered a fly to take him over to Lidford--a lovelysummer afternoon. The sight of the familiar English scenery, looking soexquisite in its summer glory, filled him with a pleasure that was almostakin to pain. He had often walked this road with Marian; and as he drovealong he looked eagerly at every distant figure, half hoping to see hisdarling approach him in the summer sunlight. 

Mr. Fenton deposited his carpet-bag at the cosy village inn, wheresnow-white curtains fluttered gaily at every window in the warm westernbreeze, and innumerable geraniums made a gaudy blaze of scarlet againstthe wooden wall. He did not stop here to make any inquiries about thosehe had come to see. His heart was beating tumultuously in expectation ofthe meeting that seemed so near. He alighted from the fly, dismissed thedriver, and walked rapidly across a field leading by a short cut to thegreen on which Captain Sedgewick's house stood. This field brought him tothe side of the green opposite the Captain's cottage. He stopped for amoment as he came through the little wooden gate, and looked across thegrass, where a regiment of geese was marching towards the still pool ofwillow-shadowed water. 

The shutters of the upper rooms were closed, and there was a board abovethe garden-gate. The cottage was to be let. 

Gilbert Fenton's heart gave one great throb, and then seemed to ceasebeating altogether. He walked across the green slowly, stunned by thisunlooked-for blow. Yes, the house was empty. The garden, which heremembered in such exquisite order, had a weedy dilapidated look thatseemed like the decay of some considerable time. He rang the bell severaltimes, but there was no answer; and he was turning away from the gatewith the stunned confused feeling still upon him, unable to consider whathe ought to do next, when he heard himself called by his name, and saw awoman looking at him across the hedge of the neighbouring garden. 

"Were you wishing to make any inquiries about the last occupants of HazelCottage, sir?" she asked. 

"Yes, " Gilbert answered huskily, looking at her in an absent unseeingway. 

He had seen her often during his visits to the cottage, busy at work inher garden, which was much smaller than the Captain's, but he had neverspoken to her before to-day. 

She was a maiden lady, who eked out her slender income by letting a partof her miniature abode whenever an opportunity for so doing occurred. Thecare of this cottage occupied all her days, and formed the delight andglory of her life. It was a little larger than a good-sized doll's house, and furnished with spindle-legged chairs and tables that had beenpolished to the last extremity of brightness. 

"Perhaps you would be so good as to walk into my sitting-room for a fewmoments, sir, " said this lady, opening her garden-gate. "I shall be mosthappy to afford you any information about your friends. "

"You are very good, " said Gilbert, following her into the prim littleparlour. 

He had recovered his self-possession in some degree by this time, tellinghimself that this desertion of Hazel Cottage involved no more than achange of residence. 

"My name is Dodd, " said the lady, motioning Mr. Fenton to a chair, "MissLetitia Dodd. I had the pleasure of seeing you very often during yourvisits next door. I was not on visiting terms with Captain Sedgewick andMiss Nowell, although we bowed to each other out of doors. I am only atradesman's daughter--indeed my brother is now carrying on business as abutcher in Fairleigh--and of course I am quite aware of the difference inour positions. I am the last person to intrude myself upon my superiors. "

"If you will be so kind as to tell me where they have gone?" Gilbertasked, eager to stop this formal statement of Miss Dodd's socialstanding. 

"Where _they_ have gone!" she repeated. "Dear, dear! Then you do notknow----"

"I do not know what?"

"Of Captain Sedgewick's death. "

"Good God! My dear old friend! When did he die?"

"At the beginning of the year. It was very sudden--a fit of apoplexy. Hewas seized in the night, poor dear gentleman, and it was only discoveredwhen the servant went to call him in the morning. He only lived two daysafter the seizure; and never spoke again. "

"And Miss Nowell--what made her leave the cottage? She is still atLidford, I suppose?"

"O dear no, Mr. Fenton. She went away altogether about a month after theCaptain's death. "

"Where did she go?"

"I cannot tell you that, I did not even know that she intended leavingHazel Cottage until the day after she left. When I saw the shuttersclosed and the board up, you might have knocked me down with a feather. Miss Nowell was so much liked in Lidford, and she had more than oneinvitation from friends to stay with them for the sake of a change afterher uncle's death; but she would not visit anywhere. She stayed quitealone in the cottage, with only the old servant. "

"But there must surely be some one in the place who knows where she hasgone!" exclaimed Gilbert. 

"I think not. The landlord of Hazel Cottage does not know. He is mylandlord also, and I was asking him about Miss Nowell when I paid my rentthe other day. He said he supposed she had gone away to be married. Thathas been the general impression, in fact, at Lidford. People made surethat Miss Nowell had left to be married to you. "

"I have only just returned from Australia. I have come back to fulfil myengagement to Miss Nowell. Can you suggest no one from whom I am likelyto obtain information?"

"There is the family at the Rectory; they knew her very well, and wereextremely kind to her after her uncle's death. It might be worth yourwhile to call upon Mr. Marchant. "

"Yes, I will call, " Gilbert answered; "thanks for the suggestion. "

He wished Miss Dodd good-afternoon, and left her standing at the gate ofher little garden, watching him with profound interest as he walked awaytowards the village. There was a pleasing mystery in the affair, to themind of Miss Dodd. 

Gilbert Fenton went at once to the Rectory, although it was now pastseven o'clock. He had met Mr. And Mrs. Marchant several times, and hadvisited them with the Listers. 

The Rector was at home, sitting over his solitary glass of port by theopen window of his snug dining-room, looking lazily out at a group ofsons and daughters playing croquet on the lawn. He was surprised to seeMr. Fenton, but welcomed him with much cordiality. 

"I have come to you full of care, Mr. Marchant, " Gilbert began; "and thepressing nature of my business must excuse the lateness of my visit. "

"There is no occasion for any excuse. I am very glad to see you at thistime. Pray help yourself to some wine, there are clean glasses near you;and take some of those strawberries, on which my wife prides herselfamazingly. People who live in the country all their days are obliged togive their minds to horticulture. And now, what is this care of yours, Mr. Fenton? Nothing very serious, I hope. "

"It is very serious to me at present. I think you know that I am engagedto Miss Nowell. "

"Perfectly. I had imagined until this moment that you and she weremarried. When she left Lidford, I concluded that she had gone to staywith friends of yours, and that the marriage would, in all probability, take place at an early period, without any strict observance of etiquetteas to her mourning for her uncle. It was natural that we should thinkthis, knowing her solitary position. "

"Then you do not know where she went on leaving this place?"

"Not in the faintest degree. Her departure was altogether unexpected byus. My wife and daughters called upon her two or three times after theCaptain's death, and were even anxious that she should come here to stayfor a short time; but she would not do that. She seemed grateful, andtouched by their anxiety about her, but they could not bring her to talkof her future. "

"And she told them nothing of her intention to leave Lidford?"

"Not a word. "

This was all that Gilbert Fenton could learn. His interview with theRector lasted some time longer; but it told him nothing. Whom next couldhe question? He knew all Marian's friends, and he spent the next day incalling upon them, but with the same result; no one could tell him herreason for leaving Hazel Cottage, or where she had gone. 

There remained only one person whom he could question, and that was theold servant who had lived with Captain Sedgewick nearly all the time ofhis residence at Lidford, and whom Gilbert had conciliated by numerousgifts during his visits to Hazel Cottage. She was a good-humoured honestcreature, of about fifty, and had been devoted to the Captain and Marian. 

After a good deal of trouble, Gilbert ascertained that this woman had notaccompanied her young mistress when she left Lidford, but had takenservice in a grocer's family at Fairleigh. Having discovered this, Mr. Fenton set off immediately for the little market-town, on foot this time, and with his mind full of the days when he and Marian had walked this waytogether. 

He found the shop to which he had been directed--a roomy old-fashionedemporium in the High-street, sunk three or four feet below the level ofthe pavement, and approached by a couple of steps; a shop with a lowceiling, that was made lower by bunches of candles, hams, bacon, andother merchandise hanging from the massive beams that spanned it. Mr. Fenton, having duly stated his business, was shown into the grocer's bestparlour--a resplendent apartment, where there were more ornaments in theway of shell-and-feather flowers under glass shades, and Bohemian glassscent-bottles, than were consistent with luxurious occupation, and whereevery chair and sofa was made a perfect veiled prophet by enshroudingantimacassors. Here Sarah Down, the late Captain's servant, came to Mr. Fenton, wiping her hands and arms upon a spotless canvas apron, andgenerally apologetic as to her appearance. To this woman Gilbert repeatedthe question he had asked of others, with the same disheartening result. 

"The poor dear young lady felt the Captain's loss dreadfully; as well shemight, when they had been so fond of each other, " Sarah Down said, inanswer to one of Gilbert's inquiries. "I never knew any one grieve sodeeply. She wouldn't go anywhere, and she couldn't bear to see any onewho came to see her. She used to shut herself up in the Captain's roomday after day, kneeling by his bedside, and crying as if her heart wouldbreak. I have looked through the keyhole sometimes, and seen her there onher knees, with her face buried in the bedclothes. She didn't care totalk about him even to me, and I had hard work to persuade her to eat ordrink enough to keep life in her at this time. When the days were fine, Iused to try and get her to walk out a little, for she looked as white asa ghost for want of air; and after a good deal of persuasion, she did goout sometimes of an afternoon, but she wouldn't ask any one to walk withher, though there were plenty she might have asked--the young ladies fromthe Rectory and others. She preferred being alone, she told me, and I wasglad that she should get the air and the change anyhow. She brightened alittle after this, but very little. It was all of a sudden one day thatshe told me she was going away. I wanted to go with her, but she saidthat couldn't be. I asked her where she was going, and she told me, afterhesitating a little, that she was going to friends in London. I knew shehad been very fond of two young ladies that she went to school with atLidford, whose father lived in London; and I thought it was to theirhouse she was going. I asked her if it was, and she said yes. She madearrangements with the landlord about selling the furniture. He is anauctioneer himself, and there was no difficulty about that. The money wasto be sent to her at a post-office in London. I wondered at that, but shesaid it was better so. She paid every sixpence that was owing, and gaveme a handsome present over and above my wages; though I didn't want totake anything from her, poor dear young lady, knowing that there was verylittle left after the Captain's death, except the furniture, which wasn'tlikely to bring much. And so she went away about two days after she firstmentioned that she was going to leave Lidford. It was all very sudden, and I don't think she bade good-bye to any one in the place. She seemedquite broken down with grief in those two last days. I shall never forgether poor pale face when she got into the fly. "

"How did she go? From the station here?"

"I don't know anything about that, except that the fly came to thecottage for her and her luggage. I wanted to go to the station with her, to see her off, but she wouldn't let me. "

"Did she mention me during the time that followed Captain Sedgewick'sdeath?"

"Only when I spoke about you, sir. I used to try to comfort her, tellingher she had you still left to care for her, and to make up for him she'dlost. But she used to look at me in a strange pitiful sort of way, andshake her head. 'I am very miserable, Sarah, ' she would say to me; 'I amquite alone in the world now my dear uncle is gone, and I don't know whatto do. ' I told her she ought to look forward to the time when she wouldbe married, and would have a happy home of her own; but I could never gether to talk of that. "

"Can you tell me the name and address of her friends in London--the youngladies with whom she went to school?"

"The name is Bruce, sir; and they live, or they used to live at thattime, in St. John's-wood. I have heard Miss Nowell say that, but I don'tknow the name of the street or number of the house. "

"I daresay I shall be able to find them. It is a strange business, Sarah. It is most unaccountable that my dearest girl should have left Lidfordwithout writing me word of her removal and her intentions with regard tothe future--that she should have sent me no announcement of her uncle'sdeath, although she must have known how well I loved him, I am going toask you a question that is very painful to me, but which must be askedsooner or later. Do you know of any one else whom she may have likedbetter than me--any one whose influence may have governed her at the timeshe left Lidford?"

"No, indeed, sir, " replied the woman, promptly. "Who else was there? MissNowell knew so few gentlemen, and saw no one except the Rector's familyand two or three ladies after the uncle's death. "

"Not at the cottage, perhaps. But she may have seen some oneout-of-doors. You say she always went out alone at that time, andpreferred to do so. "

"Yes, sir, that is true. But it seemed natural enough that she shouldlike to be alone on account of her grief. "

"There must have been some reason for her silence towards me, Sarah. Shecould not have acted so cruelly without some powerful motive. Heaven onlyknows what it may have been. The business of my life will be to findher--to see her face to face once more, and hear the explanation of herconduct from her own lips. "

He thanked the woman for her information, slipped a sovereign into herhand, and departed. He called upon the proprietor of Hazel Cottage, anauctioneer, surveyor, and house-agent in the High-street of Fairleigh, but could obtain no fresh tidings from this gentleman, except the factthat the money realised by the Captain's furniture had been sent to MissNowell at a post-office in the City, and had been duly acknowledged byher, after a delay of about a week. The auctioneer showed Gilbert theletter of receipt, which was worded in a very formal business-likemanner, and bore no address but "London. " The sight of the familiar handgave him a sharp pang. O God, how he had languished for a letter in thathandwriting!

He had nothing more to do after this in the neighbourhood of Lidford, except to pay a pious visit to the Captain's grave, where a handsome slabof granite recorded the virtues of the dead. It lay in the prettiest, most retired part of the churchyard, half-hidden under a wide-spreadingyew. Gilbert Fenton sat down upon a low wall near at hand for a longtime, brooding over his broken life, and wishing himself at rest beneaththat solemn shelter. 

"She never loved me, " he said to himself bitterly. "I shut my eyesobstinately to the truth, or I might have discovered the secret of herindifference by a hundred signs and tokens. I fancied that a man wholoved a woman as I loved her must succeed in winning her heart at last. And I accepted her girlish trust in me, her innocent gratitude for myattentions, as the evidence of her love. Even at the last, when shewanted to release me, I would not understand. I did not expect to beloved as I loved her. I would have given so much, and been content totake so little. What is there I would not have done--what sacrifice of myown pride that I would not have happily made to win her! O my darling, even in your desertion of me you might have trusted me better than this!You would have found me fond and faithful through every trial, yourfriend in spite of every wrong. "

He knelt down by the grave, and pressed his lips to the granite on whichGeorge Sedgewick's name was chiselled. 

"I owe it to the dead to discover her fate, " he said to himself, as herose from that reverent attitude. "I owe it to the dead to penetrate thesecret of her new life, to assure myself that she is happy, and hasfallen under no fatal influence. "

The Listers were still abroad, and Gilbert was very glad that it was so. It would have excruciated him to hear his sister's comments on Marian'sconduct, and to perceive the suppressed exultation with which she wouldmost likely have discussed this unhappy termination to an engagementwhich had been entered on in utter disregard of her counsel. 

CHAPTER IX. 

JOHN SALTRAM'S ADVICE. 

Mr. Fenton discovered the Bruce family in Boundary-road, St. John's-wood, after a good deal of trouble. But they could tell him nothing of theirdear friend Miss Nowell, of whom they spoke with the warmest regard. Theyhad never seen her since they had left the school at Lidford, where theyhad been boarders, and she a daily pupil. They had not even heard ofCaptain Sedgewick's death. 

Gilbert asked these young ladies if they knew of any other acquaintanceof Marian's living in or near London. They both answered promptly in thenegative. The school was a small one, and they had been the only pupilswho came from town; nor had they ever heard Marian speak of any Londonfriends. 

Thus ended Mr. Fenton's inquiries in this direction, leaving him no wiserthan when he left Lidford. He had now exhausted every possible channel bywhich he might obtain information. The ground lay open before him, andthere was nothing left for him but publicity. He took an advertisement tothe _Times_ office that afternoon, and paid for six insertions in thesecond column:--

 "Miss MARIAN NOWELL, late of Lidford, Midlandshire, is requested to communicate immediately with G. F. , Post-office, Wigmore-street, to whom her silence has caused extreme anxiety. She may rely upon the advertiser's friendship and fidelity under all possible circumstances. "

Gilbert felt a little more hopeful after having done this. He fanciedthis advertisement must needs bring him some tidings of his lost love. The mystery might be happily solved after all, and Marian prove true tohim. He tried to persuade himself that this was possible; but it was verydifficult to reconcile her line of conduct with the fact of her regardfor him. 

In the evening he went to the Temple, eager to see John Saltram, fromwhom he had no intention to keep the secret of his trouble. He found hisfriend at home, writing, with his desk pushed against the open window, and the dust and shabbiness of his room dismally obvious in the hot Julysunshine. He started up as Gilbert entered, and the dark face grewsuddenly pale. 

"You took me by surprise, " he said. "I didn't know you were in England. "

"I only landed two days ago, " answered Gilbert, as they shook hands. "Idaresay I startled you a little, dear old fellow, coming in upon youwithout a moment's notice, when you fancied I was at the Antipodes. But, you see, I hunted you up directly I was free. "

"You have done well out yonder, I hope, Gilbert?"

"Yes; everything has gone well enough with me in business. But my cominghome has been a dreary one. "

"How is that?"

"Captain Sedgewick is dead, and Marian Nowell is lost. "

"Lost! What do you mean by that?"

Mr. Fenton told his friend all that had befallen him since his arrival inEngland. 

"I come to you for counsel and help, John, " he said, when he had finishedhis story. 

"I will give you my help, so far as it is possible for one man to helpanother in such a business, and my counsel in all honesty, " answered JohnSaltram; "but I doubt if you will be inclined to receive it. "

"Why should you doubt that?"

"Because it is not likely to agree with your own ideas. "

"Speak out, John. "

"I think that if Miss Nowell had really loved you, she would never havetaken this step. I think that she must have left Lidford in order toescape from her engagement, perhaps expecting your early return. Ibelieve your pursuit of her can only end in failure and disappointment;and although I am ready to assist you in any manner you wish, I warn youagainst sacrificing your life to a delusion. "

"It is not under the delusion that Marian Nowell loves me that I am goingto search for her, " Gilbert Fenton said slowly, after an interval ofsilence. "I am not so weak as to believe _that_ after what has happened, though I have tried to argue with myself, only this afternoon, that shemay still be true to me and that there may have been some hidden reasonfor her conduct. Granted that she wished to escape from her engagement, she might have trusted to my honour to give her a prompt release themoment I became acquainted with the real state of her feelings. Theremust have been some stronger influence than this at work when she leftLidford. I want to know the true cause of that hurried departure, John. Iwant to be sure that Marian Nowell is happy, and in safe hands. "

"By what means do you hope to discover this?"

"I rely a good deal upon repeated advertisements in the _Times_. They maybring me tidings of Marian--if not directly, from some person who hasseen her since she left Lidford. "

"If she really wished to hide herself from you, she would most likelychange her name. "

"Why should she wish to hide herself from me? She must know that shemight trust me. Of her own free will she would never do this cruel thing. There must have been some secret influence at work upon my darling'smind. It shall be my business to discover what that influence was; or, inplainer words still, to discover the man who has robbed me of MarianNowell's heart. "

"It comes to that, then, " said John Saltram. "You suspect some unknownrival?"

"Yes; that is the most natural conclusion to arrive at. And yet heavenknows how unwillingly I take that into consideration. "

"There is no particular person whom you suspect?"

"No one. "

"If there should be no result from your advertisement, what will you do?"

"I cannot tell you just yet. Unless I get some kind of clue, the businesswill seem a hopeless one. But I cannot imagine that the advertisementswill fail completely. If she left Lidford to be married, there must besome record of her marriage. Should my first advertisements fail, my nextshall be inserted with a view to discover such a record. "

"And if, after infinite trouble, you should find her the wife of anotherman, what reward would you have for your wasted time and lost labour?"

"The happiness of knowing her to be in a safe and honourable position. Ilove her too dearly to remain in ignorance of her fate. "

"Well, Gilbert, I know that good advice is generally thrown away in sucha case as this; but I have a fixed opinion on the subject. To my mind, there is only one wise course open to you, and that is, to let this thingalone, and resign yourself to the inevitable. I acknowledge that MissNowell was eminently worthy of your affection; but you know the oldsong--'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be. ' There areplenty of women in the world. The choice is wide enough. "

"Not for me, John. Marian Nowell is the only woman I have ever loved, theonly woman I ever can love. "

"My dear boy, it is so natural for you to believe that just now; and ayear hence you will think so differently!"

"No, John. But I am not going to mate any protestations of my constancy. Let the matter rest. I knew that my life is broken--that this blow hasleft me nothing to hope for or to live for, except the hope of findingthe girl who has wronged me. I won't weary you with lamentations. My talkhas been entirely of self since I came into this room. Tell me your ownaffairs, Jack, old friend. How has the world gone with you since weparted at Liverpool last year?"

"Not too smoothly. My financial position becomes a little more obscureand difficult of comprehension every year, as you know; but I rub onsomehow. I have been working at literature like a galley-slave; havecontributed no end of stuff to the Quarterlies; and am engaged upon abook, --yes Gil, positively a book, --which I hope may do great things forme if ever I can finish it. "

"Is it a novel?"

"A novel! no!" cried John Saltram, with a wry face; "it is the romanceof reality I deal with. My book is a Life of Jonathan Swift. He wasalways a favourite study of mine, you know, that brilliant, unprincipled, intolerant, cynical, irresistible, miserable man. Scott's biography seemsto me to give but a tame picture, and others are only sketches. Mine willbe a pre-Raphaelite study--faithful as a photograph, careful as aminiature on ivory, and life-size. "

"I trust it will bring you fame and money when the time comes, " answeredGilbert. "And how about Mrs. Branston? Is she as charming as ever?"

"A little more so, if possible. Poor old Michael Branston is dead--wentoff the hooks rather suddenly about a month ago. The widow looks amazinglypretty in her weeds. "

"And you will marry her, I suppose, Jack, as soon as her mourning isover?"

"Well, yes; it is on the cards, " John Saltram said, in an indifferenttone. 

"Why, how you say that! Is there any doubt as to the lady's fortune?"

"O no; that is all square enough. Michael Branston's will was in the_Illustrated London News_; the personalty sworn under a hundred andtwenty thousand, --all left to the widow, --besides real property--a housein Cavendish Square, the villa at Maidenhead, and a place nearLeamington. "

"It would be a splendid match for you, Jack. "

"Splendid, of course. An unprecedented stroke of luck for such a fellowas I. Yet I doubt very much if I am quite the man for that sort of life. I should be apt to fancy it a kind of gilded slavery, I think, Gil, andthere would be some danger of my kicking off the chains. "

"But you like Mrs. Branston, don't you, Jack?"

"Like her? Yes, I like her too well to deceive her. And she would expectdevoted affection from a second husband. She is full of romantic ideas, school-girl theories of life which she was obliged to nip in the bud whenshe went to the altar with old Branston, but which have burst into flowernow that she is free. "

"Have you seen her often since her husband's death?"

"Only twice;--once immediately after the funeral, and again yesterday. She is living in Cavendish Square just now. "

"I hope you will marry her. I should like to see you safe in smoothwater, and with some purpose in life. I should like to see you turn yourback upon the loneliness of these dreary chambers. "

"They are not very brilliant, are they? I don't know how many generationsof briefless barristers these chairs and tables have served. The roomshave an atmosphere of failure; but they suit me very well. I am notalways here, you know. I spend a good deal of my time in the country. "

"Whereabouts?"

"Sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another; wherever my truantfancy leads me. I prefer such spots as are most remote from the haunts ofmen, unknown to cockneys; and so long as there is a river within reach ofmy lodging, I can make myself tolerably happy with a punt and afishing-rod, and contrive to forget my cares. "

"You have not been to Lidford since I left England, I suppose?"

"Yes; I was at Heatherly a week or two in the winter. Poor old DavidForster would not let me alone until I went down to him. He was ill, andin a very dismal condition altogether, abandoned by the rest of hiscronies, and a close prisoner in the house which has so many painfulassociations for him. It was a work of charity to bear him company. "

"Did you see Captain Sedgewick, or Marian, while you were down there?"

"No. I should have liked to have called upon the kind old Captain; butForster was unconscionably exacting, --there was no getting away fromhim. "

Gilbert stepped with his friend until late that night, smoking anddrinking a mild mixture of brandy and soda-water, and talking of thethings that had been doing on this side of the globe while he had been onthe other. No more was said about Marian, or Gilbert's plans for thefuture. In his own mind that one subject reigned supreme, shutting outevery other thought; but h did not want to make himself a nuisance toJohn Saltram, and he knew that there are bounds to the endurance of whichfriendship is capable. 

The two friends seemed cheerful enough as they smoked their cigars in thesummer dusk, the quiet of the flagged court below rarely broken by apassing footfall. It was the pleasantest evening which Gilbert Fenton hadspent for a long time, in spite of the heavy burden on his mind, in spiteof the depressing view which Mr. Saltram took of his position. 

"Dear old John, " he said, as they shook hands at parting, "I cannot tellyou what a happiness it has been to me to see you again. We were neverseparated so long before since the day when I ate my first dinner atBalliol. "

The other seemed touched by this expression of regard, but disinclined tobetray his emotion, after the manner of Englishmen on such occasions. 

"My dear Gilbert, it ought to be very pleasant to me to hear that. But Idoubt if I am worthy of so much. As far as my own liking for you goes, there is no inequality between us; but you are a better fellow than I amby a long way, and are not likely to profit much in the long-run by yourfriendship for a reprobate like me. "

"That's all nonsense, John. That kind of vague self-accusation meansnothing. I have no doubt I shall live to see you a great man, and to beproud enough of being able to claim you as the chosen friend of my youth. Mr. Branston's death has cleared the way for you. The chances of adistinguished future are within your grasp. "

"The chances within my grasp! Yes. My dear Gilbert, I tell you there aresome men for whom everything in this world comes too late. "

"What do you mean by that?"

"Only that I doubt if you will ever see me Adela Branston's husband. "

"I can't understand you, John. "

"My dear fellow, there is nothing strange in that. There are times when Icannot understand myself. "

CHAPTER X. 

JACOB NOWELL. 

The days went by, and brought Gilbert Fenton no reply to hisadvertisement. He called at the post-office morning and evening, only tofind the same result; and a dull blank feeling, a kind of deadness ofheart and mind, began to steal over him with the progress of the days. He went through the routine of his business-life steadily enough, workingas hard as he had ever worked; but it was only by a supreme effort thathe could bring his mind to bear upon the details of business--allinterest in his office-work was gone. 

The advertisement had appeared for the sixth time, and Gilbert had frameda second, offering a reward of twenty pounds for any direct evidence ofthe marriage of Marian Nowell; when a letter was handed to him oneevening at the post-office--a letter in a common blue envelope, directedin a curious crabbed hand, and bearing the London post-mark. 

His heart beat loud and fast as he tore open this envelope It containedonly a half-sheet of paper, with these words written upon it in thecramped half-illegible hand which figured on the outside:

"The person advertising for Marian Nowell is requested to call at No. 5, Queen Anne's Court, Wardour Street, any evening after seven. "

This was all. Little as this brief note implied, however, Gilbert madesure that the writer must be in a position to give him some kind ofinformation about the object of his search. It was six o'clock when hereceived the communication. He went from the post-office to his lodgingswith his mind in a tumult of excitement, made a mere pretence of taking ahasty dinner, and set off immediately afterwards for Wardour Street. 

There was more than time for him to walk, and he hoped that the walkmight have some effect in reducing the fever of his mind. He did not wantto present himself before strangers--who, no doubt, only wanted to make abarter of any knowledge they possessed as to Marian's whereabouts--in astate of mental excitement. The address to which he was going mystifiedhim beyond measure. What could people living in such a place as this knowof her whom he sought?

He was in Wardour Street at a quarter before seven, but he hadconsiderable trouble in finding Queen Anne's Court, and the clocks of theneighbourhood were striking the hour as he turned into a narrow alleywith dingy-looking shops on one side and a high dead wall on the other. The gas was glimmering faintly in the window of No. 5, and a good deal ofold silver, tarnished and blackened, huddled together behind thewire-guarded glass, was dimly visible in the uncertain light. There wassome old jewellery too, and a little wooden bowl of sovereigns or goldcoins of some kind or other. 

On a brass plate upon the door of this establishment there appeared thename of Jacob Nowell, silversmith and money-changer. 

Gilbert Fenton stared in amazement at this inscription. It must needs besome relative of Marian's he was about to see. 

He opened the door, bewildered a little by this discovery, and a shrillbell gave notice of his entrance to those within. A tall lanky young man, with a sallow face and sleek black hair, emerged quickly from some doorin the obscure background, and asked in a sharp voice what the visitorpleased to want. 

"I wish to see Mr. Nowell, the writer of a letter addressed to thepost-office in Wigmore Street. "

The sallow-faced young man disappeared without a word, leaving Gilbertstanding in the dimly lighted shop, where he saw more old silver crowdedupon shelves behind glass doors, carved ebony cabinets looming out of thedusk, and here and there an old picture in a tarnished frame. On thecounter there was a glass case containing foreign bank-notes and gold, some curious old watches, and other trinkets, a baby's coral, a batteredsilver cup, and a gold snuff-box. 

While Gilbert waited thus he heard voices in a room at the back--theshrill tones of the sallow young man and a feeble old voice raisedquerulously--and then, after a delay which seemed long to his impatience, the young man reappeared and told him Mr. Nowell was ready to see him. 

Gilbert went into the room at the end of the shop--a small dark parlour, more crowded with a heterogeneous collection of plate, pictures, andbric-a-brac of all kinds than the shop itself. Sultry as the July eveningwas, there was a fire burning in the pinched rusty grate, and over thisfire the owner of the room bent affectionately, with his slippered feeton the fender, and his bony hands clasping his bony knees. 

He was an old man, with long yellowish-white hair streaming from beneatha velvet skull-cap, and bright black eyes deep set in a pale thin face. His nose was a sharp aquiline, and gave something of a bird-like aspectto a countenance that must once have been very handsome. He was wrappedin a long dressing-gown of some thick grey woollen stuff. 

The sallow-faced young man lingered by the half-glass door between theparlour and the shop, as if he would fain have remained a witness to theinterview about to take place between his master and the stranger; butthe old man looked round at him sharply, and said, --

"That will do, Tulliver; you can go back to the shop. If Abrahams bringsthat little lot again to-night, tell him I'll give five-and-nine anounce, not a fraction more. "

Mr. Tulliver retired, leaving the door ajar ever so little; but thepenetrating black eyes of the master were quick to perceive thismanoeuvre. 

"Will you be so good as to shut that door, sir, quite securely?" he saidto Gilbert. "That young man is very inquisitive; I'm afraid I've kept himtoo long. People talk of old servants; but half the robberies in theworld are committed by old servants. Be seated, if you please, sir. Youfind this room rather close, perhaps. Some people do; but I'm old andchilly, and I can't live without a fire. "

"I have come to you in great anxiety of mind, " said Gilbert, as he seatedhimself upon the only disengaged chair in the room, "and with some hopethat you may be able to set my mind at ease by affording me informationabout Miss Marian Nowell. "

"I can give you no information about her. "

"Indeed!" cried Gilbert, with a bitter pang of disappointment; "and yetyou answered my advertisement. "

"I did, because I have some reason to suppose this Marian Nowell may bemy granddaughter. "

"That is quite possible. "

"Can you tell me her father's name?"

"Percival Nowell. Her mother was a Miss Lucy Geoffry. "

"Right, " said the old man. "Percival Nowell was my only son--my onlychild of late years. There was a girl, but she died early. He was my onlyson, and his mother and I were foolish enough to be proud of his goodlooks and his clever ways; and we brought him up a gentleman, sent him toan expensive school, and after that to the University, and pinchedourselves in every way for his sake. My father was a gentleman; and itwas only after I had failed as a professional man, through circumstanceswhich I need not explain to you now, that I took to this business. Iwould have made any sacrifice in reason for that boy of mine. I wantedhim to be a gentleman, and to make his way in one of the learnedprofessions. After a great deal of chopping and changing, he fixed uponthe Bar, took chambers in the Temple, made me pay all the fees, andpretended to study. But I soon found that he was leading a wilddissipated life, and was never likely to be good for anything. He gotinto debt, drew bills upon me, and behaved altogether in a most shamefulmanner. When I sent for him, and remonstrated with him upon hisdisgraceful conduct, he told me that I was a miser, that I spent my lifein a dog-kennel for the sake of hoarding money, and that I deservednothing better than his treatment of me. I may have been better off atthis time than I had cared to let him know, for I had soon found out whata reckless scoundrel I had to deal with; but if he had behaved decently, he would have found me generous and indulgent enough. As it was, I toldhim to go about his business, and never to expect another sixpence fromme as long as he lived. How he managed to exist after this, I hardlyknow. He was very much mixed up with a disreputable lot of turf-men, andI believe he made money by betting. His mother robbed me for him, I foundout afterwards, and contrived to send him a good deal of money at oddtimes. My business as a dealer in second-hand silver was better then thanit is now, and I had had so much money passing through my hands that itwas pretty easy for my wife to cheat me. Poor soul! she has been dead andgone these fifteen years, and I have freely forgiven her. She loved thatyoung man to distraction. If he had wanted a step to reach the object ofhis wishes, she would have laid herself down in the dust and let him walkover her body. I suppose it is in the nature of mothers to love theirsons like that. Well, sir, I never saw my gentleman after that day. I hadplenty of letters from him, all asking for money; threatening letters, pitiful letters, letters in which he swore he would destroy himself if hedidn't receive a remittance by return of post; but I never sent him ashilling. About a year after our last meeting, I received theannouncement of his marriage with Miss Geoffry. He wrote to tell me that, if I would allow him a decent income, he would reform and lead a steadylife. That letter I did answer: to the effect that, if he chose to comehere and act as my shopman, I would give him board and lodging forhimself and his wife, and such wages as he should deserve. I told himthat I had given him his chance as a gentleman, and he had thrown itaway. I would give him the opportunity now of succeeding in a humblercareer by sheer industry and perseverance as I had succeeded myself. Ifhe thought that I had made a fortune, there was so much the more reasonfor him to try his luck. This was the last letter I ever wrote to him. Itwas unanswered; but about a year and a half afterwards there came a fewlines to his mother, telling her of the birth of a daughter, which was tobe called Marian, after her. This last letter came from Brussels. "

"And did you hear no more of your son after this?" Gilbert asked. 

"Nothing. I think his mother used to get letters from him in secret forsome time; that these failed suddenly at last; and that anxiety about herworthless son--anxiety which she tried to hide from me--shortened herlife. She never complained, poor soul! never mentioned Percy's name untilthe last, when she begged me to be kind to him if he should ever come tothrow himself upon my kindness. I gave her my promise that, if that cameto pass, he should find me a better friend to him than he deserved. It ishard to refuse the last prayer of a faithful wife who has done her dutypatiently for nearly thirty years. "

"Have you any reason to suppose your son still living?"

"I have no evidence of his death. Often and often, after my poor wife wasgone, I have sat alone here of a night thinking of him; thinking that hemight come in upon me at any moment; almost listening for his footstep inthe quiet of the place. But he never came. He would have found me verysoft-hearted at such times. My mind changed to him a good deal after hismother's death. I used to think of him as he was in his boyhood, whenMarian and I had such great hopes of him, and would sit and talk of himfor hours together by this fireside. An old man left quite alone as I washad plenty of time for such thoughts. Night after night I have fancied Iheard his step, and have looked up at that door expecting to see him openit and come in; but he never came. He may be dead. I suppose he is dead;or he would have come to make another attempt at getting money out ofme. "

"You have never taken any measures for finding him?" inquired Gilbert. 

"No. If he wanted me, he knew where I was to be found. _I_ was a fixture. It was his business to come to me. When I saw the name of Marian Nowellin your advertisement a week ago, I felt curious to know whether it couldbe my grandchild you were looking for. I held off till this morning, thinking it wasn't worth my while to make any inquiries about the matter;but I couldn't get it out of my head somehow; and it ended by myanswering your advertisement. I am an old man, you see, without acreature belonging to me; and it might be a comfort to me to meet withsome one of my own flesh and blood. The bit of money I may leave behindme when I die won't be much; but it might as well go to my son's child asto a stranger. "

"If your son's child can be found, you will discover her to be wellworthy of your love. Yes, though she has done me a cruel wrong, I believeher to be all that is good and pure and true. "

"What is the wrong that she has done you?"

Gilbert told Jacob Nowell the story of his engagement, and the bitterdisappointment which had befallen him on his return from Australia. Theold man listened with every appearance of interest. He approved ofGilbert's notion of advertising for the particulars of a possiblemarriage, and offered to bear his part in the expenses of the search forhis granddaughter. 

Gilbert smiled at this offer. 

"You do not know what a worthless thing money is to me now, " he said, "ornow lightly I hold my own trouble or loss in this matter. "

He left Queen Anne's Court soon after this, after having promised JacobNowell to return and report progress so soon as there should be anythingworth telling. He went back to Wigmore Street heavy-hearted, depressed bythe reaction that followed the vain hope which the silversmith's letterhad inspired. It mattered little to him to know the antecedents ofMarian's father, while Marian's destiny remained still hidden from him. 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE MARRIAGE AT WYGROVE. 

On the following day Gilbert Fenton took his second advertisement to theoffice in Printing House Square; an advertisement offering a reward oftwenty pounds for any reliable information as to the marriage of MarianNowell. A week went by, during which the advertisement appeared onalternate days; and at the end of that time there came a letter from theparish-clerk of Wygrove, a small town about forty miles farther fromLondon than Lidford, stating that, on the 14th of March, John Holbrookand Marian Nowell had been married at the church in that place. GilbertFenton left London by an early train upon the morning after his receiptof this letter; and at about three o'clock in the afternoon found himselfon the outskirts of Wygrove, rather a difficult place to reach, involvinga good deal of delay at out-of-the-way junctions, and a six-mile journeyby stage-coach from the nearest station. 

It was about the dullest dreariest little town to which his destiny hadever brought Gilbert Fenton, consisting of a melancholy high-street, witha blank market-place, and a town hall that looked as if it had not beenopened within the memory of man; a grand old gothic church, much toolarge for the requirements of the place; a grim square brick boxinscribed "Ebenezer;" and a few prim villas straggling off into thecountry. 

On one side of the church there was a curious little old-fashioned court, wonderfully neat and clean, with houses the parlours whereof were sunkbelow the level of the pavement, after the manner of these old places. There was a great show of geraniums in the casements, and a generalaspect of brightness and order distinguished all these modest dwellings. It was to this court that Mr. Fenton had been directed on inquiring forThomas Stoneham, the parish-clerk, at the inn where the coach depositedhim. He was fortunate enough to find Mr. Stoneham sunning himself on thethreshold of his domicile, smoking an after-dinner pipe. A pleasantclattering of tea-things sounded from the neat little parlour within, showing that, early as it was, there were already preparations for thecup which cheers without inebriating in the Stoneham household. 

Thomas Stoneham, supported by a freshly-painted door of a vivid green andan extensive brass plate engraved with his name and functions, was apersonage of some dignity. He was a middle-aged man, ponderous and slowof motion, with a latent pomposity, which he rendered as agreeable aspossible by the urbanity of his manners. He was a man of a lofty spirit, who believed in his office as something exalted above all other dignitiesof this earth--less lucrative, of course, than a bishopric or thewoolsack, and of a narrower range, but quite as important on a smallscale. "The world might get on pretty well without bishops, " thought Mr. Stoneham, when he pondered upon these things as he smoked hischurchwarden pipe; "but what would become of a parish in which there wasno clerk?"

This gentleman, seeing Gilbert Fenton approach, was quick to surmise thatthe stranger came in answer to the letter he had written the day before. The advent of a stranger in Wygrove was so rare an occurrence, that itwas natural enough for him to jump at this conclusion. 

"I believe you are Mr. Stoneham, " said Gilbert, "and the writer of aletter in answer to an advertisement in the _Times_. "

"My name is Stoneham, sir; I am the clerk of this parish, and have beenfor twenty years and more, as I think I may have stated in the letter towhich you refer. Will you be so kind as to step inside?"

Mr. Stoneham waved his hand towards the parlour, to which apartmentGilbert descended. Here he found Mrs. Stoneham, a meek littlesandy-haired woman, who seemed to be borne down by the weight of herlord's dignity; and Miss Stoneham, also meek and sandy, with a great manystiff little corkscrew ringlets budding out all over her head and a sharplittle inquiring nose. 

These ladies would have retired on Gilbert's entrance, but he begged themto remain; and after a good deal of polite hesitation they consented todo so, Mrs. Stoneham resuming her seat before the tea-tray, and MissStoneham retiring to a little table by the window, where she was engagedin trimming a bonnet. 

"I want to know all about this marriage, Mr. Stoneham, " Gilbert began, when he had seated himself in a shining mahogany arm-chair by the emptyfire-place. "First and foremost, I want you to tell me where Mr. And Mrs. Holbrook are now living. "

The parish-clerk shook his head with a stately slowness. 

"Not to be done, sir, " he said: "when Mr. And Mrs. Holbrook left herethey went the Lord knows where. They went away the very day they weremarried. There was a fly waiting for them at the church-door, with theirluggage upon it, when the ceremony was over, ready to drive them toGrangewick station. I saw them get into it and drive away; and that'severy mortal thing that I know as to what became of them after they weremarried in yonder church. "

"You don't know who this Mr. Holbrook is?"

"No more than the babe unborn, sir. He was a stranger in this place, wasonly here long enough to get the license for his marriage. I should takehim to be a gentleman; but he wasn't a pleasant person to speakto--rather stand-off-ish in his manners. He wasn't the sort of man Ishould have chosen if I'd been a pretty young woman like Miss Nowell; butthere's no accounting for taste, and she seemed uncommonly fond of him. Inever saw any one more agitated than she was when they were married. Shewas crying in a quiet way all through the service, and when it was overshe fainted dead-off. I daresay it did seem hard to her to be marriedlike that, without so much as a friend to give her away. She was inmourning, too, deep mourning. "

"Can you give me any description of this man--this Mr. Holbrook?"

"Well, no, sir: he was an ordinary kind of person to look at; might beany age between thirty and forty; not a gentleman that I should havetaken a fancy to myself, as I said before; but young women are thatwayward and uncertain like, there's no knowing where to have them. "

"Was Miss Nowell long at Wygrove before her marriage?"

"About three weeks. She lodged with Miss Long, up the town, a friend ofmy daughter's. If you'd like to ask any questions of Miss Long, ourJemima might step round there with you presently. "

"I should be very glad to do so, " Gilbert answered quickly. He askedseveral more questions; but Mr. Stoneham could give him no information, except as to the bare fact of the marriage. Gilbert knew now that thegirl he had so fondly loved and so entirely trusted was utterly lost tohim; that he had been jilted cruelly and heartlessly, as he could but ownto himself. Yes, she had jilted him--had in all probability never lovedhim. He blamed himself for having urged his suit too ardently, withlittle reference to Marian's own feelings, with a rooted obstinateconviction that he needed only to win her in order to insure thehappiness of both. 

Having fully proved Mr. Stoneham's inability to afford him any furtherhelp in this business, Gilbert availed himself of the fair Jemima'swillingness to "step round" to Miss Long's domicile with him, in the hopeof obtaining fuller information from that lady. While Miss Stoneham wasengaged in putting on her bonnet for this expedition, the clerk proposedto take Gilbert across to the church and show him the entry of themarriage in the register. "With a view to the satisfactory settlement ofthe reward, " Mr. Stoneham added in a fat voice, and with the air of a manto whom twenty pounds more or less was an affair of very little moment. 

Gilbert assented to this, and accompanied Mr. Stoneham to a littleside-door which admitted them into the old church, where the light shonedimly through painted windows, in which there seemed more leadenframework than glass. The atmosphere of the place was cold even on thissultry July afternoon, and the vestry to which Mr. Stoneham conducted hiscompanion had a damp mouldy smell. 

He opened a cupboard, with a good deal of jingling of a great bunch ofkeys, and produced the register; a grim-looking volume bound in dingyleather, and calculated to inspire gloomy feelings in the minds of thebridegrooms and brides who had occasion to inscribe their names therein;a volume upon which the loves and the graces who hover around theentrance to the matrimonial state had shed no ray of glamour. 

Thomas Stoneham laid this book before Gilbert, open at the page on whichMarian's marriage was recorded. Yes, there was the familiar signature inthe fair flowing hand he had loved so well. It was his Marian, and noother, whom John Holbrook had married in that gloomy old church. 

The signature of the bridegroom was in a stiff straight hand, all theletters formed with unusual precision, as if the name had been written ina slow laboured way. 

Who could this John Holbrook be? Gilbert was quite certain that he hadnever heard the name at Lidford, nor could he believe that if anyattachment between this man and Marian Nowell had existed before his ownacquaintance with her, Captain Sedgewick would have been so dishonourableas to keep the fact a secret from him. This John Holbrook must needs, therefore, be some one who had come to Lidford during Gilbert's absencefrom England; yet Sarah Down had been able to tell him of no new visitorat Hazel Cottage. 

He copied the record of the marriage on a leaf in his pocket-book, paidMr. Stoneham a couple of ten-pound notes, and left the church. Theclerk's daughter was waiting for him in the little court outside, andthey went at once to the house where Miss Nowell had lodged during herresidence at Wygrove. 

It was a house in a neat little terrace on the outskirts of the town; ahouse approached by a flight of steep stone steps of spotless purity, anda half-glass door, which opened at once into a bright airy-lookingparlour, faintly perfumed with rose-leaves and lavender mouldering in thechina vases on the mantelpiece. Here Gilbert was introduced to Miss Long, a maiden lady of uncertain age, who wore stiff bands of suspiciouslyblack hair under an imposing structure of lace and artificial flowers, and a rusty black-silk dress, the body of which fitted so tightly as toseem like a kind of armour. This lady received Mr. Fenton verygraciously, and declared herself quite ready to give him any informationin her power about Miss Nowell. 

It happened unfortunately, however, that her power was of a most limitedextent. 

"A sweeter young lady never lived than Miss Nowell, " she said. "I've hada great many people occupying these apartments since my father's deathleft me thrown upon my own resources. I've had lodgers that I might callpermanent, in a manner of speaking; but I never had any one that I tookto as I took to Miss Nowell, though she was hardly with me three weeksfrom first to last. "

"Did she seem happy in her mind during that time?" Gilbert asked. 

"Well, no; I cannot say that she did. I should have expected to see ayoung lady that was going to be married to the man she loved much morecheerful and hopeful about the future than Miss Nowell was. She told methat her uncle had not been dead many weeks, and I thought at first thatthis was the only grief she had on her mind; but after some time, when Ifound her very low and downhearted, and had won upon her to trust mealmost as if I had been an old friend, she owned to me that she hadbehaved very badly to a gentleman she had been engaged to, and that thethought of her wickedness to him preyed upon her mind. 'I don't think anygood can ever come of my marriage, Miss Long, ' she said to me; 'I think Imust surely be punished for my falsehood to the good man who loved me sotruly. But there are some things in life that seem like fate. They comeupon us in a moment, and we have no strength to fight against them. Ibelieve it was my fate to love John Holbrook. There is nothing in thisworld I could refuse to do for his sake. If he had asked me for my life, I must have given it to him as freely as I gave him my love. From thefirst hour in which I saw him he was my master. '"

"This Mr. Holbrook was very fond of her, I suppose?"

"I daresay he was, sir; but he was not a man that showed his feelingsvery much. They used to go for long walks together, though it was Marchand cold windy weather, and she always seemed happier when he brought herhome. He came every evening to drink tea with her, and I used to hearthem talking as I sat at work in the next room. She was happy enough whenhe was with her. It was only when she was alone that she would give wayto low spirits and gloomy thoughts about the future. "

"Did she ever tell you anything about Mr. Holbrook--his position orprofession? how long she had known him? how and where they had firstmet?"

"No, sir. She told me once that he was not rich; I think that is aboutall she ever said of him, except when she spoke of his influence overher, and her trust in him. "

"Have you any idea where they were going to live after their marriage?"

"I cannot tell you the name of the place. Miss Nowell said that a friendof Mr. Holbrook's was going to lend him an old farm-house in a verypretty part of the country. It would be very lonely, she said, and herhusband would have sometimes to leave her to attend to his business inLondon; but she would not mind that. 'Some day, I daresay, he will let melive in London with him, ' she said; 'but I don't like to ask him thatyet. '"

"Did she drop no hint as to the whereabouts of this place to which theywere going?"

"It was somewhere in Hampshire; that is all I can remember. "

"I would give a great deal to know more, " Gilbert said with a sigh. "Inwhat manner did this Mr. Holbrook impress you? You were interested in theyoung lady, and would therefore naturally be interested in her lover. Didhe strike you as worthy of her?"

"_I_ cannot say that he did, sir, " Miss Long answered doubtfully. "Icould see that he had great power over her, though his manner to her wasalways very gentle; but I cannot say that I took to him myself. I daresayhe is a very clever man; but he had a cold proud way that kept one at adistance from him, and I seemed to know no more of him at the last than Ihad known on the first day I saw him. I believe he loved Miss Nowell, andthat's about all the good I do believe of him. "

After this, there was no more to be asked of Miss Long; so Gilbertthanked her for her civility, and bade good evening at once to her and toMiss Stoneham. There was time for him to catch the last coach toGrangewick station. He determined upon going from Grangewick to Lidford, instead of returning to London. He wanted, if possible, to find outsomething more about this man Holbrook, who must surely have been knownto some one at Lidford during his secret courtship of Marian Nowell. 

He wasted two days at Lidford, making inquiries on this subject, in asquiet a manner as possible and in every imaginable quarter; but withoutthe slightest result. No one either at Lidford or Fairleigh had everheard of Mr. Holbrook. 

Gilbert's last inquiries were made in a singular direction. Afterexhausting every likely channel of information, he had a few hours leftbefore the departure of the fast train by which he had determined toreturn to London; and this leisure he devoted to a visit to HeatherlyPark, in the chance of finding Sir David Forster at home. It was justpossible that Mr. Holbrook might be one of Sir David's innumerablebachelor acquaintances. 

Gilbert walked from Lidford to Heatherly by that romantic woodland pathby which he had gone with Marian and her uncle on the bright Septemberafternoon when he first saw Sir David's house. The solitary walk awakenedvery bitter thoughts; the memory of those hopes which had then made thesunshine of his life, and without which existence seemed a wearypurposeless journey across a desert land. 

Sir David was at home, the woman at the lodge told him; and he went on tothe house, and rang a great clanging bell, which made an alarming clamourin the utter stillness of the place. 

A gray-haired old servant answered the summons, and ushered Gilbert intothe state drawing-room, an apartment with a lofty arched roof, eight longwindows, and a generally ecclesiastical aspect, which was more suggestiveof solemn grandeur than of domestic comfort. 

Here Gilbert waited for about ten minutes, at the end of which time theman returned, to request that he would be so kind as to go to Sir David'sstudy. His master was something of an invalid, the man told Gilbert. 

They went through the billiard-room to a very snug little apartment, withdark-panelled walls and one large window opening upon a rose-garden onthe southern side of the house. There was a ponderous carved-oak bookcaseon one side of the room; on all the others the paraphernalia ofsporting--gunnery and fishing-tackle, small-swords, whips, andboxing-gloves--artistically arranged against the panelling; and over themantelpiece an elaborate collection of meerschaum pipes. Through ahalf-open door Gilbert caught a glimpse of a comfortable bedchamberleading out of this room. 

Sir David was sitting on a low easy-chair near the window, with one legsupported on a luxuriously-cushioned rest, invented for the relief ofgouty subjects. Although not yet forty, the baronet was a chronicsufferer from this complaint. 

"My dear Mr. Fenton, how good of you to come to me!" he exclaimed, shaking hands very cordially with Gilbert. "Here I am, laid by the heelsin this dreary old place, and quite alone. You can't imagine what a treatit is to see a friendly intelligent face from the outer world. "

"The purpose of my visit is such a purely selfish one, that I am reallyashamed to receive such a kindly greeting, Sir David. If I had known youwere here and an invalid, I should have gladly come to see you; but Ididn't know it. I have been at Lidford on a matter of business for thelast two days; and I came here on the hazard of finding you, and with afaint hope that you might be able to give me some help in an affairwhich is supremely important to me. "

Sir David Forster looked at Gilbert Fenton curiously for a moment, andthen took up an empty meerschaum that lay upon a little table near him, and began to fill it with a thoughtful air. Gilbert had dropped into anarm-chair on the opposite side of the open window, and was watching thebaronet's face, puzzled a little by that curious transient expressionwhich had just flitted across it. 

"What is the business?" Sir David asked presently; "and how can I be ofuse to you?"

"I think you knew all about my engagement to Miss Nowell, when I was herelast September, Sir David, " Gilbert began presently. 

"Yes, Saltram told me you were engaged; not but what it was easy enoughto see how the land lay, without any telling. "

"Miss Nowell has jilted me. I love her too dearly to be able to entertainany vindictive feeling against her; but I do feel vindictively disposedtowards the man who has robbed me of her, for I know that only a verypowerful influence would have induced her to break faith with me; andthis man must needs have known the dishonourable thing he was doing whenhe tempted her away from me. I want to know who he is, Sir David, and howhe came to acquire such an influence over my plighted wife. "

"My dear Fenton, you are going on so fast! You say Miss Nowell has jiltedyou. She is married to some one else, then, I suppose?"

"She is married to a Mr. Holbrook. I came to Lidford the night beforelast, with the hope of finding out something about him; but all myendeavours have resulted in failure. It struck me at last, as a kind offorlorn hope, that this Mr. Holbrook might possibly be one of yourautumnal visitors; and I came here to ask you that question. "

"No, " answered the baronet; "I have had no visitor called Holbrook. Isthe name quite strange to yourself?"

"Entirely strange. "

"And this Mr. Holbrook is now Miss Nowell's husband? and you want to knowwho he is? With what end?"

"I want to find the man who has done me the deadliest wrong one man cando another. "

"My dear fellow, don't you see that it is fate, and not Mr. Holbrook, that has done you this wrong? If Miss Nowell had really loved you as sheought to have loved you, it would have been quite impossible for her tobe tempted away from you. It was her destiny to marry this Holbrook, relyupon it; and had you been on the spot to protect your own interests, theresult would have been just the same. Believe me, I am very sorry foryou, and can fully sympathise with your feelings in this business; but Icannot see what good could possibly arise out of a meeting between youand your fortunate rival. The days of duelling are past; and even if itwere not so, I think you are too generous to seek to deprive Miss Nowellof her husband. "

"I do not know about that. There are some wrongs which all a man'sChristianity is not wide enough to cover. I think if that man andI were to meet, there would be very little question of mercy on myside. I hold a man who could act as he has acted unworthy of allconsideration--utterly unworthy of the woman he has won from me. "

"My dear fellow, you know the old saying. A man who is in love thinkseverything fair. There is no such thing as honour in such a case as this. Of course, I don't want to defend this Holbrook; I only want to awakenyour senses to the absurdity of any vindictive pursuit of the man. If thelady did not love you, believe me you are well out of the business. "

"Yes, that is what every one would tell me, I daresay, " Gilbert answeredimpatiently. "But is there to be no atonement for my broken life, rendered barren to me by this man's act? I tell you, Sir David, there isno such thing as pardon for a wrong like this. But I know how foolishthis talk must seem to you: there is always something ridiculous in thesufferings of a jilted lover. "

"Not at all, my dear Fenton. I heartily wish that I could be of use toyou in this matter; but there is very little chance of that; and, believeme, there is only one rational course open to you, which is, to forgetMiss Nowell, or Mrs. Holbrook, with all possible assiduity. "

Gilbert smiled, a melancholy incredulous smile. Sir David's advice wasonly the echo of John Saltram's counsel--the counsel which he wouldreceive from every man of the world, no doubt--the counsel which hehimself would most likely have given to a friend under the samecircumstances. 

Sir David was very cordial, and wanted his visitor to dine and sleep atHeatherly; but this Gilbert declined. He was eager to get back to Londonnow that his business was finished. 

He arrived in town late that night; and went back to his office-work nextday with a dreary feeling that he must needs go through the same dullroutine day after day in all the time to come, without purpose or hope inhis life, only because a man must go on living somehow to the end of hisearthly pilgrimage, whether the sun shine upon him or not. 

He went to Queen Anne's Court one evening soon after his return, and toldMr. Nowell all he had discovered at Wygrove. The old man showed himselfkeenly interested in his grand-daughter's fate. 

"I would give a great deal to see her before I die, " he said. "Whatever Ihave to leave will be hers. It may be little or much--I won't speak aboutthat; but I've lived a hard life, and saved where other men would havespent. I should like to see my son's child; I should like to have someone of my own flesh and blood about me in my last days. "

"Would it not be a good plan to put an advertisement into the _Times_, addressed to Mrs. Holbrook, from a relation? She would be likely toanswer that, when she would not reply to any appeal coming directly fromme. "

"Yes, " answered Jacob Nowell; "and her husband would let her come to mefor the sake of what I may have to leave her. But that can't be helped, Isuppose; it is the fate of a man who lives as I have lived, to be caredfor at last only for what he has to give. I'll put in such anadvertisement as you speak of; and we'll see what comes of it. "

CHAPTER XII. 

A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. 

Gilbert Fenton called several times in the Temple without being able tosee John Saltram; a slip of paper pasted on the outer door of thatgentleman's chamber informed the public that he was "out of town, " andthat was all. Gilbert took the trouble to penetrate the domicile of thelaundress who officiated in Mr. Saltram's chambers, in order to obtainsome more particular information as to her employer's movements, andafter infinite difficulty succeeded in finding that industrious matron inthe remote obscurity of a narrow court near the river. But the laundresscould tell Mr. Fenton very little. She did not know whither Mr. Saltramhad gone, or when he was likely to return. He was one of the mostuncertingest gentlemen she had to do for; and he had been out of town agreat deal lately; which was not to be wondered at, considering thetrying hot weather, when it was not to be supposed that gentlefolks aswas free to do what they pleased would stay in London. It was hard enoughupon working people with five children to wash and mend and cook for, andover in the court besides, and provisions dearer than they had been theseten years. Gilbert asked if Mr. Saltram had left any orders about hisletters; but the woman told him, no; there never was such a carelessgentleman about letters. He never cared about having them sent after him, and would let them lie in the box till the dust got thick upon them. 

Gilbert left a brief note for John Saltram with the woman--a notebegging his friend to come to him when he was next in London; and havingdone this, he paid no more visits to the Temple, but waited patiently forMr. Saltram's coming, feeling very sure that his request would not beneglected. If anything could have intensified the gloom of his mind atthis time it would have been the absence of that one friend, whom heloved better than he had ever loved any one in this world, except MarianNowell. He stayed in town all through the blank August and Septemberseason, working harder than he had worked since the early days of hiscommercial life, taking neither pleasure nor interest in anything, andkeeping as much as possible out of the way of all his old acquaintance. 

No answer came to Jacob Nowell's advertisement, although it appearedseveral times; and the old man began to despair of ever seeing hisgranddaughter. Gilbert used to drop in upon him sometimes of an eveningduring this period, at his urgent request. He was interested in thesolitary silversmith for Marian's sake, and very willingly sacrificed anoccasional evening for his gratification. He fancied that these visits ofhis inspired some kind of jealousy in the breast of the sallow-faced, sleek-haired shopman; who regarded him always on these occasions with alook of suppressed malevolence, and by every stratagem in his power triedto find out the nature of the conversation between the visitor and hisemployer, making all kinds of excuses to come into the parlour, andshowing himself proof against the most humiliating treatment from hismaster. 

"Does that young man expect you to leave him money? and does he look uponme as a possible rival?" Gilbert asked one night, provoked by theshopman's conduct. 

"Very likely, " Mr. Nowell answered, with a malicious grin. 

"One gets good service from a man who expects his reward in the future. Luke Tulliver serves me very well indeed, and of course I am notresponsible for his delusions. "

"Do you know, Mr. Nowell, that is a man I should scarcely care to trust. To my mind there is a warning of danger in his countenance. "

"My dear sir, I have never trusted any one in my life, " answered thesilversmith promptly. "I don't for a moment suppose that Luke Tulliverwould be honest if I gave him an opportunity to cheat me. As to thebadness of his countenance, that is so much the better. I like to dealwith an obvious rogue. The really dangerous subject is your honest fool, who goes on straight enough till he has lulled one into a false security, and then turns thief all at once at the instigation of some clevertempter. "

"That young man lives in the house with you, I suppose?"

"Yes; my household consists of Luke Tulliver, and an old woman who doesthe cooking and other work. There are a couple of garrets at the top ofthe house where the two sleep; my own bedroom is over this; and the roomover the shop is full of pictures and other unsaleable stuff, which Ihave seldom occasion to show anybody. My business is not what it oncewas, Mr. Fenton. I have made some rather lucky hits in the way ofpicture-dealing in the course of my business career, but I haven't done abig line lately. "

Gilbert was inclined to believe that Jacob Nowell was a much richer manthan he cared to confess, and that the fortune which Marian Nowell mightinherit in the future was a considerable one. The old man had all theattributes of a miser. The house in which he lived had the aspect of aplace in which money has been made and hoarded day by day through longdull years. 

 * * * * *

It was not until the end of October that John Saltram made his appearanceat his old friend's lodgings. He had just come up from the country, andwas looking his best--brighter and younger than Gilbert had seen him lookfor a long time. 

"My dear Jack, I began to think I should never see you again. What haveyou been doing all this time, and where have you been?"

"I have been hard at work, as usual, for the reviews, down Oxford way, ata little place on the river. And how has the world been going with you, Gilbert? I saw your advertisement offering a reward for evidence of MissNowell's marriage. Was there any result?"

"Yes; I know all about the marriage now, but I don't know who or what theman is, " Gilbert answered; and then went on to give his friend a detailedaccount of his experience at Wygrove, and his visit to Sir David Forster. 

"My dear foolish Gilbert, " said John Saltram, "how much useless troubleyou have given yourself! Was it not enough to know that this girl hadbroken faith with you? I think, were I in your place, that would be theend of the story for me. And now you know more than that--you know thatshe is another man's wife. If you find her, nothing can come of it. "

"It is the man I want to find, John; the man whom I shall make it thebusiness of my life to discover. "

"For what good?"

"For the deadliest harm to him, " Gilbert answered moodily. "If ever heand I meet, I will have some payment for my broken life; somecompensation for my ruined hopes. We two should not meet and partlightly, rely upon it. "

"You can make no excuse for his love, that fatal irresistible passion, which outweighs truth and honour when they are set in the opposite scale. I did not think you could be so hard, Gilbert; I thought you would havemore mercy on the man who wronged you. "

"I could pardon any injury but this. I will never forgive this. "

John Saltram shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating air. 

"It is a mistake, my dear fellow, " he said. "Life is not long enough forthese strong passions. There is nothing in the world worth the pricethese bitter hatreds and stormy angers cost us. You have thrown away agreat deal of deep feeling on a lady, whose misfortune it was not to beable to return your affection as she might have done--as you most fullydeserved at her hands. Why waste any further emotion in regrets that weas useless as they are foolish?"

"You may as well ask me why I exist, " Gilbert answered quietly. "Regretfor all I have lost is a part of my life. "

After this there was no more to be said, and Mr. Saltram went on to speakof pleasanter topics. The two men dined together, and sat by the fireafterwards with a bottle of claret between them, smoking their cigars, and talking till late into the night. 

It was not to be supposed that Adela Branston's name could be omittedentirely from this confidential talk. 

"I have seen nothing and heard very little of her while I have beenaway, " John Saltram said, in answer to a question of Gilbert's; "but Icalled in Cavendish-square this afternoon, and was fortunate enough tofind her at home. She wants me to dine with her next Sunday, and I halfpromised to do so. Will you come too? I know that she would be glad tosee you. "

"I cannot see that I am wanted, John. "

"But I tell you that you are wanted. I wish you to go with me. Mrs. Branston likes you amazingly, if you care to know the opinion of sofrivolous a person. "

"I am very much flattered by Mrs. Branston's kindly estimate of me, but Ido not think I have any claim to it, except the fact that I am yourfriend. I shall be happy to go with you on Sunday, if you really wishit. "

"I do really wish it. I shall drop Mrs. Branston a line to say you willcome. She asked me to bring you whenever I had an opportunity. Thedinner-hour is seven. I'll call for you here a few minutes before. Idon't promise you a very lively evening, remember. There will only beAdela, and a lady she has taken as her companion. "

"I don't care about lively evenings. I have been nowhere in societysince I returned from Melbourne. I have done with all that kind ofthing. "

"My dear Gilbert, that sort of renunciation will never do, " John Saltramsaid earnestly. "A man cannot turn his back upon society at your age. Life lies all before you, and it rests with yourself to create a happyfuture. Let the dead bury their dead. "

"Yes, John; and what is left for the living when that burial is over? Idon't want to make myself obnoxious by whining over my troubles, but theyare not to be lessened by philosophy, and I can do nothing but bear themas best I may. I had long been growing tired of society, in theconventional acceptation of the word, and all the stereotyped pleasuresof a commercial man's life. Those things are less than nothing when a manhas nothing brighter and fairer beyond them--no inner life by which thecommon things of this world are made precious. It is only dropping out ofthe arena a little earlier than I might have done otherwise. I have anotion that I shall wind up my affairs next year, sell my business, andgo abroad. I could manage to retire upon a very decent income, in spiteof my losses the other day. "

"Don't dream of that, Gilbert; for heaven's sake, don't dream of anythingso mad as that. What would a man of your age be without some kind ofcareer? A mere purposeless wanderer on the face of the earth. Stick tobusiness, dear old fellow. Believe me, there is nothing like work to makea man forget any foolish trouble of this kind. And you will forget it, Gilbert, be assured of that. If I were not certain it would be so, Ishould----"

He stopped suddenly, staring absently at the fire with a darkening brow. 

"You would do what, John?"

"Hate this man Holbrook almost as savagely as you hate him, for havingcome between you and your happiness. Yet, if Marian Nowell did not loveyou--as a wife should love her husband, with all her heart and soul--itwas ten thousand times better that the knot should be cut in time, however roughly. Think what your misery would have been if you haddiscovered after your marriage that her heart had never been reallyyours. "

"I cannot imagine that possible. I have no shadow of doubt that I shouldhave succeeded in winning her heart if this man had not robbed me of her. My absence gave him his opportunity. Had I been at hand to protect my owninterests, I do not think his influence could have prevailed against me. "

"It is quite natural that you should think that, " John Saltram saidgravely. "Yet you may be mistaken. A woman's love is such a capriciousthing, and so often bestowed upon the least deserving amongst those whoseek it. "

After this they were silent for some time, and then Gilbert told hisfriend about his acquaintance with Jacob Nowell, and the old man's futileendeavours to find his grandchild; to all of which Mr. Saltram listenedattentively. 

"Then you fancy there is a good bit of money in question?" he said, whenGilbert told him everything. 

"I fancy so. But I have no actual ground for the belief. The place inwhich the old man lives is poor enough, and he has carefully abstainedfrom any hint as to what he might leave his granddaughter. Whatever itis, Marian ought to have it; and there is very little chance of that, unless she comes forward in response to Mr. Nowell's advertisements. "

"It is a pity she should lose the chance of this inheritance, certainly, "said Mr. Saltram. 

And then the conversation changed, and they talked of other subjectsuntil it was time for them to part. 

John Saltram walked back to the Temple in a very sombre mood, meditatingupon his friend's trouble. 

"Poor old Gilbert, " he said to himself, "this business has touched himmore deeply than I could have thought possible. I wish things hadhappened otherwise. What is it Lady Macbeth says? 'Naught's had, all'sspent, when our desire is got without content. ' I wonder whether thefulfilment of one's heart's desire ever does bring perfect contentment? Ithink not. There is always something wanting. And if a man comes by hiswish basely, there is a taint of poison in the wine of life thatneutralizes all its sweetness. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS. 

At seven o'clock on Sunday evening, as the neighbouring church bells werejust sounding their last peal, Mr. Fenton found himself on the thresholdof Mrs. Branston's house in Cavendish-square. It was rather a gloomymansion, pervaded throughout with evidences of its late owner's orientalcareer; old Indian cabinets; ponderous chairs of elaborately-carvedebony, clumsy in form and barbaric in design; curious old china andlacquered ware of every kind, from gigantic vases to the tiniest cups andsaucers; ivory temples, and gods in silver and clay, crowded thedrawing-rooms and the broad landings on the staircase. The curtains andchair-covers were of Indian embroidery; the carpets of orientalmanufacture. Everything had a gaudy semi-barbarous aspect. 

Mrs. Branston received her guests in the back drawing-room, a smaller andsomewhat snugger apartment than the spacious chamber in front, which wasdimly visible in the light of a single moderator lamp and the red glow ofa fire through the wide-open archway between the two rooms. In the innerroom the lamps were brighter, and the fire burned cheerily; and here Mrs. Branston had established for herself a comfortable nook in a deepvelvet-cushioned arm-chair, very low and capacious, sheltered luxuriouslyfrom possible draughts by a high seven-leaved Japanese screen. The fairAdela was a chilly personage, and liked to bask in her easy-chair beforethe fire. She looked very pretty this evening, in her dense black dress, with the airiest pretence of a widow's cap perched on her rich auburnhair, and a voluminous Indian shawl of vivid scarlet making a draperyabout her shoulders. She was evidently very pleased to see John Saltram, and gave a cordial welcome to his friend. On the opposite side of thefire-place there was a tall, rather grim-looking lady, also in mourning, and with an elaborate headdress of bugles and ornaments of a feathery andbeady nature, which were supposed to be flowers. About her neck this ladywore numerous rows of jet beads, from which depended crosses and locketsof the same material: she had jet earrings and jet bracelets; and hadaltogether a beaded and bugled appearance, which would have beeneminently fascinating to the untutored taste of a North American Indian. 

This lady was Mrs. Pallinson, a widow of limited means, and a distantrelation of Adela Branston's. Left quite alone after her husband'sdeath, and feeling herself thoroughly helpless, Adela had summoned thisexperienced matron to her aid; whereupon Mrs. Pallinson had given up asmall establishment in the far north of London, which she was in thehabit of speaking about on occasions as her humble dwelling, and hadtaken up her quarters in Cavendish-square, where she was a power of dreadto the servants. 

Gilbert fancied that Mrs. Pallinson was by no means too favourablydisposed towards John Saltram. She had sharp black eyes, very much likethe jet beads with which her person was decorated, and with these shekept a close watch upon Mrs. Branston and Mr. Saltram when the two weretalking together. Gilbert saw how great an effort it cost her at thesetimes to keep up the commonplace conversation which he had commenced withher, and how intently she was trying to listen to the talk upon the otherside of the fire-place. 

The dinner was an admirable one, the wines perfection, Mr. Branstonhaving been a past-master of the art of good living, and having stockedhis cellars with a view to a much longer life than had been granted tohim; the attendance was careful and complete; the dining-room, with itsrather old-fashioned furniture and heavy crimson hangings, a picture ofcomfort; and Mrs. Branston a most charming hostess. Even Gilbert was fainto forget his own troubles and enjoy life a little in that agreeablesociety. 

The two gentlemen accompanied the ladies back to the drawing-room. Therewas a grand piano in the front room, and to this Adela Branston went atMr. Saltram's request, and began to play some of Handel's oratorio music, while he stood beside the piano, talking to her as she played. Mrs. Pallinson and Gilbert were thus left alone in the back room, and the ladydid her best to improve the occasion by extorting what information shecould from Mr. Fenton about his friend. 

"Adela tells me that you and Mr. Saltram are friends of very longstanding, Mr. Fenton, " she began, fanning herself slowly with a shiningblack fan as she sat opposite Gilbert, awful of aspect in the sombresplendour of her beads and bugles. 

"Yes; we were at Oxford together, and have been fast friends ever since. "

"Indeed!--how really delightful! The young men of the present day appearto me generally so incapable of a sincere friendship. And you and Mr. Saltram have been friends all that time? He is a literary man, Iunderstand. I have not had the pleasure of reading any of his works; butAdela tells me he is extremely clever. "

"He is very clever. "

"And steady, I hope. Literary men are so apt to be wild and dissipated;and Adela has such a high opinion of your friend. I hope he is steady. "

"I scarcely know what a lady's notion of steadiness may involve, " Gilbertanswered, smiling; "but I daresay when my friend marries he will besteady enough. I cannot see that literary tastes and dissipated habitshave any natural affinity. I should rather imagine that a man withresources of that kind would be likely to lead a quieter life than a manwithout such resources. "

"Do you really think so? I fancied that artists and poets and people ofthat kind were altogether a dangerous class. And you think that Mr. Saltram will be steady when he is married? He is engaged to be married, Iconclude by your manner of saying that. "

"I had no idea my words implied anything of the kind. No, _I_ do notthink John Saltram is engaged. "

Mrs. Pallinson glanced towards the piano, where the two figures seemedvery close to each other in the dim light of the room. Adela's playinghad been going on in a desultory kind of manner, broken every now andthen by her conversation with John Saltram, and had evidently beenintended to give pleasure only to that one listener. 

While she was still playing in this careless fitful way, a servantannounced Mr. Pallinson; and a gentleman entered whom Gilbert had nodifficulty in recognizing as the son of the lady he had been conversingwith. This new-comer was a tall pale-faced young man, with intenselypenetrating black eyes exactly like his mother's, sharp well-cutfeatures, and an extreme precision of dress and manner. His hands, whichwere small and thin, were remarkable for their whiteness, and wereset-off by spotless wristbands, which it was his habit to smooth fondlywith his slim fingers in the intervals of his discourse. Mrs. Pallinsonrose and embraced this gentleman with stately affection. 

"My son Theobald--Mr. Fenton, " she said. "My son is a medicalpractitioner, residing at Maida-hill; and it is a pleasure to him tospend an occasional evening with his cousin Adela and myself. "

"Whenever the exigencies of professional life leave me free to enjoy thathappiness, " Mr. Pallinson added in a brisk semi-professional manner. "Adela has been giving you some music, I see. I heard one of Handel'schoruses as I came upstairs. "

He went into the front drawing-room, shook hands with Mrs. Branston, andestablished himself with a permanent air beside the piano. Adela did notseem particularly glad to see him; and John Saltram, who had met himbefore in Cavendish-square, received him with supreme indifference. 

"I am blessed, as I daresay you perceive, Mr. Fenton, in my only son, "Mrs. Pallinson said, when the young man had withdrawn to the adjoiningapartment. "It was my misfortune to lose an admirable husband very earlyin life; and I have been ever since that loss wholly devoted to my sonTheobald. My care has been amply rewarded by his goodness. He is a mostestimable and talented young man, and has already attained an excellentposition in the medical profession. "

"You have reason to be proud of him, " Gilbert answered kindly. 

"I _am_ proud of him, Mr. Fenton. He is the sole delight and chief objectof my life. His career up to this hour has been all that the fondestmother could desire. If I can only see him happily and advantageouslymarried, I shall have nothing left to wish for. "

"Indeed!" thought Gilbert. "Then I begin to perceive the reason of Mrs. Pallinson's anxiety about John Saltram. She wants to secure Mrs. Branston's handsome fortune for this son of hers. Not much chance ofthat, I think, fascinating as the doctor may be. Plain John Saltramstands to win that prize. "

They went into the front drawing-room presently, and heard Mr. Pallinsonplay the "Hallelujah Chorus, " arranged as a duet, with his cousin. He was ayoung man who possessed several accomplishments in a small way--could singa little, and play the piano and guitar a little, sketch a little, and wasguilty of occasional effusions in the poetical line which were the palest, most invertebrate reflections of Owen Meredith. In the Maida-hill and St. John's-wood districts he was accounted an acquisition for an evening party;and his dulcet accents and engaging manners had rendered him a favouritewith the young mothers of the neighbourhood, who believed implicitly in Mr. Pallinson's gray powders when their little ones' digestive organs had beenimpaired by injudicious diet, and confided in Mr. Pallinson'scarefully-expressed opinion as the fiat of an inscrutable power. 

Mr. Theobald Pallinson himself cherished a very agreeable opinion of hisown merits. Life seemed to him made on purpose that Theobald Pallinsonshould flourish and succeed therein. He could hardly have formed any ideaof the world except as an arena for himself. He was not especially givento metaphysics; but it would not have been very difficult for him tobelieve that the entire universe was an emanation from the brain ofTheobald Pallinson--a phenomenal world existing only in his sense ofsight and touch. Happy in this opinion of himself, it is not to besupposed that the surgeon had any serious doubt of ultimate success withhis cousin. He regarded John Saltram as an interloper, who had gainedground in Mrs. Branston's favour only by the accident of his own absencefrom the stage. The Pallinsons had not been on visiting terms with Adeladuring the life of the East Indian merchant, who had not shown himselffavourably disposed to his wife's relations; and by this means Mr. Saltram had enjoyed advantages which Theobald Pallinson told himselfcould not have been his, had he, Theobald, been at hand to engage hiscousin's attention by those superior qualities of mind and person whichmust needs have utterly outshone the other. All that Mr. Pallinson wantedwas opportunity; and that being now afforded him, he looked upon thehappy issue of events as a certainty, and already contemplated the housein Cavendish-square, the Indian jars and cabinets, the ivory chessmen andfiligree-silver rosewater-bottles, the inlaid desks and Japanese screens, the ponderous plate and rare old wines, with a sense of prospectiveproprietorship. 

It seemed as if John Saltram had favoured this gentleman's views by hisprolonged absence from the scene, holding himself completely aloof fromAdela Branston at a time when, had he been inclined to press his suit, hemight have followed her up closely. Mrs. Branston had been not a littlewounded by this apparent neglect on the part of one whom she loved betterthan anything else in the world; but she was inclined to believe anything rather than that John Saltram did not care for her; and she hadcontrived to console herself with the idea that his avoidance of her hadbeen prompted by a delicate consideration for her reputation, and arespect for the early period of her mourning. To-night, in his society, she had an air of happiness which became her wonderfully; and GilbertFenton fancied that a man must needs be hard and cold whose heart couldnot be won by so bright and gracious a creature. 

She spoke more than once, in a half-playful way, of Mr. Saltram's absencefrom London; but the deeper feeling underneath the lightness of hermanner was very evident to Gilbert. 

"I suppose you will be running away from town again directly, " she said, "without giving any one the faintest notice of your intention. I can'tthink what charm it is that you find in country life. I have so oftenheard you profess your indifference to shooting, and the ordinary routineof rustic existence. Perhaps the secret is, that you fear your reputationas a man of fashion would suffer were you to be seen in London at such abarbarous season as this. "

"I have never rejoiced in a reputation for fashion, " Mr. Saltramanswered, with his quiet smile--a smile that gave a wonderful brightnessto his face; "and I think I like London in the autumn better than at anyother time. One has room to move about. I have been in the country oflate because I really do appreciate rural surroundings, and have foundmyself able to write better in the perfect quiet of rural life. "

"It is rather hard upon your friends that you should devote all your daysto literature. "

"And still harder upon the reading public, perhaps. But, my dear Mrs. Branston, remember, I must write to live. "

Adela gave a little impatient sigh. She was thinking how gladly she wouldhave made this man master of her ample fortune; wondering whether hewould ever claim from her the allegiance she was so ready to give. 

Mr. Pallinson did his best to engage his cousin's attention during therest of the evening. He brought her her tea-cup, and hovered about herwhile she sipped the beverage with that graceful air of suppressedtenderness which constant practice in the drawing-rooms of Maida-hill hadrendered almost natural to him; but, do what he would, he could notdistract Mrs. Branston's thoughts and looks from John Saltram. It was onhim that her eyes were fixed while the accomplished Theobald was givingher a lively account of a concert at the Eyre Arms; and it was thefascination of his presence which made her answer at random to hercousin's questions about the last volume of the Laureate's, which she hadbeen lately reading. Even Mr. Pallinson, obtuse as he was apt to be whencalled upon to comprehend any fact derogatory to his own self-esteem, was fain to confess to himself that this evening's efforts were futile, and that this dark-faced stranger was the favourite for those matrimonialstakes he had entered himself to run for. He looked at Mr. Saltram with acritical eye many times in the course of the evening, wondering whatpossible merit any sensible woman could perceive in such a man. But then, as Theobald Pallinson reflected, the misfortune is that so few women aresensible; and it was gradually becoming evident to him that MichaelBranston's widow was amongst the most foolish of her sex. 

Mrs. Pallinson kept a sharp watch upon Adela throughout the evening, plunging into the conversation every now and then with a somewhatdictatorial and infallible air, and generally contriving to drag somepraise of Theobald into her talk: now dilating rapturously upon thatfever case which he had managed so wonderfully the other day, proving hisjudgment superior to that of an eminent consulting physician; anonlaunching out into laudation of his last poem, which had been set tomusic by a young lady in St. John's-wood; and by-and-by informing thecompany of her son's artistic talents, and his extraordinary capacity asa judge of pictures. To these things the surgeon himself listened with adeprecating air, smoothing his wristbands, and caressing his slim whitehands, while he playfully reproved his parent for her maternal weakness. 

Mr. Pallinson held his ground near his cousin's chair till the lastmoment, while John Saltram sat apart by one of the tables, listlesslyturning over a volume of engravings, and only looking up at longintervals to join in the conversation. He had an absent weary look, whichpuzzled Gilbert Fenton, who, being only a secondary personage in thisnarrow circle, had ample leisure to observe his friend. 

The three gentlemen left at the same time, Mr. Pallinson driving away ina neat miniature brougham, after politely offering to convey his cousin'sguests to their destination. It was a bright starlight night, and Gilbertwalked to the Temple with John Saltram, through the quietest of thestreets leading east-wards. They lit their cigars as they left thesquare, and walked for some time in a friendly companionable silence. When they did speak, their talk was naturally of Adela Branston. 

"I thought she was really charming to-night, " Gilbert said, "in spite ofthat fellow's efforts to absorb her attention. It is pretty easy to seehow the land lies in that direction; and it such a rival were likely toinjure you, you have a very determined one in Mr. Pallinson. "

"Yes; the surgeon has evidently fixed his hopes upon poor old MichaelBranston's money. But I don't think he will succeed. "

"You will not allow him to do so, I hope?"

"I don't know about that. Then you really admire the little woman, Gilbert?"

"Very much; as much as I have ever admired any woman except MarianNowell. "

"Ah, your Marian is a star, single and alone in her brightness, like thatplanet up yonder! But Adela Branston is a good little soul, and will makea charming wife. Gilbert, I wish to heaven you would fall in love withher!"

Gilbert Fenton stared aghast at his companion, as he tossed the end ofhis cigar into the gutter. 

"Why, John, you must be mad to say such a thing. "

"No, it is by no means a mad notion. I want to see you cured, Gilbert. Ido like you, dear boy, you know, as much as it is possible for a selfishworthless fellow like me to like any man. I would give a great deal tosee you happy; and I am sure that you might be so as Adela Branston'shusband. I grant you that I am the favourite at present; but she is justthe sort of woman to be won by any man who would really prove himselfworthy of her. Her liking for me is a mere idle fancy, which would soondie out for want of fuel. You are my superior in every way--younger, handsomer, better. Why should you not go in for this thing, Gil?"

"Because I have no heart to give any woman, John. And even if I werefree, I would not give my heart to a woman whose affection had to bediverted from another channel before it could be bestowed upon me. Ican't imagine what has put such a preposterous idea into your head, orwhy it is that you shrink from improving your own chances with Mrs. Branston. "

"You must not wonder at anything that I do or say, Gilbert. It is mynature to do strange things--my destiny to take the wrong turning inlife!"

"When shall I see you again?" Gilbert asked, when they were parting atthe Temple gates. 

"I can scarcely tell you that. I must go back to Oxford to-morrow. "

"So soon?"

"Yes, my work gets on better down there. I will let you know directly Ireturn to London. "

On this they parted, Gilbert considerably mystified by his friend'sconduct, but not caring to push his questions farther. He had his ownaffairs to think of, that one business which absorbed almost the whole ofhis thoughts--the business of his search for the man who had robbed himof his promised wife, this interval, in which he remained inactive, devoting himself to the duties of his commercial life, was only a pausein his labours. He was not the less bent upon bringing about aface-to-face meeting between himself and Marian's husband because of thisbrief suspension of his efforts. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

FATHER AND SON. 

While Gilbert Fenton was deliberating what steps to take next in hisquest of his unknown enemy, a gentleman arrived at a small hotel nearCharing Cross--a gentleman who was evidently a stranger to England, andwhose portmanteaus and other travelling paraphernalia bore the names ofNew York manufacturers. He was a portly individual of middle age, and wasstill eminently handsome. He dressed well, lived expensively, and hadaltogether a prosperous appearance. He took care to inform the landlordof the hotel that he was not an American, but had returned to the land ofhis birth after an absence of something like fifteen years, and afterrealizing a handsome fortune upon the other side of the Atlantic. He wasa very gracious and communicative person, and seemed to take life in aneasy agreeable manner, like a man whose habit it was to look on thebrighter side of all things, provided his own comfort was secured. NortonPercival was the name on this gentleman's luggage, and on the card whichhe gave to the waiter whom he desired to look after his letters. Afterdining sumptuously on the evening of his arrival in London, this Mr. Percival strolled out in the autumn darkness, and made his way throughthe more obscure streets between Charing Cross and Wardour-street. Theway seemed familiar enough to him, and he only paused now and then totake note of some alteration in the buildings which he had to pass. Thelast twenty years have not made much change in this neighbourhood, andthe traveller from New York found little to surprise him. 

"The place looks just as dull and dingy as it used to look when I was alad, " he said to himself. "I daresay I shall find the old court unchangedin all these years. But shall I find the old man alive? I doubt that. Dead more likely, and his money gone to strangers. I wonder whether hehad much money, or whether he was really as poor as he made himself out. It's difficult to say. I know I made him bleed pretty freely, at one timeand another, before he turned rusty; and it's just possible I may havehad pretty nearly all he had to give. "

He was in Wardour-street by this time, looking at the dimly-lighted shopswhere brokers' ware of more or less value, old oak carvings, doubtfulpictures, and rusted armour loomed duskily upon the passer-by. At thecorner of Queen Anne's Court he paused, and peered curiously into thenarrow alley. 

"The court is still here, at any rate, " he muttered to himself, "and Ishall soon settle the other question. "

His heart beat faster than it was wont to beat as he drew near hisdestination. Was it any touch of real feeling, or only selfishapprehension, that quickened its throbbing? The man's life had been soutterly reckless of others, that it would be dangerous to give him creditfor any affectionate yearning--any natural remorseful pang in such amoment as this. He had lived for self, and self alone; and his owninterests were involved in the issue of to-night. 

A few steps brought him before Jacob Nowell's window. Yes, it was just ashe remembered it twenty years before--the same dingy old silver, the samelittle heap of gold, the same tray of tarnished jewelry glimmered in thefaint light of a solitary gas-burner behind the murky glass. On thedoor-plate there was still Jacob Nowell's name. Yet all this might meannothing. The grave might have closed over the old silversmith, and theinterest of trade necessitate the preservation of the familiar name. 

The gentleman calling himself Percival went into the shop. How well heremembered the sharp jangling sound of the bell! and how intensely he hadhated it and all the surroundings of his father's sordid life in the dayswhen he was pursuing his headlong career as a fine gentleman, and onlycoming to Queen Anne's Court for money! He remembered what an incubus theshop had been upon him; what a pursuing phantom and perpetual image ofhis degradation in the days of his University life, when he wasincessantly haunted by the dread that his father's social status would bediscovered. The atmosphere of the place brought back all the oldfeelings, and he was young again, a nervous supplicant for money, whichwas likely to be refused to him. 

The sharp peal of the bell produced Mr. Luke Tulliver, who emerged from alittle den in a corner at the back of the shop, where he had been engagedcopying items into a stock-book by the light of a solitary tallow-candle. The stranger looked like a customer, and Mr. Tulliver received himgraciously, turning up the gas over the counter, which had been burningat a diminished and economical rate hitherto. 

"Did you wish to look at anything in antique silver, sir?" he askedbriskly. "We have some very handsome specimens of the Queen Anne period. "

"No, I don't want to look at anything. I want to know whether JacobNowell is still living?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Nowell is my master. You might, have noticed his name uponthe door-plate if you had looked! Do you wish to see him?"

"I do. Tell him that I am an old friend, just come from America. "

Luke Tulliver went into the parlour behind the half-glass door, NortonPercival following upon him closely. He heard the old man's voice saying, "I have no friend in America; but you may tell the person to come in; Iwill see him. "

The voice trembled a little; and the silversmith had raised himself fromhis chair, and was looking eagerly towards the door as Norton Percivalentered, not caring to wait for any more formal invitation. The two menfaced each other silently in the dim light from one candle on themantelpiece, Jacob Nowell looking intently at the bearded face of hisvisitor. 

"You can go, Tulliver, " he said sharply to the shopman. "I wish to bealone with this gentleman. "

Luke Tulliver departed with his usual reluctant air, closing the door asslowly as it was possible for him to close it, and staring at thestranger till the last moment that it was possible for him to stare. 

When he was gone the old man took the candle from the mantelpiece, andheld it up before the bearded face of the traveller. 

"Yes, yes, yes, " he said slowly; "at last! It is you, Percival, my onlyson. I thought you were dead long ago. I had a right to consider youdead. "

"If I had thought my existence could be a matter of interest to you, Ishould hardly have so long refrained from all communication with you. Butyour letters led me to suppose you utterly indifferent to my fate. "

"I offered you and your wife a home. "

"Yes, but on conditions that were impossible to me. I had some pride inthose days. My education had not fitted me to stand behind a counter anddrive hard bargains with dealers of doubtful honesty. Nor could I bringmy wife to such a home as this. "

"The time came when you left that poor creature without any home, " saidthe old man sternly. 

"Necessity has no law, my dear father. You may imagine that my life, without a profession and without any reliable resources, has been ratherprecarious. When I seemed to have acted worst, I have been only the slaveof circumstances. "

"Indeed! and have you no pity for the fate of your wife, no interest inthe life of your only child?"

"My wife was a poor helpless creature, who contrived to make my lifewretched, " Mr. Nowell, alias Percival, answered coolly. "I gave her everysixpence I possessed when I sent her home to England; but luck went deadagainst me for a long time after that, and I could neither send her moneynor go to her. When I heard of her death, I heard in an indirect way thatmy child had been adopted by some old fool of a half-pay officer; and Iwas naturally glad of an accident which relieved me of a heavy incubus. An opportunity occurred about the same time of my entering on a tolerablyremunerative career as agent for some Belgian ironworks in America; and Ihad no option but to close with the offer at once or lose the chancealtogether. I sailed for New York within a fortnight after poor Lucy'sdeath, and have lived in America for the last fifteen years. I havecontrived to establish a tolerably flourishing trade there on my ownaccount; a trade that only needs capital to become one of the first inNew York. "

"Capital!" echoed Jacob Nowell; "I thought there was something wanted. Itwould have been a foolish fancy to suppose that affection could have hadanything to do with your coming to me. "

"My dear father, it is surely possible that affection and interest maysometimes go together. Were I a pauper, I would not venture to presentmyself before you at all; but as a tolerably prosperous trader, with theability to propose an alliance that should be to our mutual advantage, Iconsidered I might fairly approach you. "

"I have no money to invest in your trade, " the old man answered sternly. "I am a very poor man, impoverished for life by the wicked extravaganceof your youth. If you have come to me with any hope of obtaining moneyfrom me, you have wasted time and trouble. "

"Let that subject drop, then, " Percival Nowell said lightly. "I supposeyou have some remnant of regard for me, in spite of our oldmisunderstanding, and that my coming is not quite indifferent to you. "

"No, " the other answered, with a touch of melancholy; "it is notindifferent to me. I have waited for your return these many years. Youmight have found me more tenderly disposed towards you, had you comeearlier; but there are some feelings which seem to wear out as a mangrows older, --affections that grow paler day by day, like colours fadingin the sun. Still, I am glad to see you once more before I die. You aremy only son, and you must needs he something nearer to me than the restof the world, in spite of all that I have suffered at your hands. "

"I could not come back to England sooner than this, " the young man saidpresently. "I had a hard battle to fight out yonder. "

There had been very little appearance of emotion upon either side so far. Percival Nowell took things as coolly as it was his habit to takeeverything, while his father carefully concealed whatever deeper feelingmight be stirred in the depths of his heart by this unexpected return. 

"You do not ask any questions about the fate of your only child, " theold man said, by-and-by. 

"My dear father, that is of course a subject of lively interest to me;but I did not suppose that you could be in a position to give me anyinformation upon that point. "

"I do happen to know something about your daughter, but not much. "

Jacob Nowell went on to tell his son all that he had heard from GilbertFenton respecting Marian's marriage. Of his own advertisements, andwasted endeavours to find her, he said nothing. 

"And this fellow whom she has jilted is pretty well off, I suppose?"Percival said thoughtfully. 

"He is an Australian merchant, and, I should imagine, in prosperouscircumstances. "

"Foolish girl! And this Holbrook is no doubt an adventurer, or he wouldscarcely have married her in such a secret way. Have you any wish thatshe should be found?"

"Yes, I have a fancy for seeing her before I die. She is my own flesh andblood, like you, and has not injured me as you have. I should like to seeher. "

"And if she happened to take your fancy, you would leave her all yourmoney, I suppose?"

"Who told you that I have money to leave?" cried the old man sharply. "Have I not said that I am a poor man, hopelessly impoverished by yourextravagance?"

"Bah, my dear father, that is all nonsense. My extravagance is a questionof nearly twenty years ago. If I had swamped all you possessed in thosedays--which I don't for a moment believe--you have had ample time to makea fresh fortune since then. You would never have lived all those years inQueen Anne's Court, except for the sake of money-making. Why, the placestinks of money. I know your tricks: buying silver from men who are intoo great a hurry to sell it to be particular about the price; lendingmoney at sixty per cent, a sixty which comes to eighty before thetransaction is finished. A man does not lead such a life as yours fornothing. You are rolling in money, and you mean to punish me by leavingit all to Marian. "

The silversmith grew pale with anger during this speech of his son's. 

"You are a consummate scoundrel, " he said, "and are at liberty to thinkwhat you please. I tell you, once for all, I am as poor as Job. But if Ihad a million, I would not give you a sixpence of it. "

"So be it, " the other answered gaily. "I have not performed the duties ofa parent very punctually hitherto; but I don't mind taking some troubleto find this girl while I am in England, in order that she may not loseher chances with you. "

"You need give yourself no trouble on that score. Mr. Fenton has promisedto find her for me. "

"Indeed! I should like to see this Mr. Fenton. "

"You can see him if you please; but you are scarcely likely to get a warmreception in that quarter. Mr. Fenton knows what you have been to yourdaughter and to me. "

"I am not going to fling myself into his arms. I only want to hear all hecan tell me about Marian. "

"How long do you mean to stay in England?"

"That is entirely dependent upon the result of my visit. I had hoped thatif I found you living, which I most earnestly desired might be the case, I should find in you a friend and coadjutor. I am employed in starting agreat iron company, which is likely--I may say certain--to result inlarge gains to all concerned in it; and I fancied I should experience nodifficulty in securing your co-operation. There are the prospectuses ofthe scheme" (he flung a heap of printed papers on the table before hisfather), "and there is not a line in them that I cannot guarantee on mycredit as a man of business. You can look over them at your leisure, ornot, as you please. I think you must know that I always had anindependent spirit, and would be the last of mankind to degrade myself byany servile attempt to alter your line of conduct towards me. "

"Independent spirit! Yes!" cried the old man in a mocking tone; "a sonextorts every sixpence he can from his father and mother--ay, Percy, fromhis weak loving mother; I know who robbed me to send you money--and then, when he can extort no more, boasts of his independence. But that will do. There is no need that we should quarrel. After twenty years' severance, we can afford to let bygones be bygones. I have told you that I am gladto see you. If you come to me with disinterested feelings, that isenough. You may take back your prospectuses. I have nothing to embark inYankee speculations. If your scheme is a good one, you will find plentyof enterprising spirits willing to join you; if it is a bad one, Idaresay you will contrive to find dupes. You can come and see me againwhen you please. And now good-night. I find this kind of talk rathertiring at my age. "

"One word before I leave you, " said Percival. "On reflection, I think itwill be as well to say nothing about my presence in England to this Mr. Fenton. I shall be more free to hunt for Marian without his co-operation, even supposing he were inclined to give it. You have told me all that hecould tell me, I daresay. "

"I believe I have. "

"Precisely. Therefore no possible good could come of an encounter betweenhim and me, and I shall be glad if you will keep my name dark. "

"As you please, though I can see no reason for secrecy in the matter. "

"It is not a question of secrecy, but only of prudential reserve. "

"It may be as you wish, " answered the old man, carelessly. "Good-night. "

He shook hands with his son, who departed without having broken bread inhis father's house, a little dashed by the coldness of his reception, butnot entirely without hope that some profit might arise to him out of thisconnection in the future. 

"The girl must be found, " he said to himself. "I am convinced there hasbeen a great fortune made in that dingy hole. Better that it should go toher than to a stranger. I'm very sorry she's married; but if thisHolbrook is the adventurer I suppose him, the marriage may come tonothing. Yes; I must find her. A father returned from foreign lands israther a romantic notion--the sort of notion a girl is pretty sure totake kindly to. "

CHAPTER XV. 

ON THE TRACK. 

Gilbert Fenton saw no more of his friend John Saltram after that Sundayevening which they had spent together in Cavendish-square. He called uponMrs. Branston before the week was ended, and was so fortunate as to findthat lady alone; Mrs. Pallinson having gone on a shopping expedition inher kinswoman's dashing brougham. 

The pretty little widow received Gilbert very graciously; but there was aslight shade of melancholy in her manner, a pensiveness which softenedand refined her, Gilbert thought. Nor was it long before she allowed himto discover the cause of her sadness. After a little conventional talkupon indifferent subjects, she began to speak of John Saltram. 

"Have you seen much of your friend Mr. Saltram since Sunday?" she asked, with that vain endeavour to speak carelessly with which a woman generallybetrays her real feeling. 

"I have not seen him at all since Sunday. He told me he was going back toOxford--or the neighbourhood of Oxford, I believe--almost immediately;and I have not troubled myself to hunt him up at his chambers. "

"Gone back already!" Mrs. Branston exclaimed, with a disappointedpetulant look that was half-childish, half-womanly. "I cannot imaginewhat charm he finds in a dull village on the banks of the river. He hasconfessed that the place is the dreariest and most obscure in the world, and that he has neither shooting nor any other kind of amusement. Theremust be some mysterious attraction, Mr. Fenton. I think your friend is agood deal changed of late. Haven't you found him so?"

"No, Mrs. Branston, I cannot say that I have discovered any markedalteration in him since my return from Australia. John Saltram was alwayswayward and fitful. He may have been a little more so lately, perhaps, but that is all. "

"You have a very high opinion of him, I suppose?"

"He is very dear to me. We were something more than friends in theordinary acceptation of the word. Do you remember the story of those twonoble young Venetians who inscribed upon their shield _Fraires, nonamici?_ Saltram and I have been brothers rather than friends. "

"And you think him a good man?" Adela asked anxiously. 

"Most decidedly; I have reason to think so. I believe him to be anoble-hearted and honourable man; a little neglectful or disdainful ofconventionalities, wearing his faith in God and his more sacred feelingsanywhere than upon his sleeve; but a man who cannot fail to come right inthe long-run. "

"I am so glad to hear you say that. I have known Mr. Saltram some time, as you may have heard and like him very much. But my cousin Mrs. Pallinson has quite an aversion to him, and speaks against him with sucha positive air at times, that I have been almost inclined to think shemust be right. I am very inexperienced in the ways of the world, and amnaturally disposed to lean a little upon the opinions of others. "

"But don't you think there may be a reason for Mrs. Pallinson's dislikeof my friend?"

Adela Branston blushed at this question, and then laughed a little. 

"I think I know what you mean, " she said. "Yes, it is just possible thatMrs. Pallinson may be jealously disposed towards any acquaintance ofmine, on account of that paragon of perfection, her son Theobald. I havenot been so blind as not to see her views in that quarter. But beassured, Mr. Fenton, that whatever may happen to me, I shall never becomeMrs. Theobald Pallinson. "

"I hope not. I am quite ready to acknowledge Mr. Pallinson's merits andaccomplishments, but I do not think him worthy of you. "

"It is rather awful, isn't it, for me to speak of marriage at all withina few months of my husband's death? But when a woman has money, peoplewill not allow her to forget that she is a widow for ever so short atime. But it is quite a question if I shall ever marry again. I have verylittle doubt that real happiness is most likely to be found in a wiseavoidance of all the perils and perplexities of that foolish passionwhich we read of in novels, if one could only be wise; don't you thinkso, Mr. Fenton?"

"My own experience inclines me to agree with you, Mrs. Branston, " Gilbertanswered, smiling at the little woman's naïveté. 

"Your own experience has been unfortunate, then? I wish I were worthy ofyour confidence. Mr. Saltram told me some time ago that you were engagedto a very charming young lady. "

"The young lady in question has jilted me. "

"Indeed! And you are very angry with her, of course?"

"I loved her too well to be angry with her. I reserve my indignation forthe scoundrel who stole her from me. "

"It is very generous of you to make excuses for the lady, " Mrs. Branstonsaid; and would fain have talked longer of this subject, but Gilbertconcluded his visit at this juncture, not caring to discuss his troubleswith the sympathetic widow. 

He left the great gloomy gorgeous house in Cavendish square more thanever convinced of Adela Branston's affection for his friend, more thanever puzzled by John Saltram's indifference to so advantageous analliance. 

Within a few days of this visit Gilbert Fenton left London. He haddevoted himself unflinchingly to his business since his return toEngland, and had so planned and organized his affairs as to be able nowto absent himself for some little time from the City. He was going uponwhat most men would have called a fool's errand--his quest of Marian'shusband; but he was going with a steady purpose in his breast--adetermination never to abandon the search till it should result insuccess. He might have to suspend it from time to time, should hedetermine to continue his commercial career; but the purpose would benevertheless the ruling influence of his life. 

He had but one clue for his guidance in setting out upon this voyage ofdiscovery. Miss Long had told him that the newly-married couple were togo to some farm-house in Hampshire which had been lent to Mr. Holbrook bya friend. It was in Hampshire, therefore, that Gilbert resolved to makehis first inquiries. He told himself that success was merely a questionof time and patience. The business of tracing these people, who were notto be found by any public inquiry, would be slow and wearisome no doubt. He was prepared for that. He was prepared for a thousand failures anddisappointments before he alighted on the one place in which Mr. Holbrook's name must needs be known, the town or village nearest to thefarm-house that had been lent to him. And even if, after unheard-oftrouble and perseverance on his part, he should find the place he wanted, it was quite possible that Marian and her husband would have goneelsewhere, and his quest would have to begin afresh. But he fancied thathe could hardly fail to obtain some information as to their plan of life, if he could find the place where they had stayed after their marriage. 

His own scheme of action was simple enough. He had only to travel fromplace to place, making careful inquiries at post-offices and in alllikely quarters at every stage of his journey. He went straight toWinchester, having a fancy for the quiet old city and the fair pastoralscenery surrounding it, and thinking that Mr. Holbrook's borrowed retreatmight possibly be in this neighbourhood. The business proved even slowerand more tedious than he had supposed; there were so many farms roundabout Winchester, so many places which seemed likely enough, and to whichhe went, only to find that no person of the name of Holbrook had everbeen heard of by the inhabitants. 

He made his head-quarters in the cathedral city for nearly a week, andexplored the country round, in a radius of thirty miles, without thefaintest success. It was fine autumn weather, calm and clear, the foliagestill upon the trees, in all its glory of gold and brown, with patches ofgreen lingering here and there in sheltered places. The country was verybeautiful, and Gilbert Fenton's work would have been pleasant enough ifthe elements of peace had been in his breast. But they were not. Bitterregrets for all he had lost, uneasy fears and wild imaginings about thefate of her whom he still loved with a fond useless passion, --these andother gloomy thoughts haunted him day by flay, clouding the calmloveliness of the scenes on which he looked, until all outer thingsseemed to take their colour from his own mind. He had loved Marian Nowellas it is not given to many men to love; and with the loss of her, itseemed to him as if the very springs of his life were broken. All themachinery of his existence was loosened and out of gear, and he couldscarcely have borne the dreary burden of his days, had it not been forthat one feverish hope of finding the man who had wronged him. 

The week ended without bringing him in the smallest degree nearer thechance of success. Happily for himself, he had not expected to succeed ina week. On leaving Winchester, he started on a kind of vagabond tourthrough the county, on a horse which he hired in the cathedral city, andwhich carried him from twenty to thirty miles a day. This mode oftravelling enabled him to explore obscure villages and out-of-the-wayplaces that lay off the line of railway. Everywhere he made the sameinquiries, everywhere with the same result. Another week came to an end. He had made his voyage of discovery through more than half of the county, as his pocket-map told him, and was still no nearer success than when heleft London. 

He spent his Sunday at a comfortable inn in a quiet little town, wherethere was a curious old church, and a fine peal of bells that seemed tohim to be ringing all day long. It was a dull rainy day. He went tochurch in the morning, and in the afternoon stood at the coffee-roomwindow watching the townspeople going by to their devotions in an absentunseeing way, and thinking of his own troubles; pausing, just a little, now and then, from that egotistical brooding to wonder how these peopleendured the dull monotonous round of their lives, and what crosses anddisappointments they had to suffer in their small obscure way. 

The inn was very empty, and the landlord waited upon Mr. Fenton in personat his dinner. Gilbert had the coffee-room all to himself, and it lookedcomfortable enough when the curtains were drawn, the lamps lighted, andthe small dinner-table wheeled in front of a blazing fire. 

"I have been thinking over what you were asking me last night, sir, " thehost of the White Swan began, while Gilbert was eating his fish; "andthough I can't say that I ever heard the name of Holbrook, I fancy I mayhave seen the lady and gentleman you are looking for. "

"Indeed!" exclaimed Gilbert eagerly, pushing away his plate, and turningfull on the landlord. 

"I hope you won't let me spoil your dinner, sir; I know that sole'sfresh. I'm a pretty good judge of those things, and choose every bit offish that's cooked in this house. But as I was saying, sir, with regardto this lady and gentleman, I think you said that the people you arelooking for were strangers to this part of the country, and wereoccupying a farm-house that had been lent to them. "

"Precisely. "

"Well, sir, I remember some time in the early part of the year, I thinkit must have been about March----"

"Yes, the people I am looking for would have arrived in March. "

"Indeed, sir! That makes it seem likely. I remember a lady and gentlemancoming here from the railway station--we've got a station close by ourtown, as you know, sir, I daresay. They wanted a fly to take them andtheir luggage on somewhere--I can't for the life of me remember the nameof the place--but it was a ten-mile drive, and it was a farm--_that_ Icould swear to--Something Farm. If it had been a place I'd known, I thinkI should have remembered the name. "

"Can I see the man who drove them?" Gilbert asked quickly. 

"The young man that drove them, sir, has left me, and has left theseparts a month come next Tuesday. Where he has gone is more than I cantell you. He was very good with horses; but he turned out badly, cheatedme up hill and down dale, as you may say--though what hills and daleshave got to do with it is more than I can tell--and I was obliged to getrid of him. "

"That's provoking. But if the people I want are anywhere within ten milesof this place, I don't suppose I should be long finding them. Yet themere fact of two strangers coming here, and going on to some place calleda farm, seems very slight ground to go upon. The month certainlycorresponds with the time at which Mr. And Mrs. Holbrook came toHampshire. Did you take any particular notice of them?"

"I took particular notice of the lady. She was as pretty a woman as everI set eyes upon--quite a girl. I noticed that the gentleman was verycareful and tender with her when he put her into the carriage, wrappingher up, and so on. He looked a good deal older than her, and I didn'tmuch like his looks altogether. "

"Could you describe him?"

"Well--no, sir. The time was short, and he was wrapped up a good deal;the collar of his overcoat turned up, and a scarf round his neck. He haddark eyes, I remember, and rather a stern look in them. "

This was rather too vague a description to make any impression uponGilbert. It was something certainly to know that his rival had dark eyes, if indeed this man of whom the landlord spoke really were his rival. Hehad never been able to make any mental picture of the stranger who hadcome between him and his betrothed. He had been inclined to fancy thatthe man must needs be much handsomer than himself, possessed of everyoutward attribute calculated to subjugate the mind of an inexperiencedgirl like Marian; but the parish-clerk at Wygrove and Miss Long had bothspoken in a disparaging tone of Mr. Holbrook's personal appearance; and, remembering this, he was fain to believe that Marian had been won by somecharm more subtle than that of a handsome face. 

He went on eating his dinner in silence for some little time, meditatingupon what the landlord had told him. Then, as the man cleared the table, lingering over his work, as if eager to impart any stray scraps ofinformation he might possess, Gilbert spoke to him again. 

"I should have fancied that, as a settled inhabitant of the place, youwould be likely to know every farm and farm-house within ten miles--orwithin twenty miles, " he said. 

"Well, sir, I daresay I do know the neighbourhood pretty well, in ageneral way. But I think, if I'd known the name of the place this ladyand gentleman were going to, it would have struck me more than it did, and I should have remembered it. I was uncommonly busy through thatafternoon, for it was market-day, and there were a mort of people goingin and out. I never did interfere much with the fly business; it was onlyby taking the gentleman out some soda-and-brandy that I came to take thenotice I did of the lady's looks and his care of her. I know it was aten-mile drive, and that I told the gentleman the fare, so as there mightbe no bother between him and William Tyler, my man, at the end; and heagreed to it in a liberal off-hand kind of way, like a man who doesn'tcare much for money. As to farms within ten miles of here, there are adozen at least, one way and another--some small, and some large. "

"Do you know of any place in the ownership of a gentleman who would belikely to lend his house to a friend?"

"I can't say I do, sir. They're tenant-farmers about here mostly, andrather a roughish lot, as you may say. There's a place over beyondCrosber, ten miles off and more; I don't know the name of it, or theperson it belongs to; but I've noticed it many a time as I've driven by;a curious old-fashioned house, standing back off one of the lanes out ofCrosber, with a large garden before it. A queer lonesome placealtogether. I should take it to be two or three hundred years old; and Ishouldn't think the house had had money spent upon it within the memoryof man. It's a dilapidated tumbledown old gazabo of a place, and yetthere's a kind of prettiness about it in summer-time, when the garden isfull of flowers. There's a river runs through some of the land about halfa mile from the house. "

"What kind of a place is Crosber?"

"A bit of a village on the road from here to Portsmouth. The house I'mtelling you about is a mile from Crosber at the least, away from the mainroad. There's two or three lanes or by-roads about there, and it lies inone of them that turns sharp off by the Blue Boar, which is about theonly inn where you can bait a horse thereabouts. "

"I'll ride over there to-morrow morning, and have a look at this queerold house. You might give me the names of any other farms you know aboutthis neighbourhood, and their occupants. "

This the landlord was very ready to do. He ran over the names of from tento fifteen places, which Gilbert jotted down upon a leaf of hispocket-book, afterwards planning his route upon the map of the countywhich he carried for his guidance. He set put early the next morningunder a low gray sky, with clouds in the distance that threatened rain. The road from the little market-town to Crosber possessed no especialbeauty. The country was flat and uninteresting about here, and neededthe glory of its summer verdure to brighten and embellish it. But Mr. Fenton did not give much thought to the scenes through which he went atthis time; the world around and about him was all of one colour--thesunless gray which pervaded his own life. To-day the low dull sky and thethreatening clouds far away upon the level horizon harmonised well withhis own thoughts--with the utter hopelessness of his mind. Hopelessness!--yes, that was the word. He had hazarded all upon this onechance, and its failure was the shipwreck of his life. The ruin wascomplete. He could not build up a new scheme of happiness. In the fullmaturity of his manhood, his fate had come to him. He was not the kind ofman who can survive the ruin of his plans, and begin afresh with otherhopes and still fairer dreams. It was his nature to be constant. In allhis life he had chosen for himself only one friend--in all his life hehad loved but one woman. 

He came to the little village, with its low sloping-roofed cottages, whose upper stories abutted upon the road and overshadowed the casementsbelow; and where here and there a few pennyworths of gingerbread, thatseemed mouldy with the mould of ages, a glass pickle-bottle ofbull's-eyes or sugar-sticks, and half a dozen penny bottles of ink, indicated the commercial tendencies of Crosber. A little farther on, hecame to a rickety-looking corner-house, with a steep thatched roofovergrown by stonecrop and other parasites, which was evidently the shopof the village, inasmuch as one side of the window exhibited a show ofhomely drapery, while the other side was devoted to groceries, and ashelf above laden with great sprawling loaves of bread. Thisestablishment was also the post-office, and here Gilbert resolved to makehis customary inquiries, when he had put up his horse. 

Almost immediately opposite this general emporium, the sign of the BlueBoar swung proudly across the street in front of a low ratherdilapidated-looking hostelry, with a wide frontage, and an archwayleading into a spacious desolate yard, where one gloomy cock of Spanishdescent was crowing hoarsely on the broken roof of a shed, surrounded byfour or five shabby-looking hens, all in the most wobegone stage ofmoulting, and appearing as if eggs were utterly remote from theirintentions. This Blue Boar was popularly supposed to have been a mostdistinguished and prosperous place in the coaching days, when twentycoaches passed daily through the village of Crosber; and was even nowmuch affected as a place of resort by the villagers, to the sore vexationof the rector and such good people as believed in the perfectibility ofthe human race and the ultimate suppression of public-houses. 

Here Mr. Fenton dismounted, and surrendered his horse to the keeping ofan unkempt bareheaded youth who emerged from one of the dreary-lookingbuildings in the yard, announced himself as the hostler, and led off thesteed in triumph to a wilderness of a stable, where the landlord's ponyand a fine colony of rats were luxuriating in the space designed for sometwelve or fifteen horses. 

Having done this, Gilbert crossed the road to the post-office, where hefound the proprietor, a deaf old man, weighing half-pounds of sugar inthe background, while a brisk sharp-looking girl stood behind the countersorting a little packet of letters. 

It was to the damsel, as the more intelligent of these two, that Gilbertaddressed himself, beginning of course with the usual question. Did sheknow any one, a stranger, sojourning in that neighbourhood calledHolbrook?

The girl shook her head without a moment's hesitation. No, she knew noone of that name. 

"And I suppose all the letters for people in this neighbourhood passthrough your hands?"

"Yes, sir, all of them; I couldn't have failed to notice if there hadbeen any one of that name. "

Gilbert gave a little weary sigh. The information given him by thelandlord of the White Swan had seemed to bring him so very near theobject of his search, and here he was thrown back all at once upon thewide field of conjecture, not a whit nearer any certain knowledge. It wastrue that Crosber was only one among several places within ten miles ofthe market-town, and the strangers who had been driven from the WhiteSwan in March last might have gone to any one of those other localities. His inquiries were not finished yet, however. 

"There is an old house about a mile from here, " he said to the girl; "ahouse belonging to a farm, in the lane yonder that turns off by the BlueBoar. Have you any notion to whom it belongs, or who lives there?"

"An old house in that lane across the way?" the girl said, reflecting. "That's Golder's lane, and leads to Golder's-green. There's not manyhouses there; it's rather a lonesome kind of place. Do you mean a bigold-fashioned house standing far back in a garden?"

"Yes; that must be the place I want to know about. "

"It must be the Grange, surely. It was a gentleman's house once; butthere's only a bailiff lives there now. The farm belongs to somegentleman down in Midlandshire, a baronet; I can't call to mind his nameat this moment, though I have heard it often enough. Mr. Carley'sdaughter--Carley is the name of the bailiff at the Grange--comes here forall they want. "

Gilbert gave a little start at the name of Midlandshire. Lidford was inMidlandshire. Was it not likely to be a Midlandshire man who had lentMarian's husband his house?

"Do you know if these people at the Grange have had any one staying withthem lately--any lodgers?" he asked the girl. 

"Yes; they have lodgers pretty well every summer. There were some peoplethis year, a lady and gentleman; but they never seemed to have anyletters, and I can't tell you their names. "

"Are they living there still?"

"I can't tell you that. I used to see them at church now and then in thesummer-time; but I haven't seen them lately. There's a church atGolder's-green almost as near, and they may have been there. "

"Will you tell me what they were like?" Gilbert asked eagerly. 

His heart was beating loud and fast, making a painful tumult in hisbreast. He felt assured that he was on the track of the people whom theinnkeeper had described to him; the people who were, in all probability, Mr. And Mrs. Holbrook. 

"The lady is very pretty and very young--quite a girl. The gentlemanolder, dark, and not handsome. "

"Yes. Has the lady gray eyes, and dark-brown hair, and a very brightexpressive face?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Pray try to remember the name of the gentleman to whom the Grangebelongs. It is of great importance to me to know that. "

"I'll ask my father, sir, " the girl answered good-naturedly; "he's prettysure to know. "

She went across the shop to the old man who was weighing sugar, andbawled her question into his ear. He scratched his head in a meditativeway for some moments. 

"I've heard the name times and often, " he said, "though I never set eyesupon the gentleman. William Carley has been bailiff at the Grange thesetwenty years, and I don't believe as the owner has ever come nigh theplace in all that time. Let me see, --it's a common name enough, thoughthe gentleman is a baronight. Forster--that's it--Sir something Forster. "

"Sir David?" cried Gilbert. 

"You've hit it, sir. Sir David Forster--that's the gentleman. "

Sir David Forster! He had little doubt after this that the strangers atthe Grange had been Marian and her husband. Treachery, blackest treacherysomewhere. He had questioned Sir David, and had received his positiveassurance that this man Holbrook was unknown to him; and now, againstthat there was the fact that the baronet was the owner of a place inHampshire, to be taken in conjunction with that other fact that a placein Hampshire had been lent to Mr. Holbrook by a friend. At the very firsthe had been inclined to believe that Marian's lover must needs be one ofthe worthless bachelor crew with which the baronet was accustomed tosurround himself. He had only abandoned that notion after his interviewwith Sir David Forster; and now it seemed that the baronet haddeliberately lied to him. It was, of course, just possible that he was ona false scent after all, and that it was to some other part of thecountry Mr. Holbrook had brought his bride; but such a coincidenceseemed, at the least, highly improbable. There was no occasion for him toremain in doubt very long, however. At the Grange he must needs be ableto obtain more definite information. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Gilbert Fenton left the homely little post-office and turned into thelane leading to Golder's-green--a way which may have been pleasant enoughin summer, but had no especial charm at this time. The level expanse ofbare ploughed fields on each side of the narrow road had a dreary look;the hedges were low and thin; a tall elm, with all its lower limbsmercilessly shorn, uplifted its topmost branches to the dull gray sky, here and there, like some transformed prophetess raising her gaunt armsin appeal or malediction; an occasional five-barred gate marked theentrance to some by-road to the farm; on one side of the way a deepblack-looking ditch lay under the scanty shelter of the low hedge, andhinted at possible water rats to the traveller from cities who mighthappen to entertain a fastidious aversion to such small deer. 

The mile seemed a very long one to Gilbert Fenton. Since his knowledge ofSir David Forster's ownership of the house to which he was going, hisimpatience was redoubled. He had a feverish eagerness to come at thebottom of this mystery. That Sir David had lied to him, he had verylittle doubt. Whoever this Mr. Holbrook was, it was more likely that heshould have escaped the notice of Lidford people as a guest at Heatherlythan under any other circumstances. At Heatherly it was such a commonthing for strangers to come and go, that even the rustic gossips had leftoff taking much interest in the movements of the Baronet or his guests. There was one thought that flashed suddenly into Gilbert's mind duringthat gloomy walk under the lowering gray sky. 

If this man Holbrook were indeed a friend of Sir David Forster's, howdid it happen that John Saltram had failed to recognize his name? Theintimacy between Forster and Saltram was of such old standing, that itseemed scarcely likely that any acquaintance of Sir David's could becompletely unknown to the other. Were they all united in treacheryagainst him? Had his chosen friend--the man he loved so well--been ableto enlighten him, and had he coldly withheld his knowledge? No, he toldhimself, that was not possible. Sir David Forster might be the falsest, most unprincipled of mankind; but he could not believe John Saltramcapable of baseness, or even coldness, towards him. 

He was at the end of his journey by this time. The Grange stood in frontof him--a great rambling building, with many gables, gray lichen-grownwalls, and quaint old diamond-paned casements in the upper stories. Below, the windows were larger, and had an Elizabethan look, with patchesof stained glass here and there. The house stood back from the road, witha spacious old-fashioned garden before it; a garden with flower-beds of aDutch design, sheltered from adverse winds by dense hedges of yew andholly; a pleasant old garden enough, one could fancy, in summer weather. The flower-beds were for the most part empty now, and the only flowers tobe seen were pale faded-looking chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daises. Thegarden was surrounded by a high wall, and Gilbert contemplated it firstthrough the rusty scroll-work of a tall iron gate, surmounted by the armsand monogram of the original owner. On one side of the house there was avast pile of building, comprising stables and coach-houses, barns andgranaries, arranged in a quadrangle. The gate leading into thisquadrangle was open, and Gilbert saw the cattle standing knee-deep in astraw-yard. 

He rang a bell, which had a hoarse rusty sound, as if it had not beenrung very often of late; and after he had waited for some minutes, andrung a second time, a countrified-looking woman emerged from the house, and came slowly along the wide moss-grown gravel-walk towards him. Shestared at him with the broad open stare of rusticity, and did not makeany attempt to open the gate, but stood with a great key in her hand, waiting for Gilbert to speak. 

"This is Sir David Forster's house, I believe, " he said. 

"Yes, sir, it be; but Sir David doesn't live here. "

"I know that. You have some lodgers here--a lady and gentleman calledHolbrook. "

He plunged at once at this assertion, as the easiest way of arriving atthe truth. He had a conviction that this solitary farm-house was theplace to which his unknown rival had brought Marian. 

"Yes, sir, " the woman answered, still staring at him in her Blow stupidway. "Mrs. Holbrook is here, but Mr. Holbrook is away up in London. Didyou wish to see the lady?"

Gilbert's heart gave a great throb. She was here, close to him! In thenext minute he would be face to face with her, with that one woman whomhe loved, and must continue to love, until the end of his life. 

"Yes, " he said eagerly, "I wish to see her. You can take me to her atonce. I am an old friend. There is no occasion to carry in my name. "

He had scarcely thought of seeing Marian until this moment. It was herhusband he had come to seek; it was with him that his reckoning was to bemade; and any meeting between Marian and himself was more likely to provea hindrance to this reckoning than otherwise. But the temptation to seizethe chance of seeing her again was too much for him. Whatever hazardthere might be to his scheme of vengeance in such an encounter slippedout of his mind before the thought of looking once more at that idolisedface, of hearing the loved voice once again. The woman hesitated for afew moments, telling Gilbert that Mrs. Holbrook never had visitors, andshe did not know whether she would like to see him; but on hisadministering half-a-crown through the scroll-work of the gate, she putthe key in the lock and admitted him. He followed her along themoss-grown path to a wide wooden porch, over which the ivy hung like avoluminous curtain, and through a half-glass door into a low roomy hall, with massive dark oak-beams across the ceiling, and a broad staircase ofecclesiastical aspect leading to a gallery above. The house had evidentlybeen a place of considerable grandeur and importance in days gone by; buteverything in it bore traces of neglect and decay. The hall was dark andcold, the wide fire-place empty, the iron dogs red with rust. Some sacksof grain were stored in one corner, a rough carpenter's bench stood underone of the mullioned windows, and some garden-seeds were spread out todry in another. 

The woman opened a low door at the end of this hall, and ushered Gilbertinto a sitting-room with three windows looking out upon a Dutchbowling-green, a quadrangle of smooth turf shut in by tall hedges ofholly. The room was empty, and the visitor had ample leisure to examineit while the woman went to seek Mrs. Holbrook. 

It was a large room with a low ceiling, and a capacious old-fashionedfire-place, where a rather scanty fire was burning in a dull slow way. The furniture was old and worm-eaten, --furniture that had once beenhandsome, --and was of a ponderous fashion that defied time. There was amassive oaken cabinet on one side of the room, a walnut-wood bureau withbrass handles on the other. A comfortable looking sofa, of an antiquateddesign, with chintz-covered cushions, had been wheeled near thefire-place; and close beside it there was a small table with an open deskupon it, and some papers scattered loosely about. There were a few autumnflowers in a homely vase upon the centre table, and a work-basket withsome slippers, in Berlin wool work, unfinished. 

Gilbert Fenton contemplated all these things with supreme tenderness. Itwas here that Marian had lived for so many months--alone most likely forthe greater part of the time. He had a fixed idea that the man who hadstolen his treasure was some dissipated worldling, altogether unworthy sosacred a trust. The room had a look of loneliness to him. He could fancythe long solitary hours in this remote seclusion. 

He had to wait for some little time, walking slowly up and down; veryeager for the interview that was to come, yet with a consciousness thathis fate would seem only so much the darker to him afterwards, when hehad to turn his back upon this place, with perhaps no hope of ever seeingMarian again. At last there came a light footfall; the door was opened, and his lost love came into the room. 

Gilbert Fenton was standing near the fire-place, with his back to thelight. For the first few moments it was evident that Marian did notrecognize him. She came towards him slowly, with a wondering look in herface, and then stopped suddenly with a faint cry of surprise. 

"You here!" she exclaimed. "O, how did you find this place? Why did youcome?"

She clasped her hands, looking at him in a half-piteous way that wentstraight to his heart. What he had told Mrs. Branston was quite true. Itwas not in him to be angry with this girl. Whatever bitterness theremight have been in his mind until this moment fled away at sight of her. His heart had no room for any feeling but tenderness and pity. 

"Did you imagine that I should rest until I had seen you once more, Marian? Did you suppose I should submit to lose you without hearing fromyour own lips why I have been so unfortunate?"

"I did not think you would waste time or thought upon any one so wickedas I have been towards you, " she answered slowly, standing before himwith a pale sad face and downcast eyes. "I fancied that whatever love youhad ever felt for me--and I know how well you did love me--would perishin a moment when you found how basely I had acted. I hoped that it wouldbe so. "

"No, Marian; love like mine does not perish so easily as that. O, mylove, my love, why did you forsake me so cruelly? What had I done tomerit your desertion of me?"

"What had you done! You had only been too good to me. I know that thereis no excuse for my sin. I have prayed that you and I might never meetagain. What can I say? From first to last I have been wrong. From firstto last I have acted weakly and wickedly. I was flattered and gratifiedby your affection for me; and when I found that my dear uncle had set hisheart upon our marriage, I yielded against my own better reason, whichwarned me that I did not love you as you deserved to be loved. Then for along time I was blind to the truth. I did not examine my own heart. I wasquite able to estimate all your noble qualities, and I fancied that Ishould be very happy as your wife. But you must remember that at thelast, when you were leaving England, I asked you to release me, and toldyou that it would be happier for both of us to be free. "

"Why was that, Marian?"

"Because at that last moment I began to doubt my own heart. "

"Had there been any other influence at work, Marian? Had you seen yourhusband, Mr. Holbrook, at that time?" She blushed crimson, and theslender hands nervously clasped and unclasped themselves before shespoke. 

"I cannot answer that question, " she said at last. 

"That is quite as good as saying 'yes. ' You had seen this man; he hadcome between us already. O, Marian, Marian, why were you not morecandid?"

"Because I was weak and foolish. I could not bear to make you unhappy. O, believe me, Gilbert, I had no thought of falsehood at that time. I fullymeant to be true to my promise, come what might. "

"I am quite willing to believe that, " he answered gently. "I believe thatyou acted from first to last under the influence of a stronger will thanyour own. You can see that I feel no resentment against you. I come toyou in sorrow, not in anger. But I want to understand how this thing cameto pass. Why was it that you never wrote to me to tell me the completechange in your feelings?"

"It was thought better not, " Marian faltered, after a pause. 

"By you?"

"No; by my husband. "

"And you suffered him to dictate to you in that matter. Against your ownsense of right?"

"I loved him, " she answered simply. "I have never refused to obey him inanything. I will own that I thought it would be better to write and tellyou the truth; but my husband thought otherwise. He wished our marriageto remain a secret from you, and from all the world for some time tocome. He had his own reasons for that--reasons I was bound to respect. Icannot think how you came to discover this out-of-the-world place. "

"I have taken some trouble to find you, Marian, and it is a hard thingto find you the wife of another; but the bitterness of it must be borne. I do not want to reproach you when I tell you that my life has beenbroken utterly by this blow. I want you to believe in my truth andhonour, to trust me now as you might have trusted me when you firstdiscovered that you could not love me. Since I am not to be your husband, let me be the next best thing--your friend. The day may come in which, you will have need of an honest man's friendship. "

She shook her head sadly. 

"You are very good, " she said; "but there is no possibility at friendshipbetween you and me. If you will only say that you can forgive me for thegreat wrong I have done you, there will be a heavy burden lifted from myheart; and whatever you may think now, I cannot doubt that in the futureyou will find some one far better worthy of your love than ever I couldhave been. "

"That is the stereotyped form of consolation, Marian, a man is alwaysreferred to--that shadowy and perfect creature who is to appear in thefuture, and heal all his wounds. There will be no such after-love for me. I staked all when I played the great game; and have lost all. But whycannot I be your friend, Marian?"

"Can you forgive my husband for his part in the wrong that has been doneyou? Can you be his friend, knowing what he has done?"

"No!" Gilbert answered fiercely between his set teeth. "I can forgiveyour weakness, but not the man's treachery. "

"Then you can never be mine, " Marian said firmly. 

"Remember, I am not talking of a common friendship, a friendship of dailyassociation. I offer myself to you as refuge in the hour of trouble, acounsellor in perplexity, a brother always waiting in the background ofyour life to protect or serve you. Of course, it is quite possible youmay never have need of protection or service--God knows, I wish you allhappiness--but there are not many lives quite free from trouble, and theday may come in which you will want a friend. "

"If it ever does, I will remember your goodness. "

Gilbert looked scrutinisingly at Marian Holbrook as she stood before himwith the cold gray light of the sunless day full upon her face. He wantedto read the story of her life in that beautiful face, if it werepossible. He wanted to know whether she was happy with the man who hadstolen her from him. 

She was very pale, but that might be fairly attributed to the agitationcaused by his presence. Gilbert fancied that there was a careworn look inher face, and that her beauty had faded a little since those peacefuldays at Lidford, when these two had wasted the summer hours in idle talkunder the walnut trees in the Captain's garden. She was dressed veryplainly in black. There was no coquettish knot of ribbon at her throat;no girlish trinkets dangled at her waist--all those little graces andembellishments of costume which seem natural to a woman whose life ishappy, were wanting in her toilet to-day; and slight as these indicationswere, Gilbert did not overlook them. 

Did he really wish her to be happy--happy with the rival he so fiercelyhated? He had said as much; and in saying so, he had believed that he wasspeaking the truth. But he was only human; and it is just possible that, tenderly as he still loved this girl, he may have been hardly capable oftaking pleasure in the thought of her happiness. 

"I want you to tell me about your husband, Marian, " he said after apause; "who and what he is. "

"Why should I do that?" she asked, looking at him with a steady, almostdefiant, expression. "You have said that you will never forgive him. Whatinterest can you possibly feel in his affairs?"

"I am interested in him upon your account. "

"I cannot tell you anything about him. I do not know how you could havediscovered even his name. "

"I learned that at Wygrove, where I first heard of your marriage. "

"Did you go to Wygrove, then?"

"Yes; I have told you that I spared no pains to find you. Nor shall Ispare any pains to discover the history of the man who has wronged me. Itwould be wiser for you to be frank with me, Marian. Rely upon it that Ishall sooner or later learn the secret underlying this treacherousbusiness. "

"You profess to be my friend, and yet are avowedly say husband's enemy. Why cannot you be truly generous, Gilbert, and pardon him? Believe me, hewas not willingly treacherous; it was his fate to do you this wrong. "

"A poor excuse for a man, Marian. No, my charity will not stretch farenough for that. But I do not come to you quite on a selfish errand, tospeak solely of my own wrongs. I have something to tell you of realimportance to yourself. "

"What is that?"

Gilbert Fenton described the result of his first advertisement, and hisacquaintance with Jacob Nowell. 

"It is my impression that this old man is rich, Marian; and there islittle doubt that he would leave all he possesses to you, if you went tohim at once. "

"I do not care very much about money for my own sake, " she answered withrather a mournful smile; "but we are not rich, and I should be glad ofanything that would improve my husband's position. I should like to seemy grandfather: I stand so much alone in the world that it would be verysweet to me to find a near relation. "

"Your husband must surely have seen Mr. Nowell's advertisement, " Gilbertsaid after a pause. "It was odd that he did not tell you about it--thathe did not wish you to reply to it. "

"The advertisement may have escaped him, or he may have looked upon it asa trap to discover our retreat, " Marian answered frankly. 

"I cannot understand the motive for such secrecy. "

"There is no occasion that you should understand it. Every life has itsown mystery--its peculiar perplexities. When I married my husband, I wasprepared to share all his troubles. I have been obedient to him ineverything. "

"And has your marriage brought you happiness, Marian?"

"I love my husband, " she answered with a plaintive reproachful look, asif there had been a kind of cruelty in his straight question. "I do notsuppose that there is such a thing as perfect happiness in the world. "

The answer was enough for Gilbert Fenton. It told him that this girl'slife was not all sunshine. 

He had not the heart to push his inquiries farther. He felt that he hadno right to remain any longer, when in all probability his presence was atorture to the girl who had injured him. 

"I will not prolong my visit, Marian, " he said regretfully. 

"It was altogether a foolish one, perhaps; but I wanted so much to seeyou once more, to hear some explanation of your conduct from your ownlips. "

"My conduct can admit of neither explanation nor justification, " shereplied humbly. "I know how wickedly I have acted. Believe me, Gilbert, Iam quite conscious of my unworthiness, and how little right I have toexpect your forgiveness. "

"It is my weakness, rather than my merit, not to be able to cherish anyangry feeling against you, Marian. Mine has been a slavish kind of love. I suppose that sort of thing never is successful. Women have aninstinctive contempt for men who love them with such blind unreasonableidolatry. "

"I do not know how that may be; but I know that I have always respectedand esteemed you, " she answered in her gentle pleading way. 

"I am grateful to you even for so much as that. And now I suppose I mustsay good-bye--rather a hard word to say under the circumstances. Heavenknows when you and I may meet again. "

"Won't you stop and take some luncheon? I dine early when my husband isaway; it saves trouble to the people of the house. The bailiff's daughteralways dines with me when I am alone; but I don't suppose you will mindsitting down with her. She is a good girl, and very fond of me. "

"I would sit down to dinner with a chimney-sweep, if he were a favouriteof yours, Marian--or Mrs. Holbrook; I suppose I must call you that now. "

After this they talked of Captain Sedgewick for a little, and the tearscame to Marian's eyes as she spoke of that generous and faithfulprotector. While they were talking thus, the door was opened, and abright-faced countrified-looking girl appeared carrying a tray. She wasdressed in a simple pretty fashion, a little above her station as abailiff's daughter, and had altogether rather a superior look, in spiteof her rusticity, Gilbert thought. 

She was quite at her ease in his presence, laying the cloth briskly andcleverly, and chattering all the time. 

"I am sure I'm very glad any visitor should come to see Mrs. Holbrook, "she said; "for she has had a sad lonely time of it ever since she hasbeen here, poor dear. There are not many young married women would put upwith such a life. "

"Nelly, " Marian exclaimed reproachfully, "you know that I have hadnothing to put up with--that I have been quite happy here. "

"Ah, it's all very well to say that, Mrs. Holbrook; but I know better. Iknow how many lonely days you've spent, so downhearted that you couldscarcely speak or look up from your book, and that only an excuse forfretting. --If you're a friend of Mr. Holbrook's, you might tell him asmuch, sir; that he's killing his pretty young wife by inches, by leavingher so often alone in this dreary place. Goodness knows, it isn't that Iwant to get rid of her. I like her so much that I sha'n't know what to dowith myself when she's gone. But I love her too well not to speak thetruth when I see a chance of its getting to the right ears. "

"I am no friend of Mr. Holbrook's, " Gilbert answered; "but I think youare a good generous-hearted girl. "

"You are a very foolish girl, " Marian exclaimed; "and I am extremelyangry with you for talking such utter nonsense about me. I may have beena little out of spirits sometimes in my husband's absence; but that isall. I shall begin to think that you really do want to get rid of me, Nell, say what you will. "

"That's a pretty thing, when you know that I love you as dearly as if youwere my sister; to say nothing of father, who makes a profit by yourbeing here, and would be fine and angry with me for interfering. No, Mrs. Holbrook; it's your own happiness I'm thinking of, and nothing else. AndI do say that it's a shame for a pretty young woman like you to be shutup in a lonely old farm-house while your husband is away, enjoyinghimself goodness knows where; and when he is here, I can't see that he'svery good company, considering that he spends the best part of histime--"

The girl stopped abruptly, warned by a look from Marian. Gilbert saw thislook, and wondered what revelation of Mr. Holbrook's habits the bailiff'sdaughter had been upon the point of making; he was so eager to learnsomething of this man, and had been so completely baffled in all hisendeavours hitherto. 

"I will not have my affairs talked about in this foolish way, EllenCarley, " Marian said resolutely. 

And then they all three sat down to the dinner-table. The dishes werebrought in by the woman who had admitted Gilbert. The dinner wasexcellent after a simple fashion, and very nicely served; but for Mr. Fenton the barn-door fowl and home-cured ham might as well have been thegrass which the philosopher believed the French people might learn toeat. He was conscious of nothing but the one fact that he was in Marian'ssociety for perhaps the last time in his life. He wondered at himself nota little for the weakness which made it so sweet to him to be with her. 

The moment came at last in which he must needs take his leave, having nopossible excuse for remaining any longer. 

"Good-bye, Marian, " he said. "I suppose we are never likely to meetagain. "

"One never knows what may happen; but I think it is far better we shouldnot meet, for many reasons. "

"What am I to tell your grandfather when I see him?"

"That I will come to him as soon as I can get my husband's permission todo so. "

"I should not think there would be any difficulty about that, when heknows that this relationship is likely to bring you fortune. "

"I daresay not. "

"And if you come to London to see Mr. Nowell, there will be some chanceof our meeting again. "

"What good can come of that?"

"Not much to me, I daresay. It would be a desperate, melancholy kind ofpleasure. Anything is better than the idea of losing sight of you forever--of leaving this room to-day never to look upon your face again. "

He wrote Jacob Nowell's address upon one of his own cards, and gave it toMarian; and then prepared to take his departure. He had an idea that thebailiff's daughter would conduct him to the gate, and that he would beable to make some inquiries about Mr. Holbrook on his way. It is possiblethat Marian guessed his intentions in this respect; for she offered togo with him to the gate herself; and he could not with any decencyrefuse to be so honoured. 

They went through the hall together, where all was as still and lifelessas it had been when he arrived, and walked slowly side by side along thebroad garden-path in utter silence. At the gate Gilbert stopped suddenly, and gave Marian his hand. 

"My darling, " he said, "I forgive you with all my heart; and I will prayfor your happiness. "

"Will you try to forgive my husband also?" she asked in her plaintivebeseeching way. 

"I do not know what I am capable of in that direction. I promise that, for your sake, I will not attempt to do him any injury. "

"God bless you for that promise! I have so dreaded the chance of ameeting between you two. It has often been the thought of that which hasmade me unhappy when that faithful girl, Nelly, has noticed my lowspirits. You have removed a great weight from my mind. "

"And you will trust me better after that promise?"

"Yes; I will trust you as you deserve to be trusted, with all my heart. "

"And now, good-bye. It is a hard word for me to say; but I must notdetain you here in the cold. "

He bent his head, and pressed his lips upon the slender little hand whichheld the key of the gate. In the next moment he was outside that talliron barrier; and it seemed to him as if he were leaving Marian in aprison. The garden, with its poor pale scentless autumn flowers, had adreary look under the dull gray sky. He thought of the big empty house, with its faded traces of vanished splendour, and of Marian's lonely lifein it, with unspeakable pain. How different from the sunny home which hehad dreamed of in the days gone by--the happy domestic life which he hadfancied they two might lead!

"And she loves this man well enough to endure the dullest existence forhis sake, " he said to himself as he turned his back at last upon the talliron gate, having lingered there for some minutes after Marian hadre-entered the house. "She could forget all our plans for the future athis bidding. "

He thought of this with a jealous pang, and with all his old angeragainst his unknown rival. Moved by an impulse of love and pity forMarian, he had promised that this man should suffer no injury at hishands; and, having so pledged himself, he must needs keep his word. Butthere were certain savage feelings and primitive instincts in his breastnot easily to be vanquished; and he felt that now he had bound himself tokeep the peace in relation to Mr. Holbrook, it would be well that thosetwo should not meet. 

"But I will have some explanation from Sir David Forster as to that liehe told me, " he said to himself; "and I will question John Saltram aboutthis man Holbrook. "

John Saltram--John Holbrook. An idea flashed into his brain that seemedto set it on fire. What if John Saltram and John Holbrook were one! Whatif the bosom friend whom he had introduced to his betrothed had playedthe traitor, and stolen her from him! In the next moment he put thesupposition away from him, indignant with himself for being capable ofthinking such a thing, even for an instant. Of all the men upon earth whocould have done him this wrong, John Saltram was the last he could havebelieved guilty. Yet the thought recurred to him many times after thiswith a foolish tiresome persistence; and he found himself going over thecircumstances of his friend's acquaintance with Marian, his hastydeparture from Lidford, his return there later during Sir David Forster'sillness. Let him consider these facts as closely as he might, there wasno especial element of suspicion in them. There might have been a hundredreasons for that hurried journey to London--nay, the very fact itselfargued against the supposition that Mr. Saltram had fallen in love withhis friend's plighted wife. 

And now, the purpose of his life being so far achieved, Gilbert Fentonrode back to Winchester next day, restored his horse to its proprietor, and went on to London by an evening train. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

MISS CARLEY'S ADMIRERS. 

There were times in which Marian Holbrook's life would have been utterlylonely but for the companionship of Ellen Carley. This warm-heartedoutspoken country girl had taken a fancy to Mr. Holbrook's beautiful wifefrom the hour of her arrival at the Grange, one cheerless March evening, and had attached herself to Marian from that moment with unalterableaffection and fidelity. The girl's own life at the Grange had been lonelyenough, except during the brief summer months, when the roomy old housewas now and then enlivened a little by the advent of a lodger, --somestray angler in search of a secluded trout stream, or an invalid whowanted quiet and fresh air. But in none of these strangers had Ellen evertaken much interest. They had come and gone, and made very littleimpression upon her mind, though she had helped to make their sojournpleasant in her own brisk cheery way. 

She was twenty-one years of age, very bright-looking, if not absolutelypretty, with dark expressive eyes, a rosy brunette complexion, and verywhite teeth. The nose belonged to the inferior order of pug or snub; theforehead was low and broad, with dark-brown hair rippling over it--hairwhich seemed always wanting to escape from its neat arrangement into amultitude of mutinous curls. She was altogether a young person whom theadmirers of the soubrette style of beauty might have found very charming;and, secluded as her life at the Grange had been, she had already morethan one admirer. 

She used to relate her love affairs to Marian Holbrook in the quietsummer evenings, as the two sat under an old cedar in the meadow nearestthe house--a meadow which had been a lawn in the days when the Grange wasin the occupation of great folks; and was divided from a broadterrace-walk at the back of the house by a dry grass-grown moat, withsteep sloping banks, upon which there was a wealth of primroses andviolets in the early spring. Ellen Carley told Mrs. Holbrook of heradmirers, and received sage advice from that experienced young matron, who by-and-by confessed to her humble companion the error of her owngirlhood, and how she had jilted the most devoted and generous lover thatever a woman could boast of. 

For some months--for the bright honeymoon period of her weddedlife--Marian had been completely happy in that out-of-the-world region. It is not to be supposed that she had done so great a wrong to GilbertFenton except under the influence of a great love, or the dominion of anature powerful enough to subjugate her own. Both these influences hadbeen at work. Too late she had discovered that she had never really lovedGilbert Fenton; that the calm grateful liking which she had told herselfmust needs be the sole version of the grand passion whereof her naturewas capable, had been only the tamest, most ordinary kind of friendshipafter all, and that in the depths of her soul there was a capacity for anutterly different attachment--a love which was founded on neither respectnor gratitude, but which sprang into life in a moment, fatal andall-absorbing from its birth. 

Heaven knows she had struggled bravely against this luckless passion, hadresisted long and steadily the assiduous pursuit, the passionatehalf-despairing pleading, of her lover, who would not be driven away, andwho invented all kinds of expedients for seeing her, however difficultthe business might be, or however resolutely she might endeavour to avoidhim. It was only after her uncle's death, when her mind was weakened byexcessive grief, that her strong determination to remain faithful to herabsent betrothed had at last given way before the force of those tenderpassionate prayers, and she had consented to the hasty secret marriagewhich her lover had proposed. Her consent once given, not a moment hadbeen lost. The business had been hurried on with the utmost eagerness bythe impetuous lover, who would give her as little opportunity as possibleof changing her mind, and who had obtained complete mastery of her willfrom the moment in which she promised to be his wife. 

She loved him with all the unselfish devotion of which her nature wascapable; and no thought of the years to come, or of what her future lifemight be with this man, of whose character and circumstances she knew sovery little, ever troubled her. Having sacrificed her fidelity to GilbertFenton, she held all other sacrifices light as air--never considered themat all, in fact. When did a generous romantic girl of nineteen ever stopto calculate the chances of the future, or fear to encounter poverty andtrouble with the man she loved? To Marian this man was henceforth all theworld. It was not that he was handsomer, or better, or in any obvious waysuperior to Gilbert Fenton. It was only that he was just the one man ableto win her heart. That mysterious attraction which reason can neverreduce to rule, which knows no law of precedent or experience, reignedhere in full force. It is just possible that the desperate circumstancesof the attachment, the passionate pursuit of the lover, not to be checkedby any obstacle, may have had an influence upon the girl's mind. Therewas a romance in such love as this that had not existed in Mr. Fenton'sstraightforward wooing; and Marian was too young to be quite proofagainst the subtle charm of a secret, romantic, despairing passion. 

For some time she was very happy; and the remote farm-house, with itsold-fashioned gardens and fair stretch of meadow-land beyond them, whereall shade and beauty had not yet been sacrificed to the interests ofagriculture, seemed to her in those halcyon days a kind of earthlyparadise. She endured her husband's occasional absence from this ruralhome with perfect patience. These absences were rare and brief at first, but afterwards grew longer and more frequent. Nor did she ever sigh forany brighter or gayer life than this which they led together at theGrange. In him were the beginning and end of her hopes and dreams; and solong as he was pleased and contented, she was completely happy. It wasonly when a change came in him--very slight at first, but still obviousto his wife's tender watchful eyes--that her own happiness was clouded. That change told her that whatever he might be to her, she was no longerall the world to him. He loved her still, no doubt; but the brightholiday-time of his love was over, and his wife's presence had no longerthe power to charm away every dreary thought. He was a man in whosedisposition there was a lurking vein of melancholy--a kind of chronicdiscontent very common to men of whom it has been said that they might dogreat things in the world, and who have succeeded in doing nothing. 

It is not to be supposed that Mr. Holbrook intended to keep his wife shutaway from the world in a lonely farm-house all her life. The place suitedhim very well for the present; the apartments at the Grange, and theservices of Mr. Carley and his dependents, had been put at his disposalby the owner of the estate, together with all farm and garden produce. Existence here therefore cost him very little; his chief expenses were ingifts to the bailiff and his underlings, which he bestowed with a liberalhand. His plans for the future were as yet altogether vague andunsettled. He had thoughts of emigration, of beginning life afresh in anew country--anything to escape from the perplexities that surrounded himhere; and he had his reasons for keeping his wife secluded. Nor did hisconscience disturb him much--he was a man who had his conscience in verygood training--as to the unfairness of this proceeding. Marian was happy, he told himself; and when time came for some change in the manner ofher existence, he doubted if the change would be for the better. 

So the days and weeks and months had passed away, bringing little varietywith them, and none of what the world calls pleasure. Marian read andworked and rambled in the country lanes and meadows with Ellen Carley, and visited the poor people now and then, as she had been in the habit ofdoing at Lidford. She had not very much to give them, but gave all shecould; and she had a gentle sympathetic manner, which made her welcomeamongst them, most of all where there were children, for whom she hadalways a special attraction. The little ones clung to her and trustedher, looking up at her lovely face with spontaneous affection. 

William Carley, the bailiff, was a big broad-shouldered man, with a heavyforbidding countenance, and a taciturn habit by no means calculated tosecure him a large circle of friends. His daughter and only child wasafraid of him; his wife had been afraid of him in her time, and had fadedslowly out of a life that had been very joyless, unawares, hiding herillness from him to the last, as if it had been a sort of offence againsthim to be ill. It was only when she was dying that the bailiff knew hewas going to lose her; and it must be confessed that he took the lossvery calmly. 

Whatever natural grief he may have felt was carefully locked in his ownbreast. His underlings, the farm-labourers, found him a little more"grumpy" than usual, and his daughter scarcely dared open her lips to himfor a month after the funeral. But from that time forward Miss Carley, who was rather a spirited damsel, took a very different tone with herfather. She was not to be crushed and subdued into a mere submissiveshadow, as her mother had been. She had a way of speaking her mind on alloccasions which was by no means agreeable to the bailiff. If he dranktoo much overnight, she took care to tell him of it early next morning. If he went about slovenly and unshaven, her sharp tongue took notice ofthe fact. Yet with all this, she waited upon him, and provided for hiscomfort in a most dutiful manner. She saved his money by her dexterousmanagement of the household, and was in all practical matters a verytreasure among daughters. William Carley liked comfort, and liked moneystill better, and he was quite aware that his daughter was valuable tohim, though he was careful not to commit himself by any expression ofthat opinion. 

He knew her value so well that he was jealously averse to the idea of hermarrying and leaving him alone at the Grange. When young Frank Randall, the lawyer's son, took to calling at the old house very often upon summerevenings, and by various signs and tokens showed himself smitten withEllen Carley, the bailiff treated the young man so rudely that he wasfain to cease from coming altogether, and to content himself with anoccasional chance meeting in the lane, when Ellen had business atCrosber, and walked there alone after tea. He would not have been aparticularly good match for any one, being only an articled clerk to hisfather, whose business in the little market-town of Malsham was by nomeans extensive; and William Carley spoke of him scornfully as a pauper. He was a tall good-looking young fellow, however, with a candid pleasantface and an agreeable manner; so Ellen was not a little angry with herfather for his rudeness, still more angry with him for his encouragementof her other admirer, a man called Stephen Whitelaw, who lived about amile from the Grange, and farmed his own land, an estate of some extentfor that part of the country. 

"If you must marry, " said the bailiff, "and it's what girls like you seemto be always thinking about, you can't do better than take up with StephWhitelaw. He's a warm man, Nell, and a wife of his will never want a mealof victuals or a good gown to her back. You'd better not waste yoursmiles and your civil words on a beggar like young Randall, who won'thave a home to take you to for these ten years to come--not then, perhaps--for there's not much to be made by law in Malsham now-a-days. And when his father dies--supposing he's accommodating enough to die in areasonable time, which it's ten to one he won't be--the young man willhave his mother and sisters to keep upon the business very likely, andthere'd be a nice look-out for you. Now, if you marry my old friendSteph, he can make you a lady. "

This was a very long speech for Mr. Carley. It was grumbled out in shortspasmodic sentences between the slow whiffs of his pipe, as he sat by thefire in a little parlour off the hall, with his indefatigable daughter atwork at a table near him. 

"Stephen Whitelaw had need be a gentleman himself before he could makeme a lady, " Nelly answered, laughing. "I don't think fine clothes canmake gentlefolks; no, nor farming one's own land, either, though thatsounds well enough. I am not in any hurry to leave you, father, and I'mnot one of those girls who are always thinking of getting married; butcome what may, depend upon it, I shall never marry Mr. Whitelaw. "

"Why not, pray?" the bailiff asked savagely. 

Nelly shook out the shirt she had been repairing for her father, and thenbegan to fold it, shaking her head resolutely at the same time. 

"Because I detest him, " she said; "a mean, close, discontented creature, who can see no pleasure in life except money-making. I hate the verysight of his pale pinched face, father, and the sound of his hard shrillvoice. If I had to choose between the workhouse and marrying StephenWhitelaw, I'd choose the workhouse; yes, and scrub, and wash, and drudge, and toil there all my days, rather than be mistress of Wyncomb Farm. "

"Well, upon my word, " exclaimed the father, taking the pipe from hismouth, and staring aghast at his daughter in a stupor of indignantsurprise, "you're a pretty article; you're a nice piece of goods for aman to bring up and waste his substance upon--a piece of goods that willturn round upon one and refuse a man who farms his own land. Mind, hehasn't asked you yet, my lady; and never may, for aught I know. "

"I hope he never will, father, " Nelly answered quietly, unsubdued by thisoutburst of the bailiff's. 

"If he does, and you don't snap at such a chance, you need never look fora sixpence from me; and you'd best make yourself scarce pretty soon intothe bargain. I'll have no such trumpery about my house. "

"Very well, father; I daresay I can get my living somewhere else, withoutworking much harder than I do here. "

This open opposition on the girl's part made William Carley only the moreobstinately bent upon that marriage, which seemed to him such a brilliantalliance, which opened up to him the prospect of a comfortable home forhis old age, where he might repose after his labours, and live upon thefat of the land without toil or care. He had a considerable contempt forthe owner of Wyncomb Farm, whom he thought a poor creature both as a manand a farmer; and he fancied that if his daughter married StephenWhitelaw, he might become the actual master of that profitable estate. Hecould twist such a fellow as Stephen round his fingers, he told himself, when invested with the authority of a father-in-law. 

Mr. Whitelaw was a pale-faced little man of about five-and-forty years ofage; a man who had remained a bachelor to the surprise of hisneighbours, who fancied, perhaps, that the owner of a good house and acomfortable income was in a manner bound by his obligation to society totake to himself a partner with whom to share these advantages. He hadremained unmarried, giving no damsel ground for complaint by any delusiveattentions, and was supposed to have saved a good deal of money, and tobe about the richest man in those parts, with the exception of the landedgentry. 

He was by no means an attractive person in this the prime of his manhood. He had a narrow mean-looking face, with sharp features, and a pale sicklycomplexion, which looked as if he had spent his life in some close Londonoffice rather than in the free sweet air of his native fields. His hairwas of a reddish tint, very sleek and straight, and always combed withextreme precision upon each side of his narrow forehead; and he hadscanty whiskers of the same unpopular hue, which he was in the habit ofsmoothing with a meditative air upon his sallow cheeks with the knobbyfingers of his bony hand. He was of a rather nervous temperament, inclined to silence, like his big burly friend, William Carley, and had adeprecating doubtful way of expressing his opinion at all times. In spiteof this humility of manner, however, he cherished a secret pride in hissuperior wealth, and was apt to remind his associates, upon occasion, that he could buy up any one of them without feeling the investment. 

After having attained the discreet age of forty-five without being avictim to the tender passion, Mr. Whitelaw might reasonably have supposedhimself exempt from the weakness so common to mankind. But suchself-gratulation, had he indulged in it, would have been premature; forafter having been a visitor at the Grange, and boon-companion of thebailiff's for some ten years, it slowly dawned upon him that Ellen Carleywas a very pretty girl, and that he would have her for his wife, and noother. Her brisk off-hand manner had a kind of charm for his slowapathetic nature; her rosy brunette face, with its bright black eyes andflashing teeth, seemed to him the perfection of beauty. But he was not animpetuous lover. He took his time about the business, coming two or threetimes a week to smoke his pipe with William Carley, and paying Nelly someawkward blundering compliment now and then in his deliberate hesitatingway. He had supreme confidence in his own position and his money, and wastroubled by no doubt as to the ultimate success of his suit. It was truethat Nelly treated him in by no means an encouraging manner--was, indeed, positively uncivil to him at times; but this he supposed to be merefeminine coquetry; and it enhanced the attractions of the girl hedesigned to make his wife. As to her refusing him when the time came forhis proposal, he could not for a moment imagine such a thing possible. Itwas not in the nature of any woman to refuse to be mistress of Wyncomb, and to drive her own whitechapel cart--a comfortable hooded vehicle ofthe wagonette species, which was popular in those parts. 

So Stephen Whitelaw took his time, contented to behold the object of hisaffection two or three evenings a week, and to gaze admiringly upon herbeauty as he smoked his pipe in the snug little oak-wainscoted parlour atthe Grange, while his passion grew day by day, until it did really becomea very absorbing feeling, second only to his love of money and WyncombFarm. These dull sluggish natures are capable of deeper passions than theworld gives them credit for; and are as slow to abandon an idea as theyare to entertain it. 

It was Ellen Carley's delight to tell Marian of her trouble, and toprotest to this kind confidante again and again that no persuasion orthreats of her father's should ever induce her to marry StephenWhitelaw--which resolution Mrs. Holbrook fully approved. There was alittle gate opening from a broad green lane into one of the fields at theback of the Grange; and here sometimes of a summer evening they used tofind Frank Randall, who had ridden his father's white pony all the wayfrom Malsham for the sake of smoking his evening cigar on that particularspot. They used to find him seated there, smoking lazily, while the ponycropped the grass in the lane close at hand. He was always eager to doany little service for Mrs. Holbrook; to bring her books or anything elseshe wanted from Malsham--anything that might make an excuse for hiscoming again by appointment, and with the certainty of seeing EllenCarley. It was only natural that Marian should be inclined to protectthis simple love-affair, which offered her favourite a way of escape fromthe odious marriage that her father pressed upon her. The girl might haveto endure poverty as Frank Randall's wife; but that seemed a small thingin the eyes of Marian, compared with the horror of marrying thatpale-faced mean-looking little man, whom she had seen once or twicesitting by the fire in the oak parlour, with his small light-grey eyesfixed in a dull stare upon the bailiff's daughter. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

JACOB NOWELL'S WILL. 

At his usual hour, upon the evening after his arrival in London, GilbertFenton called at the silversmith's shop in Queen Anne's Court. He foundJacob Nowell weaker than when, he had seen him last, and with a strangeold look, as if extreme age had come upon him suddenly. He had beencompelled to call in a medical man, very much against his will; and thisgentleman had told him that his condition was a critical one, and that itwould be well for him to arrange his affairs quickly, and to hold himselfprepared for the worst. 

He seemed to be slightly agitated when Gilbert told him that hisgranddaughter had been found. 

"Will she come to me, do you think?" he asked. 

"I have no doubt that she will do so, directly she hears how ill you havebeen. She was very much pleased at the idea of seeing you, and onlywaited for her husband's permission to come. But I don't suppose she willwait for that when she knows of your illness. I shall write to herimmediately. "

"Do, " Jacob Nowell said eagerly; "I want to see her before I die. You didnot meet the husband, then, I suppose?"

"No; Mr. Holbrook was not there. "

He told Jacob Nowell all that it was possible for him to tell about hisinterview with Marian; and the old man seemed warmly interested in thesubject. Death was very near him, and the savings of the long drearyyears during which his joyless life had been devoted to money-making mustsoon pass into other hands. He wanted to know something of the person whowas to profit by his death; he wanted to be sure that when he was gonesome creature of his own flesh and blood would remember him kindly; notfor the sake of his money alone, but for something more than that. 

"I shall make my will to-morrow, " he said, before Gilbert left him. "Idon't mind owning to you that I have something considerable to bequeath;for I think I can trust you. And if I should die before my grandchildcomes to me, you will see that she has her rights, won't you? You willtake care that she is not cheated by her husband, or by any one else?"

"I shall hold it a sacred charge to protect her interests, so far as itis possible for me to do so. "

"That's well. I shall make you one of the executors to my will, if you'veno objection. "

"No. The executorship will bring me into collision with Mr. Holbrook, nodoubt; but I have resolved upon my line of conduct with regard to him, and I am prepared for whatever may happen. My chief desire now is to be areal friend to your granddaughter; for I believe she has need offriends. "

The will was drawn up next day by an attorney of by no means spotlessreputation, who had often done business for Mr. Nowell in the past, andwho may have known a good deal about the origin of some of the silverwhich found its way to the old silversmith's stores. He was a gentlemanfrequently employed in the defence of those injured innocents who appearat the bar of the Old Bailey; and was not at all particular as to themerits of the cases he conducted. This gentleman embodied Mr. Nowell'sdesires with reference to the disposal of his worldly goods in a verysimple and straightforward manner. All that Jacob Nowell had to leave wasleft to his granddaughter, Marian Holbrook, for her own separate use andmaintenance, independent of any husband whatsoever. 

This was clear enough. It was only when there came the question, which alawyer puts with such deadly calmness, as to what was to be done with themoney in the event of Marian Holbrook's dying intestate, that anyperplexity arose. 

"Of course, if she has children, you'd like the money to go to them, "said Mr. Medler, the attorney; "that's clear enough, and had better beset out in your will. But suppose she should have no children, you'dscarcely like all you leave to go to her husband, who is quite a strangerto you, and who may be a scoundrel for aught you know. "

"No; I certainly shouldn't much care about enriching this Holbrook. "

"Of course not; to say nothing of the danger there would be in giving himso strong an interest in his wife's death. Not but what I daresay he'llcontrive to squander the greater part of the money during her lifetime. Is it all in hard cash?"

"No; there is some house-property at Islington, which pays a highinterest; and there are other freeholds. "

"Then we might tie those up, giving Mrs. Holbrook only the income. It isessential to provide against possible villany or extravagance on the partof the husband. Women are so weak and helpless in these matters. And inthe event of your granddaughter dying without children, wouldn't yourather let the estate go to your son?"

"To him!" exclaimed Jacob Nowell. "I have sworn that I would not leavehim sixpence. "

"That's a kind of oath which no man ever considers himself bound tokeep, " said the lawyer in his most insinuating tone. "Remember, it's onlya remote contingency. The chances are that your granddaughter will have afamily to inherit this property, and that she will survive her father. And then, if we give her power to make a will, of course it's prettycertain that she'll leave everything to this husband of hers. But I don'tthink we ought to do that, Mr. Nowell. I think it would be a far wiserarrangement to give this young lady only a life interest in the realestate. That makes the husband a loser by her death, instead of apossible gainer to a large amount. And I consider that your son's namehas a right to come in here. "

"I cannot acknowledge that he has any such right. His extravagance almostruined me when he was a young man; and his ingratitude would have brokenmy heart, if I had been weak enough to suffer myself to be crushed byit. "

"Time works changes amongst the worst of us, Mr. Nowell, I daresay yourson has improved his habits in all these years and is heartily sorry forthe errors of his youth. "

"Have you seen him, Medler?" the old man asked quickly. 

"Seen your son lately? No; indeed, my dear sir, I had no notion that hewas in England. "

The fact is, that Percival Nowell had called upon Mr. Medler more thanonce since his arrival in London; and had discussed with that gentlemanthe chances of his father's having made, or not made, a will, and thepossibility of the old man's being so far reconciled to him as to make awill in his favour. Percival Nowell had gone farther than this, and hadpromised the attorney a handsome percentage upon anything that his fathermight be induced to leave him by Mr. Medler's influence. 

The discussion lasted for a long time; Mr. Medler pushing on, stage bystage, in the favour of his secret client, anxious to see whether JacobNowell might not be persuaded to allow his son's name to take the placeof his granddaughter, whom he had never seen, and who was really no morethan a stranger to him, the attorney took care to remind him. But on thispoint the old man was immovable. He would leave his money to Marian, andto no one else. He had no desire that his son should ever profit by thelabours and deprivations of all those joyless years in which his fortunehad been scraped together. It was only as the choice of the lesser evilthat he would consent to Percival's inheriting the property from hisdaughter, rather than it should fall into the hands of Mr. Holbrook. Thelawyer had hard work before he could bring his client to this point; buthe did at last succeed in doing so, and Percival Nowell's name waswritten in the will. 

"I don't suppose Nowell will thank me much for what I've done, thoughI've had difficulty enough in doing it, " Mr. Medler said to himself, ashe walked slowly homewards after this prolonged conference in QueenAnne's Court. "For of course the chances are ten to one against hissurviving his daughter. Still these young women sometimes go off thehooks in an unexpected way, and he _may_ come into the reversion. "

There was only one satisfaction for the attorney, and that lay in thefact that this long, laborious interview had been all in the way ofbusiness, and could be charged for accordingly: "To attending at your ownhouse with relation to drawing up the rough draft of your will, andconsultation of two hours and a half thereupon;" and so on. The will wasto be executed next day; and Mr. Medler was to take his clerk with him toQueen Anne's Court, to act as one of the witnesses. He had obtained oneother triumph in the course of the discussion, which was the insertion ofhis own name as executor in place of Gilbert Fenton, against whom heraised so many specious arguments as to shake the old man's faith inMarian's jilted lover. 

Percival Nowell dropped in upon his father that night, and smoked hiscigar in the dingy little parlour, which was so crowded with divers kindsof merchandise as to be scarcely habitable. The old man's son came herealmost every evening, and behaved altogether in a very dutiful way. JacobNowell seemed to tolerate rather than to invite his visits, and theadventurer tried in vain to get at the real feelings underlying thatemotionless manner. 

"I think I might work round the governor if I had time, " this dutiful sonsaid to himself, as he reflected upon the aspect of affairs in QueenAnne's Court; "but I fancy the old chap has taken his ticket for the nextworld--booked through--per express train, and the chances are that he'llkeep his word and not leave me sixpence. Rather hard lines that, after mytaking the trouble to come over here and hunt him up. "

There was one fact that Mr. Nowell the younger seemed inclined to ignorein the course of these reflections; and that was the fact that he had notleft America until he had completely used up that country as a field forcommercial enterprise, and had indeed made his name so far notorious inconnection with numerous shady transactions as to leave no course open tohim except a speedy departure. Since his coming to England he had livedentirely on credit; and, beyond the fine clothes he wore and the contentsof his two portmanteaus, he possessed nothing in the world. It was quitetrue that he had done very well in New York; but his well-being had beensecured at the cost of other people; and after having started somehalf-dozen speculations, and living extravagantly upon the funds of hisvictims, he was now as poor as he had been when he left Belgium forAmerica, the commission-agent of a house in the iron trade. In thisposition he might have prospered in a moderate way, and might haveprofited by the expensive education which had given him nothing but showyagreeable manners, had he been capable of steadiness and industry. But ofthese virtues he was utterly deficient, possessing instead a genius forthat kind of swindling which keeps just upon the safe side of felony. Hehad lived pleasantly enough, for many years, by the exercise of thisagreeable talent; so pleasantly indeed that he had troubled himself verylittle about his chances of inheriting his father's savings. It was onlywhen he had exhausted all expedients for making money on "the other side"that he turned his thoughts in the direction of Queen Anne's Court, andbegan to speculate upon the probability of Jacob Nowell's good gracesbeing worth the trouble of cultivation. The prospectuses which he hadshown his father were mere waste paper, the useless surplus stationeryremaining from a scheme that had failed to enlist the sympathies of aTransatlantic public. But he fancied that his only chance with the oldman lay in an assumption of prosperity; so he carried matters with a highhand throughout the business, and swaggered in the little dusky parlourbehind the shop just as he had swaggered on New-York Broadway or atDelmonico's in the heyday of his commercial success. 

He called at Mr. Medler's office the day after Jacob Nowell's will hadbeen executed, having had no hint of the fact from his father. Thesolicitor told him what had been done, and how the most strenuous effortson his part had only resulted in the insertion of Percival's name afterthat of his daughter. 

Whatever indignation Mr. Nowell may have felt at the fact that hisdaughter had been preferred before him, he contrived to keep hidden inhis own mind. The lawyer was surprised at the quiet gravity with which hereceived the intelligence. He listened to Mr. Medler's statement of thecase with the calmest air of deliberation, seemed indeed to be thinkingso deeply that it was as if his thoughts had wandered away from thesubject in hand to some theme which allowed of more profound speculation. 

"And if she should die childless, I should get all the free-holdproperty?" he said at last, waking up suddenly from that state ofabstraction, and turning his thoughtful face upon the lawyer. 

"Yes; all the real estate would be yours. "

"Have you any notion what the property is worth?"

"Not an exact notion. Your father gave me a list of investments. Altogether, I should fancy, the income will be somethinghandsome--between two and three thousand a year, perhaps. Strange, isn'tit, for a man with all that money to have lived such a life as yourfather's?"

"Strange indeed, " Percival Nowell cried with a sneer. "And my daughterwill step into two or three thousand a year, " he went on: "very pleasantfor her, and for her husband into the bargain. Of course I'm not going tosay that I wouldn't rather have had the income myself. You'd scarcelyswallow that, as a man of the world, you see, Medler. But the girl is myonly child, and though circumstances have divided us for the greater partof our lives, blood is thicker than water; and in short, since there wasno getting the governor to do the right thing, and leave this money tome, it's the next best thing that he should leave it to Marian. "

"To say nothing of the possibility of her dying without children, andyour coming into the property after all, " said Mr. Medler, wondering alittle at Mr. Nowell's philosophical manner of looking at the question. 

"Sir, " exclaimed Percival indignantly, "do you imagine me capable ofspeculating upon the untimely death of my only child?"

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders doubtfully. In the course of his variedexperience he had found men and women capable of very queer things whentheir pecuniary interests were at stake; and he had not a most exaltedopinion of Mr. Nowell's virtue--he knew too many secrets connected withhis early career. 

"Remember, if ever by any strange chance you should come into thisproperty, you have me to thank for getting your name into the will, andfor giving your daughter only a life interest. She would have had everypenny left to her without reserve, if I hadn't fought for your interestsas hard as ever I fought for anything in the whole course of myprofessional career. "

"You're a good fellow, Medler; and if ever fortune should favour me, which hardly seems on the cards, I sha'n't forget what I promised you theother day. I daresay you did the best you could for me, though it doesn'tamount to much when it's done. "

Long after Percival Nowell had left him, Mr. Medler sat idle at his deskmeditating upon his interview with that gentleman. 

"I can't half understand his coolness, " he said to himself; "I expectedhim to be as savage as a bear when he found that the old man had left himnothing. I thought I should hear nothing but execrations and blasphemies;for I think I know my gentleman pretty well of old, and that he's not aperson to take a disappointment of this kind very sweetly. There must besomething under that quiet manner of his. Perhaps he knows more about hisdaughter than he cares to let out; knows that she is sickly, and that hestands a good chance of surviving her. "

There was indeed a lurking desperation under Percival Nowell's airymanner, of which the people amongst whom he lived had no suspicion. Unless some sudden turn in the wheel of fortune should change the aspectof affairs for him very soon, ruin, most complete and utter, wasinevitable. A man cannot go on very long without money; and in order topay his hotel-bill Mr. Nowell had been obliged to raise the funds from anaccommodating gentleman with whom he had done business in years gone by, and who was very familiar with his own and his father's autograph. Thebill upon which this gentleman advanced the money in question bore thename of Jacob Nowell, and was drawn at three months. Percival hadpersuaded himself that before the three months were out his father wouldbe in his grave, and his executors would scarcely be in a position todispute the genuineness of the signature. In the meantime the money thusobtained enabled him to float on. He paid his hotel-bill, and removed tolodgings in one of the narrow streets to the north-east of TottenhamCourt Road; an obscure lodging enough, where he had a couple ofcomfortable rooms on the first floor, and where his going out and comingin attracted little notice. Here, as at the hotel, he chose to assume thename of Norton instead of his legitimate cognomen. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION. 

Gilbert Fenton called at John Saltram's chambers within a day or two ofhis return from Hampshire. He had a strange, almost feverish eagerness tosee his old friend again; a sense of having wronged him for that onebrief moment of thought in which the possibility of his guilt had flashedacross his mind; and with this feeling there was mingled a suspicion thatJohn Saltram had not acted quite fairly to him; that he had kept backknowledge which must have come to him as an intimate ally of Sir DavidForster. 

He found Mr. Saltram at home in the familiar untidy room, with the oldchaos of books and papers about him. He looked tired and ill, and rose togreet his visitor with a weary air, as if nothing in the world possessedmuch interest for him now-a-days. 

"Why, John, you are as pallid as a ghost!" Gilbert exclaimed, graspingthe hand extended to him, and thinking of that one moment in which he hadfancied he was never to touch that hand again. "You have been at the oldwork, I suppose--overdoing it, as usual!"

"No, I have been working very little for these last few days. The truthis, I have not been able to work. The divine afflatus wouldn't come downupon me. There are times when a man's brain seems to be made of meltedbutter. Mine has been like that for the last week or so. "

"I thought you were going back to your fishing village near Oxford. "

"No, I was not in spirits for that. I have dined two or three times inCavendish Square, and have been made much of, and have contrived toforget my troubles for a few hours. "

"You talk of your troubles as if you were very heavily burdened; andyet, for the life of me, I cannot see what you have to complain of, "Gilbert said wonderingly. 

"Of course not. That is always the case with one's friends--even the bestof them. It's only the man who wears the shoe that knows why it pinchesand galls him. But what have you been doing since I saw you last?"

"I have been in Hampshire. "

"Indeed!" said John Saltram, looking him full in the face. "And what tookyou into that quarter of the world?"

"I thought you took more interest in my affairs than to have to ask thatquestion. I went to look for Marian Holbrook, --and I found her. "

"Poor old fellow!" Mr. Saltram said gently. "And was there anysatisfaction for you in the meeting?"

"Yes, and no. There was a kind of mournful pleasure in seeing the dearface once more. "

"She must have been surprised to see you. "

"She was, no doubt, surprised--unpleasantly, perhaps; but she received mevery kindly, and was perfectly frank upon every subject except herhusband. She would tell me nothing about him--neither his position in theworld, nor his profession, if he has one, as I suppose he has. She ownedhe was not rich, and that is about all she said of him. Poor girl, I donot think she is happy!"

"What ground have you for such an idea?"

"Her face, which told me a great deal more than her words. Her beauty isvery much faded since the summer evening when I first saw her in LidfordChurch. She seems to lead a lonely life in the old farm-house to whichher husband brought her immediately after their marriage--a life whichfew women would care to lead. And now, John, I want to know how it is youhave kept back the truth from me in this matter; that you have treated mewith a reserve which I had no right to expect from a friend. "

"What have I kept from you"

"Your knowledge of this man Holbrook. "

"What makes you suppose that I have any knowledge of him?"

"The fact that he is a friend of Sir David Forster's. The house in whichI found Marian belongs to Sir David, and was lent by him to Mr. Holbrook. "

"I do not know every friend of Forster's. He is a man who picks up hisacquaintance in the highways and byways, and drops them when he is tiredof them. "

"Will you tell me, on your honour, that you know nothing of this Mr. Holbrook?"

"Certainly. "

Gilbert Fenton gave a weary sigh, and then seated himself silentlyopposite Mr. Saltram. He could not afford to doubt this friend of his. The whole fabric of his life must have dropped to pieces if John Saltramhad played him false. His single venture as a lover having ended inshipwreck, he seemed to have nothing left him but friendship; and thatkind of hero-worship which had made his friend always appear to himsomething better than he really was, had grown stronger with him sinceMarian's desertion. 

"O Jack, " he said presently, "I could bear anything in this world betterthan the notion that you could betray me--that you could break faith withme for the sake of another man. "

"I am not likely to do that. There is no man upon, this earth I care forvery much except you. I am not a man prone to friendship. In fact, I am aselfish worthless fellow at the best, Gilbert, and hardly merit yourserious consideration. It would be wiser of you to think of me as Ireally am, and to think very little of me. "

"You did not show yourself remarkably selfish when you nursed me throughthat fever, at the hazard of your own life. "

"Pshaw! that was nothing. I could not have done less in the position inwhich we two were. Such sacrifices as those count for very little. It iswhen a man's own happiness is in the scale that the black spot showsitself. I tell you, Gilbert, I am not worth your friendship. It would bebetter for you to go your own way, and have nothing more to do with me. "

Mr. Saltram had said this kind of thing very often in the past, so thatthe words had no especial significance to Gilbert. He only thought thathis friend was in one of those gloomy moods which were common to him attimes. 

"I could not do without your friendship, Jack, " he said. "Remember howbarren the world is to me now. I have nothing left but that. "

"A poor substitute for better things, Gilbert. I am never likely to bemuch good to you or to myself. By the way, have you seen anything latelyof that old man you told me about--Miss Nowell's grandfather?"

"I saw him the other night. He is very ill--dying, I believe. I havewritten to Marian to tell her that if she does not come very quickly tosee him, there is a chance of her not finding him alive. "

"And she will come of course. "

"I suppose so. She talked of waiting for her husband's consent; but shewill scarcely do that when she knows her grandfather's precarious state. I shall go to Queen Anne's Court after I leave you, to ascertain if therehas been any letter from her to announce her coming. She is a completestranger in London, and may be embarrassed if she arrives at the stationalone. But I should imagine her husband would meet her there supposinghim to be in town. "

Mr. Fenton stayed with his friend about an hour after this; but JohnSaltram was not in a communicative mood to-night, and the talk laggedwearily. It was almost a relief to Gilbert when they had bidden eachother good-night, and he was out in the noisy streets once more, makinghis way towards Queen Anne's Court. 

CHAPTER XX. 

DRIFTING AWAY. 

Gilbert Fenton found Jacob Nowell worse; so much worse, that he had beenobliged to take to his bed, and was lying in a dull shabby room upstairs, faintly lighted by one tallow candle on the mantelpiece. Marian was therewhen Gilbert went in. She had arrived a couple of hours before, and hadtaken her place at once by the sick-bed. Her bonnet and shawl were throwncarelessly upon a dilapidated couch by the window. Gilbert fancied shelooked like a ministering angel as she sat by the bed, her soft brownhair falling loosely round the lovely face, her countenance almost divinein its expression of tenderness and pity. 

"You came to town alone, Marian?" he asked in a low voice. 

The old man was in a doze at this moment, lying with his pinched witheredface turned towards his granddaughter, his feeble hand in hers. 

"Yes, I came alone. My husband had not come back, and I would not delayany longer after receiving your letter. I am very glad I came. My poorgrandfather seemed so pleased to see me. He was wandering a little when Ifirst came in, but brightened wonderfully afterwards, and quiteunderstood who I was. "

The old man awoke presently. He was in a semi-delirious state, but seemedto know his granddaughter, and clung to her, calling her by name withsenile fondness. His mind wandered back to the past, and he talked to hisson as if he had been in the room, reproaching him for his extravagance, his college debts, which had been the ruin of his careful hard-workingfather. At another moment he fancied that his wife was still alive, andspoke to her, telling her that their grandchild had been christened afterher, and that she was to love the girl. And then the delirium left himfor a time, his mind grew clearer, and he talked quite rationally in hislow feeble way. 

"Is that Mr. Fenton?" he asked; "the room's so dark, I can't see verywell. She has come to me, you see. She's a good girl. Her eyes are likemy wife's. Yes, she's a good girl. It seems a hard thing that I shouldhave lived all these years without knowing her; lived alone, with no oneabout me but those that were on the watch for my money, and eager tocheat me at every turn. My life might have been happier if I'd had agrandchild to keep me company, and I might have left this place and livedlike a gentleman for her sake. But that's all past and gone. You'll berich when I'm dead, Marian; yes, what most people would count rich. Youwon't squander the money, will you, my dear, as your father would, if itwere left to him?"

"No, grandfather. But tell me about my father. Is he still living?" thegirl asked eagerly. 

"Never mind him, child, " answered Jacob Nowell. "He hasn't troubledhimself about you, and you can't do better than keep clear of him. Nogood ever came of anything he did yet, and no good ever will come. Don'tyou have anything to do with him, Marian. He'll try to get all your moneyaway from you, if you give him a chance--depend upon that. "

"He is living, then? O, my dear grandfather, do tell me something moreabout him. Remember that whatever his errors may have been, he is myfather--the only relation I have in the world except yourself. "

"His whole life has been one long error, " answered Jacob Nowell. "I tellyou, child, the less you know of him the better. "

He was not to be moved from this, and would say no more about his son, inspite of Marian's earnest pleading. The doctor came in presently, for thesecond time that evening, and forbade his patient's talking any more. Hetold Gilbert, as he left the house, that the old man's life was now onlya question of so many days or so many hours. 

The old woman who did all the work of Jacob Nowell's establishment--adilapidated-looking widow, whom nobody in that quarter ever remembered inany other condition than that of widowhood--had prepared a small bedroomat the back of the house for Marian; a room in which Percival had sleptin his early boyhood, and where the daughter found faint traces of herfather's life. Mr. Macready as Othello, in a spangled tunic, with vest ofactual satin let into the picture, after the pre-Raphaelite or realistictendency commonly found in such juvenile works of art, hung over thenarrow painted mantelpiece. The fond mother had had this masterpieceframed and glazed in the days when her son was still a little lad, unspoiled by University life and those splendid aspirations whichafterwards made his home hateful to him. There were some tattered booksupon a shelf by the bed--school prizes, an old Virgil, a "RobinsonCrusoe" shorn of its binding. The boy's name was written in them in ascrawling schoolboy hand; not once, but many times, after the fashion ofjuvenile bibliopoles, with primitive rhymes in Latin and English settingforth his proprietorship in the volumes. Caricatures were scribbled uponthe fly-leaves and margins of the books, the date whereof looked very oldto Marian, long before her own birth. 

It was not till very late that she consented to leave the old man's sideand go to the room which had been got ready for her, to lie down for anhour. She would not hear of any longer rest though the humble widow wasquite pathetic in her entreaties that the dear young lady would try toget a good night's sleep, and would leave the care of Mr. Nowell to her, who knew his ways, poor dear gentleman, and would watch over him ascarefully as if he had been her own poor husband, who kept his bed for atwelvemonth before he died, and had to be waited on hand and foot. Mariantold this woman that she did not want rest. She had come to town onpurpose to be with her grandfather, and would stay with him as long as heneeded her care. 

She did, however, consent to go to her room for a little in the earlyNovember dawn, when Jacob Nowell had fallen into a profound sleep; butwhen she did lie down, sleep would not come to her. She could not helplistening to every sound in the opposite room--the falling of a cinder, the stealthy footfall of the watcher moving cautiously about now andthen; listening still more intently when all was silent, expecting everymoment to hear herself summoned suddenly. The sick-room and the darkshadow of coming death brought back the thought of that bitter time whenher uncle was lying unconscious and speechless in the pretty room atLidford, with the wintry light shining coldly upon his stony face; whileshe sat by his pillow, watching him in hopeless silent agony, waiting forthat dread change which they had told her was the only change that couldcome to him on earth. The scene re-acted itself in her mind to-night, with all the old anguish. She shut it out at last with a great effort, and began to think of what her grandfather had said to her. 

She was to be rich. She who had been a dependant upon others all her lifewas to know the security and liberty that must needs go along withwealth. She was glad of this, much more for her husband's sake than herown. She knew that the cares which had clouded their life of late, whichhad made him seem to love her less than he had loved her at first, hadtheir chief origin in want of money. What happiness it would be for herto lift this burden from his life, to give him peace and security for theyears to come! Her thoughts wandered away into the bright region ofday-dreams after this, and she fancied what their lives might be withoutthat dull sordid trouble of pecuniary embarrassments. She fancied herhusband, with all the fetters removed that had hampered his footstepshitherto, winning a name and a place in the world. It is so natural for aromantic inexperienced girl to believe that the man she loves was born toachieve greatness; and that if he misses distinction, it is from theperversity of his surroundings or from his own carelessness, never fromthe fact of his being only a very small creature after all. 

It was broad daylight when Marian rose after an hour of sleeplessness andthought, and refreshed herself with the contents of the cracked water-jugupon the rickety little wash-stand. The old man was still asleep when shewent back to his room; but his breathing was more troubled than it hadbeen the night before, and the widow, who was experienced in sickness anddeath, told Marian that he would not last very long. The shopman, LukeTulliver, had come upstairs to see his master, and was hovering over thebed with a ghoulish aspect. This young man looked very sharply at Marianas she came into the room--seemed indeed hardly able to take his eyesfrom her face--and there was not much favour in his look. He knew who shewas, and had been told how kindly the old man had taken to her in thoselast moments of his life; and he hated her with all his heart and soul, having devoted all the force of his mind for the last ten years to thecultivation of his employer's good graces, hoping that Mr. Nowell, havingno one else to whom to leave his money, would end by leaving it all tohim. And here was a granddaughter, sprung from goodness knows where, tocheat him out of all his chances. He had always suspected Gilbert Fentonof being a dangerous sort of person, and it was no doubt he who hadbrought about this introduction, to the annihilation of Mr. Tulliver'shopes. This young man took his place in a vacant chair by the fire, as ifdetermined to stop; while Marian seated herself quietly by the sleeper'spillow, thinking only of that one occupant of the room, and supposingthat Mr. Tulliver's presence was a mark of fidelity. 

The old man woke with a start presently, and looked about him in a slowbewildered way for some moments. 

"Who's that?" he asked presently, pointing to the figure by the hearth. 

"It's only Mr. Tulliver, sir, " the widow answered. "He's so anxious aboutyou, poor young man. "

"I don't want him, " said Jacob Nowell impatiently. "I don't want hisanxiety; I want to be alone with my granddaughter. "

"Don't send me away, sir, " Mr. Tulliver pleaded in a piteous tone. "Idon't deserve to be sent away like a stranger, after serving youfaithfully for the last ten years----"

"And being well paid for your services, " gasped the old man. "I tell youI don't want you. Go downstairs and mind the shop. "

"It's not open yet, sir, " remonstrated Mr. Tulliver. 

"Then it ought to be. I'll have no idling and shirking because I'm ill. Go down and take down the shutters directly. Let the business go on justas if I was there to watch it. "

"I'm going, sir, " whimpered the young man; "but it does seem rather apoor return after having served you as I have, and loved you as if you'dbeen my own father. "

"Very much men love their fathers now-a-days! I didn't ask you to loveme, did I? or hire you for that, or pay you for it? Pshaw, man, I knowyou. You wanted my money like the rest of them, and I didn't mind yourthinking there was a chance of your getting it. I've rather encouragedthe notion at odd times. It made you a better servant, and kept youhonest. But now that I'm dying, I can afford to tell the truth. Thisyoung lady will have all my money, every sixpence of it, exceptfive-and-twenty pounds to Mrs. Mitchin yonder. And now you can go. You'dhave got something perhaps in a small way, if you'd been less of a sneakand a listener; but you've played your cards a trifle too well. "

The old man had raised himself up in his bed, and rallied considerablywhile he made this speech. He seemed to take a malicious pleasure in hisshopman's disappointment. But when Luke Tulliver had slowly withdrawnfrom the room, with a last venomous look at Marian, Jacob Nowell sankback upon his pillow exhausted by his unwonted animation. 

"You don't know what a deep schemer that young man has been, Marian, " hesaid, "and how I have laughed in my sleeve at his manoeuvres. "

The dull November day dragged itself slowly through, Marian never leavingher post by the sick-bed. Jacob Nowell spent those slow hours in fitfulsleep and frequent intervals of wakefulness, in which he would talk toMarian, however she might urge him to remember the doctor's injunctionsthat he should be kept perfectly quiet. It seemed indeed to matter verylittle whether he obeyed the doctor or not, since the end was inevitable. 

One of the curates of the parish came in the course of the day, and readand prayed beside the old man's bed, Jacob Nowell joining in the prayersin a half-mechanical way. For many years of his life he had neglected allreligious duties. It was years since he had been inside a church; perhapshe had not been once since the death of his wife, who had persuaded himto go with her sometimes to the evening service, when he had generallyscandalised her by falling asleep during the delivery of the sermon. Allthat the curate told him now about the necessity that he should make hispeace with his God, and prepare himself for a world to come, had afar-off sound to him. He thought more about the silver downstairs, andwhat it was likely to realize in the auction-room. Even in this supremehour his conscience did not trouble him much about the doubtful modes bywhich some of the plate he had dealt in had reached his hands. If he hadnot bought the things, some other dealer would have bought them. That isthe easy-going way in which he would have argued the question, had hebeen called upon to argue it at all. 

Mr. Fenton came in the evening to see the old man, and stood for a littletime by the bedside watching him as he slept, and talking in a low voiceto Marian. He asked her how long she was going to remain in Queen Anne'sCourt, and found her ideas very vague upon that subject. 

"If the end is so near as the doctor says, it would be cruel to leave mygrandfather till all is over, " she said. 

"I wonder that your husband has not come to you, if he is in London, "Gilbert remarked to her presently. He found himself very often wonderingabout her husband's proceedings, in no indulgent mood. 

"He may not be in London, " she answered, seeming a little vexed by theobservation. "I am quite sure that he will do whatever is best. "

"But if he should not come to you, and if your grandfather should diewhile you are alone here, I trust you will send for me and let me giveyou any help you may require. You can scarcely stay in this house afterthe poor old man's death. "

"I shall go back to Hampshire immediately; if I am not wanted here foranything--to make arrangements for the funeral. O, how hard it seems tospeak of that while he is still living!"

"You need give yourself no trouble on that account. I will see to allthat, if there is no more proper person to do so. "

"You are very good. I am anxious to go back to the Grange as quickly aspossible. "

Gilbert left soon after this. He felt that his presence was of no use inthe sick-room, and that he had no right to intrude upon Marian at such atime. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

Almost immediately after Gilbert's departure, another visitor appeared inthe dimly lighted shop, where Luke Tulliver was poring over a newspaperat one end of the counter under a solitary gas-burner. 

The new-comer was Percival Nowell, who had not been to the house sincehis daughter's arrival. 

"Well, " said this gentleman, in his usual off-hand manner, "how's thegovernor?"

"Very ill; going fast, the doctor says. "

"Eh? As bad as that? Then there's been a change since I was here last. "

"Yes; Mr. Nowell was taken much worse yesterday morning. He had a kind offit, I fancy, and couldn't get his speech for some time afterwards. Buthe got over that, and has talked well enough since then, " Mr. Tulliverconcluded ruefully, remembering his master's candid remarks that morning. 

"I'll step upstairs and have a look at the old gentleman, " said Percival. 

"There's a young lady with him, " Mr. Tulliver remarked, in a somewhatmysterious tone. 

"A young lady!" the other cried. "What young lady?"

"His granddaughter. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes; she came up from the country yesterday evening, and she's beensitting with him ever since. He seems to have taken to her very much. You'd think she'd been about him all her life; and she's to have all hismoney, he says. I wonder what his only son will say to that, " added Mr. Tulliver, looking very curiously at Percival Nowell, "supposing him to bealive? Rather hard upon him, isn't it?"

"Uncommonly, " the other answered coolly. He saw that the shopmansuspected his identity, though he had carefully avoided all reference tothe relationship between himself and the old man in Luke Tulliver'spresence, and had begged his father to say nothing about him. 

"I should like to see this young lady before I go up to Mr. Nowell'sroom, " he said presently. "Will you step upstairs and ask her to comedown to me?"

"I can go if you wish, but I don't suppose she'll leave the oldgentleman. "

"Never mind what you suppose. Tell her that I wish to say a few words toher upon particular business. "

Luke Tulliver departed upon his errand, while Percival Nowell went intothe parlour, and seated himself before the dull neglected fire in thelumbering old arm-chair in which his father had sat through the longlonely evenings for so many years. Mr. Nowell the younger was notdisturbed by any sentimental reflections upon this subject, however; hewas thinking of his father's will, and the wrong which was inflicted uponhim thereby. 

"To be cheated out of every sixpence by my own flesh and blood!" hemuttered to himself. "That seems too much for any man to bear. "

The door was opened by a gentle hand presently, and Marian came into theroom. Percival Nowell rose from his seat hastily and stood facing her, surprised by her beauty and an indefinable likeness which she bore to hermother--a likeness which brought his dead wife's face back to his mindwith a sudden pang. He had loved her after his own fashion once upon atime, and had grown weary of her and neglected her after the death ofthat short-lived selfish passion; but something, some faint touch of theold feeling, stirred his heart as he looked at his daughter to-night. Theemotion was as brief as the breath of a passing wind. In the next momenthe was thinking of his father's money, and how this girl had emerged fromobscurity to rob him of it. 

"You wish to speak to me on business, I am told, " she said, in her clearlow voice, wondering at the stranger's silence and deliberate scrutiny ofher face. 

"Yes, I have to speak to you on very serious business, Marian, " heanswered gravely. 

"You are an utter stranger to me, and yet call me by my Christian name. "

"I am not an utter stranger to you. Look at me, Mrs. Holbrook. Have younever seen my face before?"

"Never. "

"Are you quite sure of that? Look a little longer before you answeragain. "

"Yes!" she cried suddenly, after a long pause. "You are my father!"

There had come back upon her, in a rapid flash of memory, the picture ofa room in Brussels--a room lighted dimly by two wax-candles on thechimney-piece, where there was a tall dark man who snatched her up in hisarms and kissed her before he went out. She remembered caring very littlefor his kisses, and having a childish consciousness of the fact that itwas he who made her mamma cry so often in the quiet lonely evenings, whenthe mother and child were together in that desolate continental lodging. 

Yet at this moment she was scarcely disposed to think much about herfather's ill-conduct. She considered only that he was her father, andthat they had found each other after long years of separation. Shestretched out her arms, and would have fallen upon his breast; butsomething in his manner repelled her, something downcast and nervous, which had a chilling effect upon her, and gave her time to remember howlittle cause she had to love him. He did not seem aware of theaffectionate impulse which had moved her towards him at first. He gaveher his hand presently. It was deadly cold, and lay loosely in her own. 

"I was asking my grandfather about you this morning, " she said, wonderingat his strange manner, "but he would not tell me where you were. "

"Indeed! I am surprised to find you felt so much interest in me; I'maware that I don't deserve as much. Yet I could plead plenty of excusesfor my life, if I cared to trouble you with them; but I don't. It wouldbe a long story; and when it was told, you might not believe it. Most menare, more or less, the slave of circumstances. I have suffered that kindof bondage all my life. I have known, too, that you were in goodhands--better off in every way than you could have been in my care--or Ishould have acted differently in relation to you. "

"There is no occasion to speak of the past, " Marian replied gravely. "Providence was very good to me; but I know my poor mother's last dayswere full of sorrow. I cannot tell how far it might have been in yourpower to prevent that. It is not my place to blame, or even to questionyour conduct. "

"You are an uncommonly dutiful daughter, " Mr. Nowell exclaimed withrather a bitter laugh; "I thought that you would have repudiated mealtogether perhaps; would have taken your tone from my father, who hasgrown pig-headed with old age, and cannot forgive me for having had theaspirations of a gentleman. "

"It is a pity there should not be union between my grandfather and you atsuch a moment as this, " Marian said. 

"O, we are civil enough to each other. I bear no malice against the oldman, though many sons in my position might consider themselves hardlyused. And now I may as well go upstairs and pay my respects. Why is notyour husband with you, by the bye?"

"He is not wanted here; and I do not even know that he is in London. "

"Humph! He seems rather a mysterious sort of person, this husband ofyours. "

Marian took no notice of this remark, and the father and daughter wentupstairs to the sick-room together. The old silversmith received his sonwith obvious coolness, and was evidently displeased at seeing Marian andher father together. 

Percival Nowell, however, on his part, appeared to be in an unusuallyaffectionate and dutiful mood this evening. He held his place by thebedside resolutely, and insisted on sharing Marian's watch that night. Soall through the long night those two sat together, while the old manpassed from uneasy slumber to more uneasy wakefulness, and back totroubled sleep again, his breathing growing heavier and more labouredwith every hour. They were very quiet, and could have found but little tosay to each other, had there been no reason for their silence. That firstbrief impulsive feeling of affection past, Marian could only think ofthis newly-found father as the man who had made her mother's life lonelyand wretched while he pursued his own selfish pleasures; and who hadallowed her to grow to womanhood without having been the object of onethought or care upon his part. She could not forget these things, as shesat opposite to him in the awful silence of the sick-room, stealing aglance at his face now and then, and wondering at the strange turn offortune which had brought them thus together. 

It was not a pleasant face by any means--not a countenance to inspirelove or confidence. Handsome still, but with a faded look, like a facethat had grown pallid and wrinkled in the feverish atmosphere of vicioushaunts--under the flaring gas that glares down upon the green cloth of arouge-et-noir table, in the tumult of crowded race-courses, the press andconfusion of the betting-ring--it was the face of a battered _roué_, whohad lived his life, and outlived the smiles of fortune; the face of a manto whom honest thoughts and hopes had long been unknown. There was adisappointed peevish look about the drooping corners of the mouth, anangry glitter in the eyes. 

He did not look at his daughter very often as they sat together throughthat weary vigil, but kept his eyes for the greater part of the time uponthe wasted face on the pillow, which looked like a parchment mask in thedim light. He seemed to be deep in thought, and several times in thenight Marian heard him breathe an impatient sigh, as if his thoughts werenot pleasant to him. More than once he rose from his chair and paced theroom softly for a little time, as if the restlessness of his mind hadmade that forced quiet unendurable. The early morning light came at last, faint and wan and gray, across a forest of blackened chimney-pots, and bythat light the watchers could see that Jacob Nowell had changed for theworse. 

He lingered till late that afternoon. It was growing dusk when he died, making a very peaceful end of life at the last, with his head restingupon Marian's shoulder, and his cold hand clasped in hers. His son stoodby the bed, looking down upon him at that final moment with a fixedinscrutable face. Gilbert Fenton called that evening, and heard of theold man's death from Luke Tulliver. He heard also that Mrs. Holbrookintended to sleep in Queen Anne's Court that night, and did not thereforeintrude upon her, relying upon being able to see her next morning. Heleft his card, with a few words of condolence written upon it in pencil. 

Mr. Nowell was with his daughter in the little parlour behind the shopwhen Luke Tulliver gave her this card. He asked who the visitor was. 

"Mr. Fenton, a gentleman I knew at Lidford in my dear uncle's lifetime. My grandfather liked him very much. "

"Mr. Fenton! Yes, my father told me all about him. You were engaged tohim, and jilted him for this man you have married--very foolishly, as itseems to me; for he could certainly have given you a better position thanthat which you appear to occupy now. "

"I chose for my own happiness, " Marian answered quietly, "and I have onlyone subject for regret; that is, that I was compelled to act withingratitude towards a good man. But Mr. Fenton has forgiven me; haspromised to be my friend, if ever I should have need of his friendship. He has very kindly offered to take all trouble off my hands with respectto--to the arrangements for the funeral. "

"He is remarkably obliging, " said Percival Nowell with a sneer; "but asthe only son of the deceased, I consider myself the proper person toperform that final duty. "

"I do not wish to interfere with your doing so. Of course I did not knowhow near at hand you were when Mr. Fenton made that offer, or I shouldhave told him. "

"You mean to remain until the funeral is over, I suppose?"

"I think not; I want to go back to Hampshire as soon as possible--by anearly train to-morrow morning, if I can. I do not see that there is anyreason for my remaining. I could not prove my respect or affection for mygrandfather any more by staying. "

"Certainly not, " her father answered promptly. "I think you will be quiteright in getting away from this dingy hole as quick as you can. "

"It is not for that. But I have promised to return directly I was free todo so. "

"And you go back to Hampshire? To what part of Hampshire?"

Marian told him the name of the place where she was living. He wrote theaddress in his pocket-book, and was especially careful that it should becorrectly written, as to the name of the nearest town, and in all otherparticulars. 

"I may have to write to you, or to come to you, perhaps, " he said. "It'sas well to be prepared for the contingency. "

After this Mr. Nowell sent out for a "Railway Guide, " in order to givehis daughter all necessary information about the trains for Malsham. There was a tolerably fast train that left Waterloo at seven in themorning, and Marian decided upon going by that. She had to spend theevening alone with her father while Mrs. Mitchin kept watch in thedismal chamber upstairs. Mr. Nowell asked his daughter's permission tolight his cigar, and having obtained it, sat smoking moodily all theevening, staring into the fire, and very rarely addressing his companion, who had taken a Bible out of her travelling-bag, and was reading thosesolemn, chapters which best harmonised with her feelings at this moment;thinking as she read of the time when her guardian and benefactor lay inhis last calm rest, and she had vainly tried to find comfort in the samewords, and had found herself staring blankly at the sacred page, witheyes that were dry and burning, and to which there came no mercifulrelief from tears. 

Her father glanced at her askance now and then from his arm-chair by thefire, as she sat by the little round table looking down at her book, thelight of the candles shining full upon her pensive face. He looked at herwith no friendliness in his eyes, but with that angry sparkle which hadgrown almost habitual to them of late, since the world had gone ill withhim. After one of those brief stolen looks, a strange smile crept overhis face. He was thinking of a little speech of Shakespeare's Richardabout his nephew, the youthful Prince of Wales:

 So young, so wise, they say do ne'er live long. 

"How pious she is!" he said to himself with a diabolical sneer. "Did thehalf-pay Captain teach her that, I wonder? or does church-going, andpsalm-singing, and Bible-reading come natural to all women? I know mymother was good at it, and my wife too. She used to fly to her Bible as aman flies to dram-drinking, or his pipe, when things go wrong. "

He got tired of his cigar at last, and went out into the shop, where hebegan to question Mr. Tulliver as to the extent and value of thestock-in-trade, and upon other details of the business; to all of whichinquiries the shopman replied in a suspicious and grudging spirit, givinghis questioner the smallest possible amount of information. 

"You're an uncommonly cautious young man, " Mr. Nowell exclaimed at last. "You'll never stand in your own light by being too anxious to obligeother people. I daresay, though, you could speak fast enough, if it wasmade worth your while. "

"I don't see what is to make it worth my while, " Luke Tulliver answeredcoolly. "My duty is to my dead master, and those that are to come afterhim. I don't want strangers coming sniffing and prying into the stock. Mr. Nowell's books were kept so that I couldn't cheat him out of asixpence, or the value of a sixpence; and I mean to hand 'em over to thelawyer in a manner that will do me credit. My master has not been agenerous master to me, considering how I've served him, and I've gotnothing but my character to look to; but that I have got, and I don'twant it tampered with. "

"Who is going to tamper with it?" said Mr. Nowell. "So you'll hand overthe stock-books to the lawyer, will you, without a leaf missing, or anerasure, or an item marked off as sold that never was sold, or any littledodges of that kind, eh, Mr. Tulliver?"

"Of course, " answered the shopman, looking defiantly at the questioner, who was leaning across the counter with folded arms, staring at LukeTulliver with an ironical grin upon his countenance. 

"Then you are a very remarkable man. I should have thought such a chanceas a death as unexpected as my--as old Mr. Nowell's would have made thefortune of a confidential clerk like you. "

"I'm not a thief, " answered Mr. Tulliver with an air of virtuousindignation; "and you can't know much about old Jacob Nowell if you thinkthat anybody could cheat him, living or dead. There's not an entry in thebook that isn't signed with his initials, in his own hand. When a thingwas sold and crossed off the book, he put his initials to the entry ofthe sale. He went through the books every night till a week ago, and he'das soon have cut his own head off as omit to do it, so long as he couldsee the figures in the book or hold his pen. "

Mr. Medler the lawyer came in while Percival Nowell and the shopman weretalking. He had been away from his office upon business that evening, andhad only just received the tidings of the silversmith's death. 

Luke Tulliver handed him the books and keys of the cases in which thetarnished plate was exhibited. He went into all the details of thebusiness carefully, setting his seal upon books and papers, and doing allthat he could to make matters secure without hindrance to the carrying onof the trade. 

He was surprised to hear that Mrs. Holbrook was in the house, andproposed paying his respects to her that evening; but this Mr. Nowellprevented. She was tired and out of spirits, he told the attorney; itwould be better for him to see her next day. It was convenient to Mr. Nowell to forget Marian's intention of returning to Hampshire by an earlytrain on the following morning at this juncture. 

When he went back to the parlour by-and-by, after Mr. Medler had finishedhis business in the shop, and was trudging briskly towards his ownresidence, Mr. Nowell told his daughter that the lawyer had been there, but did not inform her of his desire to see her. 

"I suppose you know all about your grandfather's will?" he saidby-and-by, when he had half-finished another cigar. 

Marian had put away her book by this time, and was looking dreamily atthe fire, thinking of her husband, who need never know those weary sordidcares about money again, now that she was to be rich. 

Her father's question startled her out of that agreeable day-dream. 

"Yes, " she said; "my grandfather told me that he had left all his moneyto me. I know that must seem unjust to you, papa; but I hope my husbandwill allow me to do something towards repairing that injustice in somemeasure. "

"In some measure!" Mr. Nowell thought savagely. "That means a pittancethat would serve to keep life in a pauper, I suppose; and that is to becontingent upon her husband's permission. " He made no audible reply tohis daughter's speech, and seemed, indeed, so much absorbed in his ownthoughts, that Marian doubted if he had heard her; and so the rest of thelong evening wore itself out in dismal silence, whilst stealthy footstepssounded now and then upon the stairs. Later Mr. Nowell was summoned to aconference with some mysterious person in the shop, whom Marian supposedto be the undertaker; and returning from this interview with a gloomyface, he resumed his seat by the fire. 

It seemed very strange to Marian that they two, father and daughter, should be together thus, so near and yet so wide apart; united by theclosest tie of kindred, brought together thus after years of severance, yet with no bond of sympathy between them; no evidence of remorsefultenderness on the side of him whose life had been one long neglect of afather's duty. 

"How could I expect that he would care for me in the smallest degree, after his desertion of my mother?" Marian thought to herself, as shemeditated upon her father's coldness, which at first had seemed sostrange to her. She had fancied that, what ever his sins in the past hadbeen, his heart would have melted at the sight of his only child. She hadthought of him and dreamed of him so often in her girlhood, elevating himin her romantic fancy into something much better and brighter than hereally was--a sinner at best, it is true, but a sinner of a lofty type, anoble nature gone astray. She had imagined a reunion with him in the daysto come, when it should be her delight to minister to his decliningyears--to be the consolation of his repentant soul. And now she had foundhim she knew these things could never be--that there was not one feelingof sympathy possible between her and that broken-down, dissipated-lookingman of the world. 

The dismal evening came to an end at last, and Marian bade her fathergood-night, and went upstairs to the little room where the traces of hisboyhood had interested her so keenly when first she looked upon them. Mr. Nowell promised to come to Queen Anne's Court at a quarter past sixnext morning, to escort his daughter to the station, an act of parentalsolicitude she had not expected from him. He took his departureimmediately afterwards, being let out of the shop-door by Luke Tulliver, who was in a very cantankerous humour, and took no pains to disguise thestate of his feelings. The lawyer Mr. Medler had pried into everything, the shopman told Percival Nowell; had declared himself empowered to dothis, as the legal adviser of the deceased; and had seemed as suspiciousas if he, Luke Tulliver, meant to rob his dead master. Mr. Tulliver'ssensitive nature had been outraged by such a line of conduct. 

"And what has he done with the books?" Mr. Nowell asked. 

"They're all in the desk yonder, and that fellow Medler has taken awaythe keys. "

"Sharp practice, " said Mr. Nowell; "but to a man with your purity ofintention it can't matter what precautions are taken to insure the safetyof the property. "

"Of course it don't matter, " the other answered peevishly; "but I like tobe treated as a gentleman. "

"Humph! And you expect to retain your place here, I suppose, if thebusiness is carried on?"

"It's too good a business to be let drop, " replied Mr. Tulliver; "but Ishouldn't think that young lady upstairs would be much of a hand attrade. I wouldn't mind offering a fair price for the business, --I've gota tidy little bit of money put away, though my salary has been smallenough, goodness knows; but I've lived with the old gentleman, and neverwasted a penny upon pleasure; none of your music-halls, ordancing-saloons, or anything of that kind, for me, --or I wouldn't mindpaying an annual sum out of the profits of the trade for a reasonableterm. If you've any influence with the young lady, perhaps you could putit to her, and get her to look at things in that light, " Mr. Tulliveradded, becoming quite obsequious as it dawned upon him that thisinterloping stranger might be able to do him a service. 

"I'll do my best for you, Tulliver, " Mr. Nowell replied, in a patronisingtone. "I daresay the young lady will be quite willing to entertain anyreasonable proposition you may make. "

Faithful to his promise Mr. Nowell appeared at a quarter past six nextmorning, at which hour he found his daughter quite ready for her journey. She was very glad to get away from that dreary house, made a hundredfoldmore dismal by the sense of what lay in the closed chamber, where thecandles were still burning in the yellow fog of the November morning, andto which Marian had gone with hushed footsteps to kneel for the last timebeside the old man who was so near her by the ties of relationship, andwhom she had known for so brief a space. She was glad to leave that dingyquarter of the town, which to one who had never lived in an English cityseemed unspeakably close and wretched; still more glad to think that shewas going back to the quiet home, where her husband would most likelyjoin her very soon. She might find him there when she arrived, perhaps;for he knew nothing of this journey to London, or could only hear of itat the Grange, where she had left a letter for him, enclosing that briefnote of Gilbert Fenton's which had informed her of her grandfather'sfatal illness. There were special reasons why she should not ask him tomeet her in Queen Anne's Court, however long she might have beencompelled to stay there. 

Mr. Nowell was much more affectionate in his manner to his daughter thismorning, as they sat in the cab driving to the station, and walked sideby side upon the platform in the quarter of an hour's interval before thedeparture of the train. He questioned her closely upon her life in thepresent, and her plans for the future, expressing himself in a remarkablygenerous manner upon the subject of her grandfather's will, and declaringhimself very well pleased that his own involuntary neglect was to be soamply atoned for by the old man's liberality. He found his daughtercompletely ignorant of the world, as gentle and confiding as he had foundher mother in the past. He sounded the depths of her innocent mind duringthat brief promenade; and when the train bore her away at last, and theplatform was clear, he remained for some time walking up and down inprofound meditation, scarcely knowing where he was. He looked round himin an absent way by-and-by, and then hurriedly left the station, anddrove straight to Mr. Medler's office, which was upon the ground floor ofa gloomy old house in one of the dingier streets in the Soho district, and in the upper chambers whereof the attorney's wife and numerousoffspring had their abode. He came down to his client from hisunpretending breakfast-table in a faded dressing-gown, with smears of eggand greasy traces of buttered toast about the region of his mouth, andseemed not particularly pleased to see Mr. Nowell. But the conferencethat followed was a long one; and it is to be presumed that it involvedsome chance of future profit, since the lawyer forgot to return to hisunfinished breakfast, much to the vexation of Mrs. Medler, a faded ladywith everything about her in the extremest stage of limpness, who washedthe breakfast-things with her own fair hands, in consideration of themultitudinous duties to be performed by that hapless solitary damsel whoin such modest households is usually denominated "the girl. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

AT LIDFORD AGAIN. 

Gilbert Fenton called in Queen Anne's Court within a few hours ofMarian's departure, and was not a little disappointed when he was toldthat she had gone back to Hampshire. He had relied upon seeing heragain--not once only, but several times--before her return. He hadpromised Jacob Nowell that he would watch over and protect her interests;and it was a sincere unqualified wish to do this that influenced him now. More than a dear friend, the sweetest and dearest of all womankind, shecould never be to him. He accepted the position with resignation. Thefirst sharp bitterness of her loss was over. That he should ever cease tolove her was impossible; but it seemed to him that a chivalrousfriendship for her, a disinterested brotherly affection, was in no mannerincompatible with that hapless silent love. No word of his, in all theirintercourse to come, should ever remind her of that hidden devotion; noshadow of the past should ever cloud the calm brightness of the present. It was a romantic fancy, perhaps, for a man of business, whose days werespent in the very press and tumult of commercial life; but it had liftedGilbert Fenton out of that slough of despond into which he had fallenwhen Marian seemed utterly lost to him--vanished altogether out of hisexistence. 

He had a sense of bitter disappointment, therefore, when he found thatshe had gone, leaving neither letter nor message for him. How littlevalue his friendship must needs possess for her, when she could abandonhim thus without a word! He had felt sure that she would consult him uponher affairs; but no, she had her husband to whom to appeal, and had noneed of any other counsellor. 

"I was a fool to think that I could ever be anything to her, even afriend, " he said to himself bitterly; "women are incapable of friendship. It is all or nothing with them; a blind self-abnegation or the coldestindifference. Devotion cannot touch them, unless the man who gives ithappen to be that one man out of a thousand who has the power to bewitchtheir senses. Truth and affection, of themselves, have no value withthem. How many people spoke to me of this Holbrook as an unattractiveman; and yet he won my love away from me, and holds her with an influenceso complete, that my friendship seems worthless to her. She cannot giveme a word or a thought. "

Mr. Fenton made some inquiries about the funeral arrangements and foundthat these had been duly attended to by the lawyer, and a gentleman whohad been with Jacob Nowell a good deal of late, who seemed to be somerelation to the old man, Mr. Tulliver said, and took a great deal uponhimself. This being done, there was, of course, no occasion for Gilbertto interfere, and he was glad to be released from all responsibility. Having ascertained this, he asked for the address of the late Mr. Nowell's lawyer; and being told it, went at once to Mr. Medler's office. He did not consider himself absolved from the promise he had made the oldman by Marian's indifference, and was none the less anxious to watch overher interests because she seemed to set so little value on hisfriendship. 

He told Mr. Medler who he was, and the promise he had given to JacobNowell, abstaining, of course, from any reference to the position he hadonce occupied towards Marian. He described himself as her friend only--afriend of long standing, who had been intimate with her adopted guardian. 

"I know how ignorant Mrs. Holbrook is of the world and of all businessmatters, " he went on to say, "and I am naturally anxious that herinterests should be protected. "

"I should think there was very little doubt that her husband will seeafter those, " the lawyer answered, with something of a sneer; "husbandsare generally supposed to do that, especially where there is money atstake. "

"I do not know Mr. Holbrook; and he has kept himself in the background sopersistently up to this point, and has been altogether so underhanded inhis proceedings, that I have by no means a good opinion of him. Mr. Nowell told me that he intended to leave his money to his granddaughterin such a manner, that it would be hers and hers only--free from thecontrol of any husband. He has done so, I presume?"

"Yes, " Mr. Medler replied, with the air of a man who would fain havewithheld the information; "he has left it for her own separate use andmaintenance. "

"And it is a property of some importance, I conclude?"

"Of some importance--yes, " the lawyer answered, in the same tone. 

"Ought not Mrs. Holbrook to have remained to hear the reading of thewill?"

"Well, yes, decidedly; it would have been more in the usual way ofthings; but her absence can have no ill effect upon her interests. Ofcourse it will be my duty to make her acquainted with the contents of thewill. "

Gilbert Fenton was not prepossessed by Mr. Medler's countenance, whichwas not an open candid index to a spotless soul, nor by his surroundings, which were of the shabbiest; but the business being in this man's hands, it might be rather difficult to withdraw it--dangerous even. The man heldthe will, and in holding that had a certain amount of power. 

"There is no one except Mrs. Holbrook interested in Mr. Nowell's will, Isuppose?" Gilbert said presently. 

"No one directly and immediately, except an old charwoman, who has alegacy of five-and-twenty pounds. "

"But there is some one else interested in an indirect manner I infer fromyour words?"

"Yes. Mrs. Holbrook takes the whole of the personalty, but she has only alife-interest in the real estate. If she should have children, it will goto them on her death; if she should die childless, it will go to herfather, supposing him to survive her. "

"To her father? That is rather strange, isn't it?"

"I don't know that. It was the old man's wish that the will should be tothat effect. "

"I understood from him that he did not know whether his son was alive ordead. "

"Indeed! I believe he had news of his son very lately. "

"Curious that he should not have told me, knowing as he did my interestin everything relating to Mrs. Holbrook. "

"Old people are apt to be close; and Jacob Nowell was about one of theclosest customers I ever met with, " answered the lawyer. 

Gilbert left him soon after this, and chartered a hansom in the nextstreet, which carried him back to the City. He was very uncertain as towhat he ought to do for Marian, doubtful of Mr. Medler's integrity, andyet anxious to abstain from any act that might seem uncalled for orofficious. She had her husband to look after her interests, as the lawyerhad reminded him, and it was scarcely probable that Mr. Holbrook wouldneglect any steps necessary to secure his wife's succession to whateverproperty Jacob Nowell had left. It seemed to Gilbert that he could donothing at present, except write to Marian, telling her of his interviewwith the lawyer, and advising her to lose no time in placing the conductof her affairs in more respectable hands than those of Mr. Medler. Hementioned his own solicitors, a City firm of high standing, as gentlemenwhom she might wisely trust at this crisis of her life. 

This done, he could only wait the issue of events, and he tried to occupyhimself as much as possible with his business at St. Helens--thatbusiness which he seriously intended getting rid of as soon as he couldmeet with a favourable opportunity for so doing. He worked with thatobject in view. In spite of his losses in Australia, he was in a positionto retire from commerce with a very fair income. He had lost all motivefor sustained exertion, all desire to become rich. A man who has no tastefor expensive bachelor pleasures and no home has very little opportunityfor getting rid of large sums of money. Mr. Fenton had taken lifepleasantly enough, and yet had never spent five hundred a year. He couldretire with an income of eight hundred and having abandoned all idea ofever marrying this seemed to him more than sufficient. 

The Listers had come back to England, and Mrs. Lister had written to herbrother more than once, begging him to run down to Lidford. Of courseshe had expressed herself freely upon the subject of Marian's conduct inthese letters, reprobating the girl's treachery and ingratitude, andcongratulating Gilbert upon his escape from so ineligible a connection. Mr. Fenton had put his sister off with excuses hitherto, and hadsubjected himself thereby to sundry feminine reproaches upon his coldnessand want of affection for Mrs. Lister and her children. "It was verydifferent when Marian Nowell was here, " she wrote; "you thought it notrouble to come to us then. "

No answer came to his letter to Mrs. Holbrook--which scarcely called fora reply, unless it had been a few lines of thanks, in acknowledgment ofhis interest in her behalf. He had looked for such a letter, and was alittle disappointed by its non-appearance. The omission, slight as itwas, served to strengthen his bitter feeling that his friendship in thisquarter was unneeded and unvalued. 

Business in the City happened to be rather slack at this time; and itstruck Mr. Fenton all at once that he could scarcely have a betteropportunity for wasting two or three days in a visit of duty to theListers, and putting an end to his sister's reproachful letters. He had asecond motive for going to Lidford; a motive which had far greater weightwith him than his brotherly affection just at this time. He wanted to seeSir David Forster, to call that gentleman to some account for thedeliberate falsehood he had uttered at their last meeting. He had nobloodthirsty or ferocious feelings upon the subject, he could evenunderstand that the Baronet might have been bound by his own ideas ofhonour to tell a lie in the service of his friend; but he wanted toextort some explanation of the line of conduct Sir David had taken, andhe wanted to ascertain from him the character of Marian's husband. He hadmade inquiries about Sir David at the club, and had been told that he wasstill at Heatherly. 

He went down to Lidford by an afternoon train, without having troubledhimself to give Mrs. Lister any notice of his coming. The Novemberevening had closed in upon the quiet rural landscape when he drove fromthe station to Lidford. A cold white mist enfolded all things here, instead of the stifling yellow fog that had filled the London streetswhen he walked westwards from the City at the same hour on the previousevening. Above his head the sky was clear and bright, the mist-wreathsmelting away as they mounted towards the stars. The lighted windows inthe village street had a pleasant homely look; the snug villas, lyingback from the high road with a middle distance of dark lawn andglistening shrubbery, shone brightly upon the traveller as he drove by, the curtains not yet drawn before some of the windows, the rooms ruddy inthe firelight. In one of them he caught a brief glimpse of a youngmatron seated by the fire with her children clustered at her knee, andthe transient picture struck him with a sudden pang. He had dreamed sofondly of a home like this; pleasant rooms shining in the sacred light ofthe hearth, his wife and children waiting to bid him welcome when theday's work was done. All other objects which men live and toil for seemedto him poor and worthless in the absence of this one dear incentive toexertion, this one sweet recompense for every care. Even Lidford House, which had never before seemed to him the perfection of a home, had a newaspect for him to-night, and reminded him sharply of his own loss. Heenvied Martin Lister the quiet jog-trot happiness of his domestic life;his love for and pride in his children; the calm haven of thatcomfortable hearth by which he sat to-night, with his slippered feetstretched luxuriously upon a fender-stool of his wife's manufacture, andhis daughter sitting on a hassock close to his easy-chair, reading in abook of fairy tales. 

Of course they were all delighted to see him, at once pleased andsurprised by the unexpected visit. He had brought a great parcel of toysfor the two children; and Selwyn Lister, a fine boisterous boy in aHighland costume, was summoned downstairs to assist at the unpacking ofthese treasures. It was half-past seven, and the Listers had dined atsix: but in an incredibly short space of time the Sutherland table hadbeen drawn out to a cosy position near the fire and spread with asubstantial repast, while Mrs. Lister took her place behind the ponderousold silver urn which had been an heirloom in her husband's family for thelast two centuries. The Listers were full of talk about their owntravels--a long-delayed continental tour which had been talked of eversince their return from the honeymoon trip to Geneva and Chamouni; andwere also very eager to hear Gilbert's adventures in Australia, of whichhe had given them only very brief accounts in his letters. There wasnothing said that night about Marian, and Gilbert was grateful for hissister's forbearance. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 

Gilbert walked over to Heatherly after luncheon next day, taking ofpreference the way which led him past Captain Sedgewick's cottage andthrough the leafless wood where he and Marian had walked together whenthe foliage was in its summer glory. The leaves lay thick upon the mossyground now; and the gaunt bare branches of the trees had a weird awfullook in the utter silence of the place. His footsteps trampling upon thefallen leaves had an echo; and he turned to look behind him more thanonce, fancying he was followed. 

The old house, with its long lines of windows, had a prison-like aspectunder the dull November day. Gilbert wondered how such a man as Sir DavidForster could endure his existence there, embittered as it was by thememory of that calamity which had taken all the sunlight out of his life, and left him a weary and purposeless hunter after pleasure. But Sir Davidhad been prostrate under the heavy hand of his hereditary foe, the gout, for a long time past; and was fain to content himself with such companyas came to him at Heatherly, and such amusement as was to be found in thesociety of men who were boon companions rather than friends. GilbertFenton heard the familiar clash of the billiard-balls as he went into thehall, where a couple of liver-coloured setters were dozing before a greatfire that roared half-way up the wide chimney. There was no other life inthe hall; and Mr. Fenton was conducted to the other end of the house, andushered into that tobacco-tainted snuggery in which he had last seen theBaronet. His suspicions were on the alert this time; and he fancied hecould detect a look of something more than surprise in Sir David's facewhen the servant announced him--an uneasy look, as of a man taken at adisadvantage. 

The Baronet was very gracious, however, and gave him a hearty welcome. 

"I'm uncommonly glad to see you, my dear Fenton, " he said, "Indeed, Ihave been pleased to see worse fellows than you lately, since thisinfernal gout has laid me up in this dreary old place. The house ispretty full now, I am happy to say. I have friends who will come to shootmy partridges, though they won't remember my solitude in a charitablespirit before the first of September. You'll stop and dine, I hope; orperhaps you can put up here altogether for a week or so. My housekeepershall find you a good room; and I can promise you pleasant company. Sayyes, now, like a good fellow, and I'll send a man to Lidford for yourtraps. "

"Thanks--no. You are very kind; but I am staying with my sister for a fewdays, and must return to town before the end of the week. The fact of thematter is, Sir David, I have come here to-day to ask you for someexplanation of your conduct at our last interview. I don't want to sayanything rude or disagreeable; for I am quite willing to believe that youfelt kindly towards me, even at the time when you deceived me. I supposethere are some positions in which a man can hardly expect fair play, andthat mine was such a position. But you certainly did deceive me, SirDavid, and grossly. "

"That last is rather an unpleasant word, Mr. Fenton. In what respect didI deceive you?"

"I came here on purpose to ask you if Mr. Holbrook, the man who robbed meof my promised wife, were a friend of yours, and you denied all knowledgeof him. "

"Granted. And what then, my dear sir?"

"When I came to ask you that question, I had no special reason forsupposing this Mr. Holbrook was known to you. It only struck me that, being a stranger in the village, as the result of my inquiries had provedto me, he might be one of your many visitors. I knew at that time thatMr. Holbrook had taken his wife to a farm-house in Hampshire immediatelyafter their marriage--a house lent to him by a friend; but I did not knowthat you had any estate in that county. I have been to Hampshire sincethen, and have found Mrs. Holbrook at the Grange, near Crosber--in yourhouse. "

"You have found her! Well, Mr. Fenton, the circumstantial evidence is toostrong for me, so I must plead guilty. Yes; I did deceive you when I toldyou that Holbrook was unknown to me; but I pledged my word to keep hissecret--to give you no clue, should you ever happen to question me, thatcould lead to your discovery of your lost love's whereabouts. It wasconsidered, I conclude, that any meeting between you two must needsresult unpleasantly. At any rate, there was a strong desire to avoid you;and in common duty to my friend I was compelled to respect that desire. "

"Not a very manly wish on the part of my successful rival, " said Gilbert. 

"It may have been the lady's wish rather than Mr. Holbrook's. "

"I have reason to know that it was otherwise. I have heard from Marian'sown lips that she would have written a candid confession of the truth hadshe been free to do so. It was her husband who prevented her giving menotice of my desertion. "

"I cannot pretend to explain his conduct, " Sir David answered gravely. "Ionly know that I pledged myself to keep his secret; and felt bound to doso, even at the cost of a lie. "

"And this man is your friend. You must know whether he is worthy to beMarian Nowell's husband. The circumstances of her life do not seem to mefavourable to happiness, so far as I have been able to discover them; nordid I think her looking happy when we met. But I should be glad to knowthat she has not fallen into bad hands. "

"And I suppose by this time your feelings have cooled down a little. Youhave abandoned those revengeful intentions you appeared to entertain, when you were last in this house?"

"In a great measure, yes. I have promised Marian that, should I and herhusband meet, as we must do, I believe, sooner or later, she needapprehend no violence on my part. He has won the prize; any openresentment would seem mere schoolboy folly. But you cannot suppose that Ifeel very kindly towards him, or ever shall. "

"Upon my soul, I think men are hardly responsible for their actions wherea woman is concerned, " Sir David exclaimed after a pause. "We are theveriest slaves of destiny in these matters. A man sees the only woman inthe world he can love too late to win her with honour. If he is strongenough to act nobly, he turns his back upon the scene of his temptation, all the more easily should the lady happen to be staunch to heraffianced, or her husband, as the case may be. But if _she_ waver--if hesees that his love is returned--heaven help him! Honour, generosity, friendship, all go by the board; and for the light in those fatal eyes, for the dangerous music of that one dear voice, he sacrifices all that hehas held highest in life until that luckless time. I _know_ that Holbrookheld it no light thing to do you this wrong; I know that he foughtmanfully against temptation. But, you see, fate was the stronger; and hehad to give way at the last. "

"I cannot agree with that way of looking at things, Sir David. The worldis made up of people who take their own pleasure at any cost to others, and then throw the onus of their misdoings upon Providence. I have longago forgiven the girl who jilted me, and have sworn to be her faithfuland watchful friend in all the days to come. I want to be sure that herfuture is a bright one--much brighter than it seemed when I saw her inyour lonely old house near Crosber. She has had money left her sincethen; so poverty can no longer be a reason for her being hidden from theworld. "

"I am very glad to hear that; my friend is not a rich man. "

"So Marian told me. But I want to learn something more than that abouthim. Up to this moment he has been the most intangible being I ever heardof. Will you tell me who and what he is--his position in the world, andso on?"

"Humph!" muttered Sir David meditatively; "I don't know that I can tellyou much about him. His position is like that of a good many others of myacquaintance--rather vague and intangible, to use the word you employedjust now. He is not well off; he is a gentleman by birth, with some smallmeans of his own, and he 'lives, sir, lives. ' That is about all I can sayof him--from a worldly point of view. With regard to his affection forMiss Nowell, I know that he loved her passionately, devotedly, desperately--the strongest expression you can supply to describe a man'sfolly. I never saw any fellow so far gone. Heaven knows, I did my best toargue him out of his fancy--urged your claim, the girl's poverty, everyreason against the marriage; but friendly argumentation of that kind goesvery little way in such a case. He took his own course. It was only whenI found the business was decided upon, that I offered him my house inHampshire; a place to which I never go myself, but which brings me in adecent income in the hands of a clever bailiff. I knew that Holbrook hadno home ready for his wife, and I thought it would give them a pleasantretreat enough for a few months, while the honey and rose-leaves stillsweetened the wine-cup of their wedded life. They have stayed there eversince, as you seem to know; so I conclude they have found the placeagreeable. Confoundedly dreary, I should fancy it myself; but then I'mnot a newly married man. "

The Baronet gave a brief sigh, and his thoughts went back for a moment tothe time when he too was in Arcadia; when a fair young wife was by hisside, and when no hour of his existence seemed ever dull or weary to him. It was all changed now! He had billiards and whist, and horses andhounds, and a vast collection of gunnery, and great stores of wine in thegloomy arched vaults beneath the house, where a hundred prisoners hadbeen kept under lock and key when Heatherly had fallen into the hands ofthe Cromwellian soldiery, and the faithful retainers of the householdwere fain to lay down their arms. He had all things that make up thecommon pleasures and delights of a man's existence; but he had lost thelove which had given these things a new charm, and without which all lifeseemed to him flat, stale, and unprofitable. He could sympathise withGilbert Fenton much more keenly than that gentleman would have supposedpossible; for a man suffering from this kind of affliction is apt toimagine that he has a copyright in that species of grief, and that noother man ever did or ever can experience a like calamity. The samemanner of trouble may come to others, of course, but not with a similarintensity. Others will suffer and recover, and find a balm elsewhere. Healone is constant until death!

"And you can tell me nothing more about Mr. Holbrook?" he asked after apause. 

"Upon my honour, nothing. I think you will do wisely to leave these twopeople to take their own way in the future without any interference onyour part. You speak of watchful friendship and all that kind of thing, and I can quite appreciate your disinterested desire to befriend thewoman whom you once hoped to make your wife. But, believe me, my dearFenton, no manner of good can possibly come of your intervention. Thosetwo have chosen their road in life, and must travel along it, side byside, through good or evil fortune. Holbrook would naturally be jealousof any friendship between his wife and you; while such a friendship couldnot fail to keep alive bitter thoughts in your mind--could not fail tosharpen the regret which you fancy just now is to be life-long. I have nodoubt I seem to speak in a hard worldly spirit. "

"You speak like a man of the world, Sir David, " the other answeredquietly; "and I cannot deny that there is a certain amount of wisdom inyour advice. No, my friendship is not wanted by either of those two, supposing even that I were generous enough to be able to give it to both. I have learnt that lesson already from Marian herself. But you mustremember that I promised her poor old grandfather--the man who died a fewdays ago--that I would watch over her interests with patient fidelity, that I would be her friend and protector, if ever the hour should come inwhich she would need friendship and protection. I am not going to forgetthis promise, or to neglect its performance; and in order to be true tomy word, I am bound to make myself acquainted with the circumstances ofher married life, and the character of her husband. "

"Cannot you be satisfied with knowing that she is happy?"

"I have seen her, Sir David, and am by no means assured of herhappiness. "

"And yet it was a love-match on both sides. Holbrook, as I have told you, loved her passionately. "

"That passionate kind of love is apt to wear itself out very quickly withsome men. Your bailiff's daughter complained bitterly of Mr. Holbrook'sfrequent absence from the Grange, of the dulness and loneliness of mypoor girl's life. "

"Women are apt to be exacting, " Sir David answered with a deprecatingshrug of the shoulders. "My friend Holbrook has the battle of life tofight, and could not spend all his days playing the lover. If his wifehas had money left her, that will make some difference in their position. A man is never at his best when he is worried by debts and financialdifficulties. "

"And Mr. Holbrook was in debt when he married, I suppose?"

"He was. I must confess that I find that complaint a very common oneamong my acquaintance, " the Baronet added with a laugh. 

"Will you tell me what this Holbrook is like in person, Sir David? Ihave questioned several people about him, and have never obtainedanything beyond the vaguest kind of description. "

Sir David Forster laughed aloud at this request. 

"What! you want to know whether your rival is handsome, I suppose? likea woman, who always commences her inquiries about another woman by askingwhether she is pretty. My dear Fenton, all personal descriptions arevague. It is almost impossible to furnish a correct catalogue of anyman's features. Holbrook is just one of those men whom it is mostdifficult to describe--not particularly good-looking, nor especiallyill-looking; very clever, and with plenty of expression and character inhis face. Older than you by some years, and looking older than he reallyis. "

"Thanks; but there is not one precise statement in your description. Isthe man dark or fair--short or tall?"

"Rather dark than fair; rather tall than short. "

"That will do, Sir David, " Gilbert said, starting suddenly to his feet, and looking the Baronet in the face intently. "The man who robbed me ofmy promised wife is the man whom I introduced to her; the man who hascome between me and all my hopes, who hides himself from my just anger, and skulks in the background under a feigned name, is the one friend whomI have loved above all other men--John Saltram!"

Sir David faced him without flinching. If it was acted surprise whichappeared upon his countenance at the sound of John Saltram's name, theacting was perfect. Gilbert could discover nothing from that broad stareof blank amazement. 

"In heaven's name, what can have put such a preposterous notion into yourhead?" Sir David asked coolly. 

"I cannot tell you. The conviction has grown upon me, against my ownwill. Yes, I have hated myself for being able to suspect my friend. Youdo not know how I have loved that man, or how our friendship began atOxford long ago with something like hero-worship on my side. I thoughtthat he was born to be great and noble; and heaven knows I have felt thedisappointments and shortcomings of his career more keenly than he hasfelt them himself. No, Sir David, I don't think it is possible for anyman to comprehend how I have loved John Saltram. "

"And yet, without a shred of evidence, you believe him guilty ofbetraying you. "

"Will you give me your word of honour that Marian's husband and JohnSaltram are not one and the same person?"

"No, " answered Sir David impatiently; "I am tired of the whole business. You have questioned and cross-questioned me quite long enough, Mr. Fenton, and I have answered you to the best of my ability, and have givenyou rational advice, which you will of course decline to take. If youthink your friend has wronged you, go to him, and tax him with thatwrong. I wash my hands of the affair altogether, from this moment; but, without wishing to be offensive, I cannot help telling you, that to mymind you are acting very foolishly in this business. "

"I daresay it may seem so to you. You would think better of me if I couldplay the stoic, and say, 'She has jilted me, and is dead to mehenceforward. ' But I cannot do that. I have the memory of her peacefulgirlhood--the happy days in which I knew her first--the generousprotector who sheltered her life. I am pledged to the dead, Sir David. "

He left Heatherly soon after this, though the Baronet pressed him to stayto dinner. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

TORMENTED BY DOUBT. 

The long homeward walk gave Gilbert ample leisure for reflection upon hisinterview with Sir David; a very unsatisfactory interview at the best. Yes, the conviction that the man who had wronged him was no other thanhis own familiar friend, had flashed upon him with a new force as theBaronet answered his questions about John Holbrook. The suspicion whichhad entered his mind after he left the lonely farm-house near Crosber, and which he had done his uttermost to banish, as if it had been asuggestion of the evil one, came back to him to-day with a form andreality which it had lacked before. It seemed no longer a vague fancy, adark unwelcome thought that bordered on folly. It had taken a new shapealtogether, and appeared to him almost a certainty. 

Sir David's refusal to make any direct denial of the fact seemed toconfirm his suspicion. Yet it was, on the other hand, just possible thatSir David, finding him on a false scent, should have been willing to lethim follow it, and that the real offender should be screened by thissuspicion of John Saltram. But then there arose in his mind a doubt thathad perplexed him sorely for a long time. If his successful rival hadbeen indeed a stranger to him, what reason could there be for so muchmystery in the circumstances of the marriage? and why should Marian haveso carefully avoided telling him anything about her husband? That hisfriend, having betrayed him, should shrink from the revelation of hisfalsehood, should adopt any underhand course to avoid discovery, seemednatural enough. Yet to believe this was to think meanly of the man whomhe had loved so well, whom he had confided in so implicitly until thearising of this cruel doubt. 

He had known long ago, when the first freshness of his boyish delusionsfaded away before the penetrating clear daylight of reality, he had knownlong ago that his friend was not faultless; that except in that onefaithful alliance with himself, John Saltram had been fickle, wayward, vacillating, unstable, and inconstant, true to no dream of his youth, noambition of his early manhood content to drop one purpose after another, until his life was left without any exalted aim. But Gilbert had fanciedhis friend's nature was still a noble one in spite of the comparativefailure of his life. It was very difficult for him to imagine it possiblethat this friend could act falsely and ungenerously, could steal hisbetrothed from him, and keep the secret of his guilt, pretending tosympathise with the jilted lover all the while. 

But though Mr. Fenton told himself at one moment that this wasimpossible, his thoughts travelled back to the same point immediatelyafterwards, and the image of John Saltram arose before him as that of hishidden foe. He remembered the long autumn days which he and his friendhad spent with Marian--those unclouded utterly happy days, which helooked back upon now with a kind of wonder. They had been so muchtogether, Marian so bright and fascinating in her innocent enjoyment ofthe present, brighter and happier just then than she had ever seemed tohim before, Gilbert remembered with a bitter pang. He had been completelyunsuspicious at the time, untroubled by one doubtful thought; but itappeared to him now that there had been a change in Marian from the timeof his friend's coming--a new joyousness and vivacity, a keener delightin the simple pleasures of their daily life, and withal a fitfulness, atendency to change from gaiety to thoughtful silence, that he had notremarked in her before. 

Was it strange if John Saltram had fallen in love with her? was itpossible to see her daily in all the glory of her girlish loveliness, made doubly bewitching by the sweetness of her nature, the indescribablecharm of her manner--was it possible to be with her often, as JohnSaltram had been, and not love her? Gilbert Fenton had thought of hisfriend as utterly impregnable to any such danger; as a man who had spentall his stock of tender emotion long ago, and who looked upon matrimonyas a transaction by which he might mend his broken fortunes. That thisman should fall a victim to the same subtle charm which had subjugatedhimself, was a possibility that never occurred to Gilbert's mind, in thishappy period of his existence. He wanted his friend's approval of hischoice; he wished to see his passion justified in the eyes of the manwhom it was his habit to regard in somewise as a superior creature; andit had been a real delight to him to hear Mr. Saltram's warm praises ofMarian. 

Looking back at the past to-day from a new point of view, he wondered athis own folly. What was more natural than that John Saltram should havefound his doom, as he had found it, unthought of, undreamed of, swift, and fatal? Nor was it difficult for him to believe that Marian--who hadperhaps never really loved him, who had been induced to accept him by hisown pertinacity and her uncle's eager desire for the match--should find acharm and a power in John Saltram that had been wanting in himself. Hehad seen too many instances of his friend's influence over men and women, to doubt his ability to win this innocent inexperienced girl, had he sethimself to win her. He recalled with a bitter smile how his informantshad all described his rival in a disparaging tone, as unworthy of so faira bride; and he knew that it was precisely those qualities which thesecommon people were unable to appreciate that constituted the subtle charmby which John Saltram influenced others. The rugged power and grandeur ofthat dark face, which vulgar critics denounced as plain and unattractive, the rare fascination of a manner that varied from an extreme reserve to awild reckless vivacity, the magic of the deep full voice, with itscapacity for the expression of every shade of emotion--these wereattributes to be passed over and ignored by the vulgar, yet to exercise apotent influence upon sensitive sympathetic natures. 

"How that poor little Anglo-Indian widow loves him, without any effort towin or hold her affection on his side!" Gilbert said to himself, as hewalked back to Lidford in the darkening November afternoon, broodingalways on the one subject which occupied all his thoughts; "and can Idoubt his power to supersede me if he cared to do so--if he really lovedMarian, as he never has loved Mrs. Branston? What shall I do? Go to himat once, and tell him my suspicion, tax him broadly with treachery, andforce him to a direct confession or denial? Shall I do this? Or shall Ibide my time, wait and watch with dull dogged patience, till I cancollect some evidence of his guilt? Yes, let it be so. If he has beenbase enough to do me this great wrong--mean enough to steal my betrothedunder a false name, and to keep the secret of his wrong-doing at any costof lies and deceit--let him go on to the end, let him act out the play tothe last; and when I bring his falsehood home to him, as I must surelydo, sooner or later, --yes, if he is capable of deceiving me, he shallcontinue the lie to the last, he shall endure all the infamy of his falseposition. "

And then, after a pause, he said to himself, --

"And at the end, if my suspicions are confirmed, I shall have lost all Ihave ever valued in life since my mother died--my plighted wife, and theone chosen friend whose companionship could make existence pleasant tome. God grant that this fancy of mine is as baseless as Sir David Forsterdeclared it to be! God grant that I may never find a secret enemy inJohn Saltram!"

Tossed about thus upon a sea of doubts, Mr. Fenton returned to LidfordHouse, where he was expected to be bright and cheerful, and entertain hishost and hostess with the freshest gossip of the London world. He didmake a great effort to keep up a show of cheerfulness at thedinner-table; but he felt that his sister's eyes were watching him with apitiless scrutiny, and he knew that the attempt was an ignominiousfailure. 

When honest Martin was snoring in his easy-chair before the drawing-roomfire, with the red light shining full upon his round healthy countenance, Mrs. Lister beckoned her brother over to her side of the hearth, whereshe had an embroidery-frame, whereon was stretched some grand design inBerlin wool-work, to which she devoted herself every now and then with agreat show of industry. She had been absorbed in a profound calculationof the stitches upon the canvas and on the coloured pattern before heruntil this moment; but she laid aside her work with a solemn air whenGilbert went over to her, and he knew at once what was coming. 

"Sit down, Gilbert, " she said; and her brother dropped into a chair byher side with a faint sigh of resignation. "I want to talk to youseriously, as a sister ought to talk to a brother, without any fear ofoffending. I'm very sorry to see you have not yet forgotten that wickedungrateful girl Marian Nowell. "

"Who told you that I have not forgotten her?"

"Your own face, Gilbert. It's no use for you to put on a pretence ofbeing cheerful and light-hearted with me. I know you too well to bedeceived by that kind of thing--I could see how absent-minded you wereall dinner-time, in spite of your talk. You can't hoodwink anaffectionate sister. "

"I don't wish to hoodwink you, my dear, " Mr. Fenton answered quietly, "orto affect a happiness which I do not feel, any more than I wish to make aparade of my grief. It is natural for an Englishman to be reticent onsuch matters; but I do not mind owning to you that Marian Nowell isunforgotten by me, and that the loss of her will have an enduringinfluence upon my life; and having said as much as that, Belle, I mustrequest that you will not expatiate any more upon this poor girl's breachof faith. I have forgiven her long ago, and I shall always regard her asthe purest and dearest of women. "

"What! you can hold her up as a paragon of perfection after she hasthrown you over in the most heartless manner? Upon my word, Gilbert, Ihave no common patience with such folly. Your weakness in this affairfrom first to last has been positively deplorable. "

"I am sorry you disapprove of my conduct, Belle; but as it is not a verypleasant subject, don't you think we may as well avoid it now andhenceforward?"

"O, very well, Gilbert, " the lady exclaimed, with an offended air; "ofcourse, if you choose to exclude me from your confidence, I must submit;but I do think it rather hard that your only sister should not he allowedto speak of a business that concerns you so nearly. "

"What good can arise out of any discussion of this subject, Belle? Youthink me weak and foolish; granted that I am both, you cannot cure me ofmy weakness or my folly. "

"And am I never to hope that you will find some one else, better worthyof your regard than Marian Nowell?"

"I fear not, Belle. For me there is no one else. "

Mrs. Lister breathed a profound sigh, and resumed the counting of herstitches. Yet perhaps, after all, it was better that her brother shouldcherish the memory of this unlucky attachment. It would preserve him fromthe hazard of any imprudent alliance in the future, and leave his fortunefree, to descend by-and-by to the juvenile Listers. Isabella was not aparticularly mercenary person, but she was a woman of the world, and hadan eye to the future aggrandisement of her children. 

She was very kind and considerate to Gilbert after this, carefullyavoiding any farther allusions to his lost love, and taking all possiblepains to make his visit pleasant to him. She was so affectionate andcordial, and seemed so really anxious for him to stay, that he could notin common decency hurry back to town quite so soon as he had intended. Heprolonged his visit to the end of that week, and then to the beginning ofthe next; and when he did at last find himself free to return to London, the second week was nearly ended. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

MISSING AGAIN. 

Gilbert Fenton was very glad to have made his escape from Lidford atlast, for his mind was full of anxiety about Marian. Again and again hehad argued with himself upon the folly and uselessness of this anxiety. She, for whose interests he was so troubled, was safe enough no doubt, protected by a husband, who was most likely a man of the world, and quiteas able to protect her as Gilbert himself could be. He told himself this;but still the restless uneasy sense that he was neglecting his duty, thathe was false to the promise made to old Jacob Nowell, tormented andperplexed him. He felt that he ought to be doing something--that he hadno right to remain in ignorance of the progress of Marian's affairs--thathe should be at hand to frustrate any attempt at knavery on the part ofthe lawyer--to be sure that the old man's wealth suffered no diminutionbefore it reached the hands of his heiress. 

Gilbert Fenton felt that his promise to the dead bound him to do thesethings, and felt at the same time the weakness of his own position withrelation to Marian. By what right could he interfere in the conduct ofher affairs? what claim could he assert to defend her interests? whowould listen to any romantic notion about a promise made to the dead?

He went to Queen Anne's Court upon the night of his return to London. Thesilversmith's shop looked exactly the same as when he had first seen it:the gas burning dimly, the tarnished old salvers and tankards gleamingduskily in the faint light, with all manner of purple and greenish hues. Mr. Tulliver was in his little den at the back of the shop, and emergedwith his usual rapidity at the ringing of the door-bell. 

"O, it's you, is it, sir?" he asked in an indifferent, half-insolenttone. "What can I do for you this evening?"

"Is your late master's granddaughter, Mrs. Holbrook, here?" Gilbertasked. 

"No; Mrs. Holbrook went away on the morning after my master's death. Itold you that when you called here last. "

"I am quite aware of that; but I thought it likely Mrs. Holbrook mightreturn here with her husband, to take possession of the property, which Isuppose you know now belongs to her. "

"Yes, I know all about that; but she hasn't come yet to take possession;she doesn't seem in such a desperate hurry about it. I daresay she knowsthat things are safe enough. Medler the lawyer is not the kind of partyto be cheated out of sixpence. He has taken an inventory of every articlein the place, and the weight and value of every article. Your friend Mrs. Holbrook needn't be afraid. I suppose she's some relation of yours, by-the-bye, sir, judging by the interest you seem to take in heraffairs?"

"Yes, " Gilbert said, not caring to answer this question directly, "I dotake a warm interest in Mrs. Holbrook's affairs, and I am very anxious tosee her placed in undisputed possession of her late grandfather'sproperty. "

"I should think her husband would see after that, " Mr. Tulliver remarkedwith a sneer. 

Gilbert left the court after having asked a few questions about JacobNowell's funeral. The old man had been buried at Kensalgreen, followed tothe grave only by the devoted Tulliver, Mr. Medler, and the local surgeonwho had attended him in his last illness. He had lived a lonelyfriendless life, holding himself aloof from his fellow-creatures; andthere were neither neighbours nor friends to lament his ending. Thevagabond boys of the neighbourhood had clustered round the door towitness the last dismal ceremony of Mr. Nowell's existence, and had hungabout the shop-front for some time after the funeral _cortège_ haddeparted, peering curiously down into the darksome area, and speculatingupon the hoards of wealth which the old miser had hidden away incoal-cellars and dust-bins, under the stone flags of the scullery, or inthe crannies of the dilapidated walls. There were no bounds to theimagination of these street Arabs, who had been in the habit of yelpingand whooping at the old man's heels when he took his infrequent walksabroad, assailing him with derisive epithets alluding to his miserlypropensities. Amongst the elders of the court there was some little talkabout the dead man, and the probable disposal of his property, with agood deal of argument and laying down of the law on the part of thegraver and wiser members of that community; some people affecting to knowto a sixpence the amount of Jacob Nowell's savings, others accreditinghim with the possession of fabulous riches, and all being unanimous inthe idea that the old man's heir or heirs, as the case might be, wouldspeedily scatter his long-hoarded treasures. Many of these people couldremember the silversmith's prodigal son; but none among them were awareof that gentleman's return. They wondered a good deal as to whether hewas still living, and whether the money had been left to him or to thatpretty young woman who had appeared in the last days of the old man'slife, no one knowing whence she had come. There was nothing to be gainedfrom questioning Luke Tulliver, the court knew of old experience. Themost mysterious dungeons of the Spanish Inquisition, the secret chambersunder the leads in Venice, were not closer or deeper than the mind ofthat young man. The court had been inclined to think that Luke Tulliverwould come into all his master's money; and opinion inclined that wayeven yet, seeing that Mr. Tulliver still held his ground in the shop, andthat no strangers had been seen to enter the place since the funeral. 

From Queen Anne's Court Gilbert Fenton went on to the gloomy street whereMr. Medler had his office and abode. It was not an hour for aprofessional visit; but Gilbert found the lawyer still hard at work athis desk, under the lurid light of a dirty-looking battered old oil-lamp, which left the corners of the dingy wainscoted room in profoundobscurity. He looked up from his papers with some show of surprise onhearing Mr. Fenton's name announced by the slipshod maid-of-all-work whohad admitted the late visitor, Mr. Medler's solitary clerk havingdeparted to his own dwelling some hours before. 

"I must ask you to excuse this untimely call, Mr. Medler, " Gilbert saidpolitely; "but the fact of the matter is, I am a little anxious about myfriend Mrs. Holbrook and her affairs, and I thought you the most likelyperson to give me some information about them. I should have called inbusiness hours; but I have only just returned from the country, and didnot care to delay my inquiries until to-morrow. I have just come fromQueen Anne's Court, and am rather surprised to find that neither Mrs. Holbrook nor her husband has been there. You have seen or heard from themsince the funeral, I suppose?"

"No, Mr. Fenton, I have neither seen nor heard of them. I wrote a formalletter to Mrs. Holbrook, setting out the contents of the will; but therehas been no answer as yet. "

"Strange, is it not?" Gilbert exclaimed, with an anxious look. 

"Well, yes, it is certainly not the usual course of proceeding. However, there is time enough yet. The funeral has not been over much more than aweek. The property is perfectly safe, you know. "

"Of course; but it is not the less extraordinary that Mr. Holbrook shouldhang back in this manner. I will go down to Hampshire the first thingto-morrow and see Mrs. Holbrook. "

"Humph!" muttered the lawyer; "I can't say that I see any necessity forthat. But of course you know best. "

Gilbert Fenton did start for Hampshire early the next morning by the sametrain in which Marian had travelled after her grandfather's death. It wasstill quite early in the day when he found himself at Malsham, that quietcomfortable little market-town where he had first discovered a clue tothe abode of his lost love. He went to the hotel, and hired a fly to takehim to Crosber, where he left the vehicle at the old inn, preferring towalk on to the Grange. It was a bright November day, with a pale yellowsunlight shining on the level fields, and distant hills that rose beyondthem crowned with a scanty fringe of firs, that stood out black and sharpagainst the clear autumn sky. It was a cheerful day, and a solitary birdwas singing here and there, as if beguiled by that pleasant warmth andsunshine into the fond belief that winter was still far off and the gloryof fields and woods not yet departed. Gilbert's spirits rose in somedegree under the influence of that late brightness and sweet rustic calm. He fancied that there might be still some kind of happiness for him inthe long years to come; pale and faint like the sunlight of to-day--anautumnal calm. If he might be Marian's friend and brother, her devotedcounsellor, her untiring servant, it seemed to him that he could becontent, that he could live on from year to year moderately happy in theoccasional delight of her society; rewarded for his devotion by a fewkind words now and then, --a letter, a friendly smile, --rewarded stillmore richly by her perfect trust in him. 

These thoughts were in his mind to-day as he went along the lonelycountry lane leading to the Grange; thoughts which seemed inspired by thetranquil landscape and peaceful autumn day; thoughts which were full ofthe purest love and charity, --yes, even for his unknown rival, even ifthat rival should prove to be the one man in all this world from whom adeep wrong would seem most bitter. 

"What am I, that I should measure the force of his temptation, " he saidto himself, "or the strength of his resistance? Let me be sure that heloves my darling as truly as I love her, that the chief object of hislife has been and will be her happiness, and then let me put away allselfish vindictive thoughts, and fall quietly into the background of mydear one's life, content to be her brother and her friend. "

The Grange looked unchanged in its sombre lonely aspect. Thechrysanthemums were all withered by this time, and there were now noflowers in the old-fashioned garden. The bell was answered by the samewoman who had admitted him before, and who made no parley about lettinghim in this time. 

"My young missus said I was to be sure and let her know if you came, sir, " she said; "she's very anxious to see you. "

"Your young mistress; do you mean Mrs. Holbrook?"

"No, sir; Miss Carley, master's daughter. "

"Indeed! I remember the young lady; I shall be very happy to see her ifshe has anything to say to me; but it is Mrs. Holbrook I have come tosee. She is at home, I suppose?"

"O dear no, sir; Mrs. Holbrook has left, without a word of notice, gonenobody knows where. That is what has made our young missus fret about itso. "

"Mrs. Holbrook has left!" Gilbert exclaimed in blank amazement; "when?"

"It's more than a week ago now, sir. "

"And do none of you know why she went away, or where she has gone?"

"No more than the dead, sir. But you'd better see Miss Carley; she'll beable to tell you all about it. "

The woman led him into the house, and to the room in which he had seenMarian. There was no fire here to-day, and the room had a desolateunoccupied look, though the sun was shining cheerfully on theold-fashioned many-paned windows. There were a few books, which Gilbertremembered as Marian's literary treasures, neatly arranged on a ricketyold chiffonier by the fire-place, and the desk and work-basket which hehad seen on his previous visit. 

He was half bewildered by what the woman had told him, and his heartbeat tumultuously as he stood by the empty hearth, waiting for EllenCarley's coming. It seemed to him as if the girl never would come. Theticking of an old eight-day clock in the hall had a ghastly sound in thedead silence of the house, and an industrious mouse made itselfdistinctly heard behind the wainscot. 

At last a light rapid footstep came tripping across the hall, and EllenCarley entered the room. She was looking paler than when Gilbert had seenher last, and the bright face was very grave. 

"For heaven's sake tell me what this means, Miss Carley, " Gilbert beganeagerly. "Your servant tells me that Mrs. Holbrook has left you--in somemysterious way, I imagine, from what the woman said. "

"O, sir, I am so glad you have come here; I should have written to you ifI had known where to address a letter. Yes, sir, she has gone--that dearsweet young creature--and I fear some harm has come to her. "

The girl burst into tears, and for some minutes could say no more. 

"Pray, pray be calm, " Gilbert said gently, "and tell me all you can aboutthis business. How did Mrs. Holbrook leave this place? and why do yoususpect that any harm has befallen her?"

"There is every reason to think so, sir. Is it like her to leave uswithout a word of notice, knowing, as she must have known, theunhappiness she would cause to me, who love her so well, by such a step?She knew how I loved her. I think she had scarcely a secret from me. "

"If you will only tell me the manner of her departure, " Gilbert saidrather impatiently. 

"Yes, yes, sir; I am coming to that directly. She seemed happier aftershe came back from London, poor dear; and she told me that hergrandfather had left her money, and that she was likely to become quite arich woman. The thought of this gave her so much pleasure--not for herown sake, but for her husband's, whose cares and difficulties would allcome to an end now, she told me. She had been back only a few days, whenI left home for a day and a night, to see my aunt--an old woman and aconstant invalid, who lives at Malsham. I had put off going to her for along time, for I didn't care about leaving Mrs. Holbrook; but I had to goat last, my aunt thinking it hard that I couldn't spare time to spend aday with her, and tidy up her house a bit, and see to the girl that waitsupon her, poor helpless thing. So I started off before noon one day, after telling Mrs. Holbrook where I was going, and when I hoped to beback. She was in very good spirits that morning, for she expected herhusband next day. 'I have told him nothing about the good fortune thathas come to me, Nelly, ' she said; 'I have only written to him, begginghim to return as quickly as possible, and he will be here to-morrow bythe afternoon express. ' Mr. Holbrook is a great walker, and generallywalks from Malsham here, by a shorter way than the high-road, across somefields and by the river-bank. His wife used always to go part of the wayto meet him when she knew he was coming. I know she meant to go and meethim this time. The way is very lonely, and I have often felt fidgetyabout her going alone, but she hadn't a bit of fear; and I didn't like tooffer to go with her, feeling sure that Mr. Holbrook would be vexed byseeing me at such a time. Well, sir, I had arranged everythingcomfortably, so that she should miss nothing by my being away, and I badeher good-bye, and started off to walk to Malsham. I can't tell you howhard it seemed to me to leave her, for it was the first time we had beenparted for so much as a day since she came to the Grange. I thought ofher all the while I was at my aunt's; who has very fidgety ways, poor oldlady, and isn't a pleasant person to be with. I felt quite in a fever ofimpatience to get home again; and was very glad when a neighbour'sspring-cart dropped me at the end of the lane, and I saw the gray oldchimneys above the tops of the trees. It was four o'clock in theafternoon when I got home; father was at tea in the oak-parlour where wetake our meals, and the house was as quiet as a grave. I came straight tothis room, but it was empty; and when I called Martha, she told me Mrs. Holbrook had gone out at one o'clock in the day, and had not been homesince, though she was expected back to dinner at three. She had been awaythree hours then, and at a time when I knew she could not expect Mr. Holbrook, unless she had received a fresh letter from him to say that hewas coming by an earlier train than usual. I asked Martha if there hadbeen any letters for Mrs. Holbrook that day; and she told me yes, therehad been one by the morning post. It was no use asking Martha what kindof letter it looked, and whether it was from Mr. Holbrook, for the poorignorant creature can neither read nor write, and one handwriting is thesame as another to her. Mrs. Holbrook had told her nothing as to whereshe was going, only saying that she would be back in an hour or two. Martha let her out at the gate, and watched her take the way towards theriver-bank, and, seeing this, made sure she was going to meet herhusband. Well, sir, five o'clock struck, and Mrs. Holbrook had not comehome. I began to feel seriously uneasy about her. I told my father so;but he took the matter lightly enough at first, saying it was nobusiness of ours, and that Mrs. Holbrook was just as well able to takecare of herself as any one else. But after five o'clock I couldn't rest aminute longer; so I put on my bonnet and shawl and went down by theriver-bank, after sending one of the farm-labourers to look for my poordear in the opposite direction. It's a very lonely walk at the best oftimes, though a few of the country folks do go that way between Malshamand Crosber on market-days. There's scarcely a house to be seen formiles, except Wyncomb Farmhouse, Stephen Whitelaw's place, which lies alittle way back from the river-bank, about a mile from here; besides thatand a solitary cottage here and there, you won't see a sign of human lifefor four or five miles. Anybody might be pushed into the river and madeaway with in broad daylight, and no one need be the wiser. The lonelinessof the place struck me with an awful fear that afternoon, and from thatmoment I began to think that I should never see Mrs. Holbrook again. "

"What of her husband? He was expected on this particular afternoon, yousay?"

"He was, sir; but he did not come till the next day. It was almost darkwhen I went to the river-bank. I walked for about three miles and a half, to a gate that opened into the fields by which Mr. Holbrook came acrossfrom Malsham. I knew his wife never went farther than this gate, but usedto wait for him here, if she happened to be the first to reach it. Ihurried along, half running all the way, and calling aloud to Mrs. Holbrook every now and then with all my might. But there was no answer. Some men in a boat loaded with hay stopped to ask me what was the matter, but they could tell me nothing. They were coming from Malsham, and hadseen no one along the bank. I called at Mr. Whitelaw's as I came back, not with much hope that I should hear anything; but what could I do butmake inquiries anywhere and everywhere? I was almost wild with fright bythis time. They could tell me nothing at Wyncomb Farm. Stephen Whitelawwas alone in the kitchen smoking his pipe by a great fire. He hadn't beenout all day, he told me, and none of his people had seen or heardanything out of the common. As to any harm having come to Mrs. Holbrookby the river-bank, he said he didn't think that was possible, for his menhad been at work in the fields near the river all the afternoon, and musthave seen or heard if there had been anything wrong. There was some kindof comfort in this, and I left the farm with my mind a little lighterthan it had been when I went in there. I knew that Stephen Whitelaw wasno friend to Mrs. Holbrook; that he had a kind of grudge against herbecause she had been on some one else's side--in--in something. " EllenCarley blushed as she came to this part of her story, and then went onrather hurriedly to hide her confusion. "He didn't like her, sir, yousee. I knew this, but I didn't think it possible he could deceive me in amatter of life and death. So I came home, hoping to find Mrs. Holbrookthere before me. But there were no signs of her, nor of her husbandeither, though I had fully expected to see him. Even father owned thatthings looked bad now, and he let me send every man about the place--someone way, and some another--to hunt for my poor darling. I went intoCrosber myself, though it was getting late by this time, and madeinquiries of every creature I knew in the village; but it was all nogood: no one had seen anything of the lady I was looking for. "

"And the husband?" Gilbert asked again; "what of him?"

"He came next day at the usual hour, after we had been astir all night, and the farm-labourers had been far and wide looking for Mrs. Holbrook. Inever saw any one seem so shocked and horrified as he did when we toldhim how his wife had been missing for more than four-and-twenty hours. Heis not a gentleman to show his feelings much at ordinary times, and hewas quiet enough in the midst of his alarm; but he turned as white asdeath, and I never saw the natural colour come back to his face all thetime he was down here. "

"How long did he stay?"

"He only left yesterday. He was travelling about the country all thetime, coming back here of a night to sleep, and with the hope that wemight have heard something in his absence. The river was dragged forthree days; but, thank God, nothing came of that. Mr. Holbrook set theMalsham police to work--not that they're much good, I think; but hewouldn't leave a stone unturned. And now I believe he has gone to Londonto get help from the police there. But O, sir, I can't make it out, and Ihave lain awake, night after night thinking of it, and puzzling myselfabout it, until all sorts of dreadful fancies come into my mind. "

"What fancies?"

"O, sir, I scarcely dare tell you; but I loved that sweet young lady sowell, that I have been as watchful and jealous in all things, thatconcerned her as if she had been my own sister. I have thought sometimesthat her husband had grown tired of her; that, however dearly he mighthave loved her at first, as I suppose he did, his love had worn outlittle by little, and he felt her a burden to him. What other reasoncould there be for him to keep her hidden away in this dull place, monthafter month, when he must have seen that her youth and beauty and gaietyof heart were slowly vanishing away, if he had eyes to see anything?"

"But, good Heavens!" Gilbert exclaimed, startled by the sudden horror ofthe idea which Ellen Carley's words suggested, "you surely do not imaginethat Marian's husband had any part in her disappearance? that he could becapable of----"

"I don't know what to think, sir, " the girl answered, interrupting him. "I know that I have never liked Mr. Holbrook--never liked or trusted himfrom the first, though he has been civil enough and kind enough in hisown distant way to me. That dear young lady could not disappear off theface of the earth, as it seems she has done, without the evil work ofsome one. As to her leaving this place of her own free will, without aword of warning to her husband or to me, that I am sure she would neverdream of doing. No, sir, there has been foul play of some kind, and I'mafraid I shall never see that dear face again. "

The girl said this with an air of conviction that sent a deadly chill toGilbert Fenton's heart. It seemed to him in this moment of supremeanguish as if all his trouble of the past, all his vague fears andanxieties about the woman he loved, had been the foreshadowing of thisevil to come. He had a blank helpless feeling, a dismal sense of his ownweakness, which for the moment mastered him. Against any ordinarycalamity he would have held himself bravely enough, with the naturalstrength of an ardent hopeful character; but against this mysteriouscatastrophe courage and manhood could avail nothing. She was gone, thefragile helpless creature he had pledged himself to protect; gone fromall who knew her, leaving not the faintest clue to her fate. Could hedoubt that this energetic warm-hearted girl was right, and that some fouldeed had been done, of which Marian Holbrook was the victim?

"If she lives, I will find her, " he said at last, after a long pause, inwhich he had sat in gloomy silence, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, meditating the circumstances of Marian's disappearance. "Living or dead, I will find her. It shall be the business of my life from this hour. Allmy serious thoughts have been of her from the moment in which I firstknew her. They will be doubly hers henceforward. "

"How good and true you are!" Ellen Carley exclaimed admiringly; "and howyou must have loved her! I guessed when you were here last that it wasyou to whom she was engaged before her marriage, and told her as much;but she would not acknowledge that I was right. O, how I wish she hadkept faith with you! how much happier she might have been as your wife!"

"People have different notions of happiness, you see, Miss Carley, "Gilbert answered with a bitter smile. "Yes, you were right; it was I whowas to have been Marian Nowell's husband, whose every hope of the futurewas bound up in her. But all that is past; whatever bitterness I feltagainst her at first--and I do not think I was ever very bitter--haspassed away. I am nothing now but her friend, her steadfast and constantfriend. "

"Thank heaven that she has such a friend, " Ellen said earnestly. "And youwill make it your business to look for her, sir?"

"The chief object of my life, from this hour. "

"And you will try to discover whether her husband is really true, orwhether the search that he has made for her has been a blind to hide hisown guilt?"

"What grounds have you for supposing his guilt possible?" asked Gilbert. "There are crimes too detestable for credibility; and this would be sucha one. You may imagine that I have no friendly feeling towards this man, yet I cannot for an instant conceive him capable of harming a hair of hiswife's head. "

"Because you have not brooded upon this business as I have, sir, forhours and hours together, until the smallest things seem to have an awfulmeaning. I have thought of every word and every look of Mr. Holbrook's inthe past, and all my thoughts have pointed one way. I believe that he wastired of his sweet young wife; that his marriage was a burden and atrouble to him somehow; that it had arisen out of an impulse that hadpassed away. "

"All this might be, and yet the man be innocent. "

"He might be--yes, sir. It is a hard thing, perhaps, even to think himguilty for a moment. But it is so difficult to account in any common wayfor Mrs. Holbrook's disappearance. If there had been murder done" (thegirl shuddered as she said the words)--"a common murder, such as onehears of in lonely country places--surely it must have come to lightbefore this, after the search that has been made all round about. But itwould have been easy enough for Mr. Holbrook to decoy his wife away toLondon or anywhere else. She would have gone anywhere with him, at amoment's notice. She obeyed him implicitly in everything. "

"But why should he have taken her away from this place in a secretmanner?" asked Gilbert; "he was free to remove her openly. And then youdescribe him as taking an amount of trouble in his search for her, whichmight have been so easily avoided, had he acted with ordinary prudenceand caution. Say that he wanted to keep the secret of his marriage fromthe world in which he lives, and to place his wife in even a moresecluded spot than this--which scarcely seems possible--what could havebeen easier for him than to take her away when and where he pleased? Noone here would have had any right to question his actions. "

Ellen Carley shook her head doubtfully. 

"I don't know, sir, " she answered slowly; "I daresay my fancies are veryfoolish; they may have come, perhaps, out of thinking about this so much, till my brain has got addled, as one may say. But it flashed upon me allof a sudden one night, as Mr. Holbrook was standing in our parlourtalking about his wife--it flashed upon me that he was in the secret ofher disappearance, and that he was only acting with us in his pretence ofanxiety and all that; I fancied there was a guilty look in his face, somehow. "

"Did you tell him about his wife's good fortune--the money left her byher grandfather?"

"I did, sir; I thought it right to tell him everything I could about mypoor dear young lady's journey to London. She had told him of that in herletters, it seemed, but not about the money. She had been keeping thatback for the pleasure of telling him with her own lips, and seeing hisface light up, she said to me, when he heard the good news. I asked himabout the letter which had come in the morning of the day shedisappeared, and whether it was from him; but he said no, he had notwritten, counting upon being with his wife that evening. It was only atthe last moment he was prevented coming. "

"You have looked for that letter, I suppose?"

"O yes, sir; I searched, and Mr. Holbrook too, in every direction, butthe letter wasn't to be found. He seemed very vexed about it, veryanxious to find it. We could not but think that Mrs. Holbrook had gone tomeet some one that day, and that the letter had something to do with hergoing out. I am sure she would not have gone beyond the garden and themeadow for pleasure alone. She never had been outside the gate withoutme, except when she went to meet her husband. "

"Strange!" muttered Gilbert. 

He was wondering about that letter: what could have been the lure whichhad beguiled Marian away from the house that day; what except a letterfrom her husband? It seemed hardly probable that she would have gone tomeet any one but him, or that any one else would have appointed a meetingon the river-bank. The fact that she had gone out at an earlier hour thanthe time at which she had been in the habit of meeting her husband whenhe came from the Malsham station, went some way to prove that the letterhad influenced her movements. Gilbert thought of the fortune which hadbeen left to Marian, and which gave her existence a new value, perhapsexposed her to new dangers. Her husband's interests were involved in herlife; her death, should she die childless, must needs deprive him of alladvantage from Jacob Nowell's wealth. The only person to profit from suchan event would be Percival Nowell; but he was far away, Gilbert believed, and completely ignorant of his reversionary interest in his father'sproperty. There was Medler the attorney, a man whom Gilbert haddistrusted from the first. It was just possible that the letter had beenfrom him; yet most improbable that he should have asked Mrs. Holbrook tomeet him out of doors, instead of coming to her at the Grange, or thatshe should have acceded to such a request, had he made it. 

The whole affair was encompassed with mystery, and Gilbert Fenton's heartsank as he contemplated the task that lay before him. 

"I shall spend a day or two in this neighbourhood before I return totown, " he said to Ellen Carley presently; "there are inquiries that Ishould like to make with my own lips. I shall be only going over oldground, I daresay, but it will be some satisfaction to me to do it formyself. Can you give me house-room here for a night or two, or shall Iput up at Crosber?"

"I'm sure father would be very happy to accommodate you here, sir. We'veplenty of room now; too much for my taste. The house seems like awilderness now Mrs. Holbrook is gone. "

"Thanks. I shall be very glad to sleep here. There is just the chancethat you may have some news for me, or I for you. "

"Ah, sir, it's only a very poor chance, I'm afraid, " the girl answeredhopelessly. 

She went with Gilbert to the gate, and watched him as he walked awaytowards the river. His first impulse was to follow the path which Marianhad taken that day, and to see for himself what manner of place it wasfrom which she had so mysteriously vanished. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

IN BONDAGE. 

Adela Branston found life very dreary in the splendid gloom of her townhouse. She would have infinitely preferred the villa near Maidenhead forthe place of her occupation, had it not been for the fact that in Londonshe was nearer John Saltram, and that any moment of any day might bringhim to her side. 

The days passed, however--empty useless days, frittered away in frivolousoccupations, or wasted in melancholy idleness; and John Saltram did notcome, or came so rarely that the only effect of his visits was to keep upthe fever and restlessness of the widow's mind. 

She had fancied that life would be so bright for her when the day of herfreedom came; that she would reap so rich a harvest of happiness as areward for the sacrifice which she had made in marrying old MichaelBranston, and enduring his peevishness and ill-health with tolerablegood-humour during the half-dozen years of their wedded life. She hadfancied this; and now her release had come to her, and was worthless inher sight, because the one man she cared for had proved himself cold andindifferent. 

In spite of his coldness, however, she told herself that he loved her, that he had loved her from the earliest period of their acquaintance. 

She was a poor weak little woman, the veriest spoilt child of fortune, and she clung to this belief with a fond foolish persistence, a blinddevoted obstinacy, against which the arguments of Mrs. Pallinson wereutterly vain, although that lady devoted a great deal of time and energyto the agreeable duty which she called "opening dear Adela's eyes aboutthat dissipated good-for-nothing Mr. Saltram. "

To a correct view of this subject Adela Branston's eyes were not to beopened in any wise. She was wilfully, resolutely blind, clinging to thehope that this cruel neglect on John Saltram's part arose only from hisdelicacy of feeling, and tender care for her reputation. 

"But O, how I wish that he would come to me!" she said to herself againand again, as those slow dreary days went by, burdened and weighed downby the oppressive society of Mrs. Pallinson, as well as by her own sadthoughts. "My husband has been dead ever so long now, and what need havewe to study the opinion of the world so much? Of course I wouldn't marryhim till a year, or more, after poor Michael's death; but I should liketo see him often, to be sure that he still cares for me as he used tocare--yes, I am sure he used--in the dear old days at Maidenhead. Whydoesn't he come to me? He knows that I love him. He must know that I haveno brighter hope than to make him the master of my fortune; and yet hegoes on in those dismal Temple chambers, toiling at his literary work asif he had not a thought in the world beyond earning so many pounds aweek. "

This was the perpetual drift of Mrs. Branston's meditations; and in theabsence of any sign or token of regard from John Saltram, all Mrs. Pallinson's attempts to amuse her, all the fascinations andaccomplishments of the elegant Theobald, were thrown away upon anunreceptive soil. 

There were not many amusements open to a London public at that dullseason of the year, except the theatres, and for those places ofentertainment Mrs. Pallinson cherished a shuddering aversion. But therewere occasional morning and evening "recitals, " or concerts, where themusic for the most part was of a classical and reconditecharacter--feasts of melody, at which long-buried and forgotten sonatasof Gluck, or Bach, or Chembini were introduced to a discriminating publicfor the first time; and to these Mrs. Pallinson and Theobald conductedpoor Adela Branston, whose musical proclivities had never yet soared intohigher regions than those occupied by the sparkling joyous genius ofRossini, and to whom the revived sonatas, or the familiar old-establishedgems of classical art, were as unintelligible as so much Hebrew orSyriac. Perhaps they were not much more delightful to Mrs. Pallinson; butthat worthy matron had a profound veneration for the conventionalities oflife, and these classical matinées and recitals seemed to her exactly thecorrect sort of thing for the amusement of a young widow whose husbandhad not very long ago been consigned to the tomb. 

So poor Adela was dragged hither and thither to gloomy concert-rooms, where the cold winter's light made the performers look pale and wan, orto aristocratic drawing-rooms, graciously lent to some favoured pianisteby their distinguished owners; and so, harassed and weary, but lackingspirit to oppose her own feeble inclinations to the overpowering force ofMrs. Pallinson's will, the helpless little widow went submissivelywherever they chose to take her, tormented all the while by the thoughtof John Saltram's coldness, and wondering when this cruel time ofprobation would be at an end, and he would show himself her devoted slaveonce more. It was very weak and foolish to think of him like this, nodoubt; undignified and unwomanly, perhaps; but Adela Branston was littlemore than a child in knowledge of the world, and John Saltram was theonly man who had ever touched her heart. She stood quite alone in theworld too, lonely with all her wealth, and there was no one to share heraffection with this man, who had acquired so complete an influence overher. 

She endured the dreary course of her days patiently enough for aconsiderable time, not knowing any means whereby she might releaseherself from the society of her kinswoman, or put an end to theindefatigable attentions of the popular Maida Hill doctor. She would havegladly offered Mrs. Pallinson a liberal allowance out of her fortune tobuy that lady off, and be her own mistress once more, free to act andthink for herself, had she dared to make such a degrading proposition toa person of Mrs. Pallinson's dignity. But she could not venture to dothis; and she felt that no one but John Saltram, in the character of herfuture husband, could release her from the state of bondage into whichshe had weakly suffered herself to fall. In the meantime she defended theman she loved with an unflinching spirit, resolutely refusing to haveher eyes opened to the worthlessness of his character, and boldlydeclaring her disbelief of those sad accounts which Theobald affected tohave heard from well-informed acquaintance of his own, respecting thefollies and dissipations of Mr. Saltram's career, his debts, his love ofgambling, his dealings with money-lenders, and other foibles common tothe rake's progress. 

It was rather a hard battle for the lonely little woman to fight, but shehad fortune on her side; and at the worst, her kinsfolk treated her witha certain deference, even while they were doing their utmost to worry herinto an untimely grave. If little flatteries, and a perpetual indulgencein all small matters, such as a foolish nurse might give to a spoiltchild, could have made Adela happy, she had certainly no reason tocomplain, for in this manner Mrs. Pallinson was the most devoted andaffectionate of companions. If her darling Adela looked a little palerthan usual, or confessed to suffering from a headache, or owned to beingnervous or out of spirits, Mrs. Pallinson's anxiety knew no bounds, andTheobald was summoned from Maida Hill without a minute's delay, much topoor Adela's annoyance. Indeed, she grew in time to deny the headaches, and the low spirits, or the nervousness resolutely, rather than bringupon herself a visitation from Mr. Theobald Pallinson; and in spite ofall this care and indulgence she felt herself a prisoner in her ownhouse, somehow; more dependent than the humblest servant in that spaciousmansion; and she looked out helplessly and hopelessly for some friendthrough whose courageous help she might recover her freedom. Perhaps sheonly thought of one champion as at all likely to come to her rescue;indeed, her mind had scarcely room for more than that one image, whichoccupied her thoughts at all times. 

Her captivity had lasted for a period which seemed a very long time, though it was short enough when computed by the ordinary standard ofweeks and months, when a circumstance occurred which gave her a briefinterval of liberty. Mr. Pallinson fell a victim to some slight attack oflow fever; and his mother, who was really most devoted to this paragon ofa son, retired from the citadel in Cavendish Square for a few days inorder to nurse him. It was not that the surgeon's illness was in any waydangerous, but the mother could not trust her darling to the care ofstrangers and hirelings. 

Adela Branston seemed to breathe more freely in that brief holiday. Relieved from Mrs. Pallinson's dismal presence, life appeared brighterand pleasanter all at once; a faint colour came back to the pale cheeks, and the widow was even beguiled into laughter by some uncomplimentaryobservations which her confidential maid ventured upon with reference tothe absent lady. 

"I'm sure the house itself seems lighter and more cheerful-like withouther, ma'am, " said this young person, who was of a vivacious temperament, and upon whom the dowager's habitual dreariness had been a heavyaffliction; "and you're looking all the better already for not beingworried by her. "

"Berners, you really must not say such things, " Mrs. Branston exclaimedreproachfully. "You ought to know that my cousin is most kind andthoughtful, and does everything for the best. "

"O, of course, ma'am; but some people's best is quite as bad as otherpeople's worst, " the maid answered sharply; "and as to kindness andthoughtfulness, Mrs. Pallinson is a great deal too kind and thoughtful, Ithink; for her kindness and thoughtfulness won't allow you a moment'srest. And then, as if anybody couldn't see through her schemes about thatprecious son of hers--with his finicking affected ways!"

And at this point the vivacious Berners gave a little imitation ofTheobald Pallinson, with which liberty Adela pretended to be very muchoffended, laughing at the performance nevertheless. 

Mrs. Branston passed the first day of her freedom in luxurious idleness. It was such an inexpressible relief not to hear the perpetual click ofMrs. Pallinson's needle travelling in and out of the canvas, as thatirreproachable matron sat at her embroidery-frame, on which a group ofspaniels, after Sir Edwin Landseer, were slowly growing into the fluffylife of Berlin wool; a still greater relief, not to be called upon torespond appropriately to the dull platitudes which formed the lady'susual conversation, when she was not abusing John Saltram, or soundingthe praises of her beloved son. 

The day was a long one for Adela, in spite of the pleasant sense offreedom; for she had begun the morning with the thought of what adelightful thing it would be if some happy accident should bring Mr. Saltram to Cavendish-square on this particular day; and having oncestarted with this idea, she found herself counting the hours andhalf-hours with impatient watchfulness until the orthodox time forvisiting was quite over, and she could no longer beguile herself with thehope that he would come. She wanted so much to see him alone. Since herhusband's death, they had met only in the presence of Mrs. Pallinson, beneath the all-pervading eye and within perpetual ear-shot of thatoppressive matron. Adela fancied that if they could only meet for onebrief half-hour face to face, without the restraint of that foreignpresence, all misunderstanding would be at an end between them, and JohnSaltram's affection for her, in which she believed with a fond credulity, would reveal itself in all its truth and fulness. 

"I daresay it is my cousin Pallinson who has kept him away from me allthis time, " Adela said to herself with a very impatient feeling abouther cousin Pallinson. "I know how intolerant he is of any one hedislikes; and no doubt he has taken a dislike to her; she has doneeverything to provoke it, indeed by her coldness and rudeness to him. "

That day went by, and the second and third day of the dowager's absence;but there was no sign of John Saltram. Adela thought of writing to askhim to come to her; but that seemed such a desperate step, she could notthink how she should word the letter, or how she could give it to one ofthe servants to post. No, she would contrive to post it herself, if shedid bring herself to write. And then she thought of a still moredesperate step. What if she were to call upon Mr. Saltram at his Templechambers? It would be a most unwarrantable thing for her to do, ofcourse; an act which would cause Mrs. Pallinson's hair to stand on end invirtuous horror, could it by any means come to her knowledge; but Adeladid not intend that it ever should be known to Mrs. Pallinson; and aboutthe opinion of the world in the abstract, Mrs. Branston told herself thatshe cared very little. What was the use of being a rich widow, if she wasto be hedged-in by the restrictions which encompass the steps of anunwedded damsel just beginning life? Emboldened by the absence of herdowager kinswoman, Mrs. Branston felt herself independent, free to do afoolish thing, and ready to abide the hazard of her folly. 

So, upon the fourth day of her freedom, despairing of any visit from JohnSaltram, Adela Branston ordered the solemn-looking butler to send for acab, much to the surprise of that portly individual. 

"Josephs has just been round asking about the carriage, mum, " he said, ina kind of suggestive way; "whether you'd please to want the b'rouche orthe broom, and whether you'd drive before or after luncheon. "

"I shall not want the carriage this morning; send for a cab, if youplease, Parker. I am going into the City, and don't care about taking thehorses there. "

The solemn Parker bowed and retired, not a little mystified by thisorder. His mistress was a kind little woman enough, but such extremeconsideration for equine comfort is hardly a feminine attribute, and Mr. Parker was puzzled. He told Josephs the coachman as much when he haddispatched an underling to fetch the cleanest four-wheeler procurable atan adjacent stand. 

"She's a-going to her banker's I suppose, " he said meditatively; "goingto make some new investments perhaps. Women are always a-fidgeting andchopping and changing with their money. "

Mrs. Branston kept the cab waiting half an hour, according to the fairestreckoning. She was very particular about her toilette that morning, andinclined to be discontented with the sombre plainness of her widow'sgarb, and to fancy that the delicate border of white crape round hergirlish face made her look pale, not to say sallow. She came downstairsat last, however, looking very graceful and pretty in her trailingmourning robes and fashionable crape bonnet, in which the profoundestdepth of woe was made to express itself with a due regard to elegance. She came down to the homely hackney vehicle attended by the obsequiousBerners, whose curiosity was naturally excited by this solitaryexpedition. 

"Where shall I tell the man to drive, mum?" the butler asked with thecab-door in his hand. 

Mrs. Branston felt herself blushing, and hesitated a little before shereplied. 

"The Union Bank, Chancery-lane. Tell him to go by the Strand andTemple-bar. "

"I can't think what's come to my mistress, " Miss Berners remarked as thecab drove off. "Catch _me_ driving in one of those nasty vulgarfour-wheel cabs, if I had a couple of carriages and a couple of pairs ofhorses at my disposal. There's some style about a hansom; but I nevercould abide those creepy-crawley four-wheelers. "

"I admire your taste, Miss Berners; and a dashing young woman like you'sa credit to a hansom, " replied Mr. Parker gallantly. "But there's noaccounting for the vagaries of the female sex; and I fancy somehow Mrs. B. Didn't want any of us to know where she was going; she coloured-up sowhen I asked her for the direction. You may depend there's something up, Jane Berners. She's going to see some poor relation perhaps--Mile-end orKentish-town way--and was ashamed to give the address. "

"I don't believe she has any relations, except old Mother Pallinson andher son, " Miss Berners answered. 

And thereupon the handmaiden withdrew to her own regions with adiscontented air, as one who had been that day cheated out of herlegitimate rights. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

ONLY A WOMAN. 

The cabman did not hurry his tall raw-boned steed, and the drive toTemple-bar seemed a very long one to Adela Branston, whose mind wasdisturbed by the consciousness that she was doing a foolish thing. Manytimes during the journey, she was on the point of stopping the man andtelling him to drive back to Cavendish-square; but in spite of thesemoments of doubt and vacillation she suffered the vehicle to proceed, andonly stopped the man when they were close to Temple-bar. 

Here she told him where she wanted to go; upon which he plunged down anobscure side street, and stopped at one of the entrances to the Temple. Here Mrs. Branston alighted, and had to inquire her way to Mr. Saltram'schambers. She was so unaccustomed to be out alone, that this expeditionseemed something almost awful to her when she found herself helpless andsolitary in that strange locality. She had fancied that the cab woulddrive straight to Mr. Saltram's door. 

The busy lawyers flitting across those grave courts and passages turnedto glance curiously at the pretty little widow. She had the air of aperson not used to be on foot and unattended--a kind of aerial butterflyair, as of one who belonged to the useless and ornamental class ofsociety; utterly different from the appearance of such humble femalepedestrians as were wont to make the courts and alleys of the Temple ashort-cut in their toilsome journeys to and fro. Happily a porterappeared, who was able to direct her to Mr. Saltram's chambers, andcivilly offered to escort her there; for which service she rewarded himwith half-a-crown, instead of the sixpence which he expected as hismaximum recompense; she was so glad to have reached the shelter of thedark staircase in safety. The men whom she had met had frightened her bytheir bold admiring stares; and yet she was pleased to think that she waslooking pretty. 

The porter did not leave her until she had been admitted by Mr. Saltram'sboy, and then retired, promising to be in the way to see her back to hercarriage. How the poor little thing trembled when she found herself onthe threshold of that unfamiliar door! What a horrible dingy lobby itwas! and how she pitied John Saltram for having to live in such place! Hewas at home and alone, the boy told her; would she please to send in hercard?

No, Mrs. Branston declined to send in her card. The boy could say that alady wished to see Mr. Saltram. 

The truth was, she wanted to surprise this man; to see how herunlooked-for presence would affect him. She fancied herself beloved byhim, poor soul! and that she would be able to read some evidence of hisjoy at seeing her in this unexpected manner. 

The boy went in to his master and announced the advent of a lady, thefirst he had ever seen in those dismal premises. 

John Saltram started up from his desk and came with a hurried step to thedoor, very pale and almost breathless. 

"A lady!" he gasped, and then fell back a pace or two on seeing Adela, with a look which was very much like disappointment. 

"You here, Mrs. Branston!" he exclaimed; "I--you are the last person inthe world I should have expected to see. "

Perhaps he felt that there was a kind of rudeness in this speech, for headded hastily, and with a faint smile, --

"Of course I am not the less honoured by your visit. "

He moved a chair forward, the least dilapidated of the three or fourwhich formed his scanty stock, and placed it near the neglected fire, which he tried to revive a little by a judicious use of the poker. 

"You expected to see some one else, I think, " Adela said; quite unable tohide her wounded feelings. 

She had seen the eagerness in his pale face when he came to the door, andthe disappointed look with which he had recognised her. 

"Scarcely; but I expected to receive news of some one else. "

"Some one you are very anxious to hear about, I should imagine, from yourmanner just now, " said Adela, who could not forbear pressing the questiona little. 

"Yes, Mrs. Branston, some one about whom I am anxious; a relation, inshort. "

She looked at him with a puzzled air. She had never heard him talk of hisrelations, had indeed supposed that he stood almost alone in the world;but there was no reason that it should be so, except his silence on thesubject. She watched him for some moments in silence, as he stood leaningagainst the opposite angle of the chimney-piece waiting for her to speak. He was looking very ill, much changed since she had seen him last, haggard and worn, with the air of a man who had not slept properly formany nights. There was an absent far-away look in his eyes: and AdelaBranston felt all at once that her presence was nothing to him; that thisdesperate step which she had taken had no more effect upon him than thecommonest event of every-day life; in a word, that he did not love her. Acold deathlike feeling came over her as she thought this. She had set herheart upon this man's love, and had indeed some justification forsupposing that it was hers. It seemed to her that life was useless--worsethan useless, odious and unendurable--without it. 

But even while she was thinking this, with a cold blank misery in herheart, she had to invent some excuse for this unseemly visit. 

"I have waited so anxiously for you to call, " she said at last, in anervous hesitating way, "and I began to fear that you must be ill, and Iwished to consult you about the management of my affairs. My lawyersworry me so with questions which I don't know how to answer, and I haveso few friends in the world whom I can trust except you; so at last Iscrewed up my courage to call upon you. "

"I am deeply honoured by your confidence, Mrs. Branston, " John Saltramanswered, looking at her gravely with those weary haggard eyes, with theair of a man who brings his thoughts back to common life from somefar-away region with an effort. "If my advice or assistance can be of anyuse to you, they are completely at your service. What is this businessabout which your solicitor bothers you?"

"I'll explain that to you directly, " Adela answered, taking some lettersfrom her pocket-book. "How good you are! I knew that you would help me;but tell me first why you have never been to Cavendish-square in all thislong time. I fear I was right; you have been ill, have you not?"

"Not exactly ill, but very much worried and overworked. "

A light dawned on Adela Branston's troubled mind. She began to think thatMr. Saltram's strange absent manner, his apparent indifference to herpresence, might arise from preoccupation, caused by those pecuniarydifficulties from which the Pallinsons declared him so constant asufferer. Yes, she told herself, it was trouble of this kind thatoppressed him, that had banished him from her all this time. He was toogenerous to repair his shattered fortunes by means of her money; he wastoo proud to confess his fallen state. 

A tender pity took possession of her. All that was most sentimental inher nature was awakened by the idea of John Saltram's generosity. Whatwas the use of her fortune, if she could not employ it for the relief ofthe man she loved?

"You are so kind to me, Mr. Saltram, " she faltered, after a troubledpause; "so ready to help me in my perplexities, I only wish you wouldallow me to be of some use to you in yours, if you have any perplexities;and I suppose everybody has, of some kind or other. I should be so proudif you would give me your confidence--so proud and happy!" Her voicetrembled a little as she said this, looking up at him all the while withsoft confiding blue eyes, the fair delicate face looking its prettiest inthe coquettish widow's head-gear. 

A man must have been harder of heart than John Saltram who could remainunmoved by a tenderness so evident. This man was touched, and deeply. Thepale careworn face grew more troubled, the firmly-moulded lips quiveredever so little, as he looked down at the widow's pleading countenance;and then he turned his head aside with a sudden half-impatient movement. 

"My dear Mrs. Branston, you are too good to me; I am unworthy, I am inevery way unworthy of your kindness. "

"You are not unworthy, and that is no answer to my question; only anexcuse to put me off. We are such old friends, Mr. Saltram, you mighttrust me. You own that you have been worried--overworked--worried aboutmoney matters, perhaps. I know that gentlemen are generally subject tothat kind of annoyance; and you know how rich I am, how littleemployment I have for my money, though you can never imagine howworthless and useless it seems to me. Why won't you trust me? why won'tyou let me be your banker?"

She blushed crimson as she made this offer, dreading that the man sheloved would turn upon her fiercely in a passion of offended pride. Shesat before him trembling, dreading the might of his indignation. 

But there was no anger in John Saltram's face when he looked round ather; only grief and an expression that was like pity. 

"The offer is like you, " he said with suppressed feeling; "but theworries of which I spoke just now are not money troubles. I do notpretend to deny that my affairs are embarrassed, and have been for solong that entanglement has become their normal state; but if they wereever so much more desperate, I could not afford to trade upon yourgenerosity. No, Mrs. Branston, that is just the very last thing in thisworld that I could consent to do. "

"It is very cruel of you to say that, " Adela answered, with the tearsgathering in her clear blue eyes, and with a little childish look ofvexation, which would have seemed infinitely charming in the eyes of aman who loved her. "There can be no reason for your saying this, exceptthat you do not think me worthy of your confidence--that you despise metoo much to treat me like a friend. If I were that Mr. Fenton now, whomyou care for so much, you would not treat me like this. "

"I never borrowed a sixpence from Gilbert Fenton in my life, though Iknow that his purse is always open to me. But friendship is apt to endwhen money transactions begin. Believe me, I feel your goodness, Mrs. Branston, your womanly generosity; but it is my own unworthiness thatcomes between me and your kindness. I can accept nothing from you but thesympathy which it is your nature to give to all who need it. "

"I do indeed sympathise with you; but it seems so hard that you will notconsent to make some use of all that money which is lying idle. It wouldmake me so happy if I could think it were useful to you; but I dare notsay any more. I have said too much already, perhaps; only I hope you willnot think very badly of me for having acted on impulse in this way. "

"Think badly of you, my dear kind soul! What can I think, except that youare one of the most generous of women?"

"And about these other troubles, Mr. Saltram, which have no relation tomoney matters; you will not give me your confidence?"

"There is nothing that I can confide in you, Mrs. Branston. Others areinvolved in the matter of which I spoke, I am not free to talk about it. "

Poor Adela felt herself repulsed at every point. It seemed very hard. Had she been mistaken about this man all the time? mistaken and deludedin those old happy days during her husband's lifetime, when he had beenso constant a visitor at the river-side villa, and had seemed exactlywhat a man might seem who cherished a tenderness which he dared notreveal in the present, but which in a brighter future might blossom intothe full-blown flower of love?

"And now about your own affairs, my dear Mrs. Branston?" John Saltram saidwith a forced cheerfulness, drawing his chain up to the table andassuming a business-like manner. "These tiresome letters of yourlawyers'; let me see what use I can be in the matter. "

Adela Branston produced the letters with rather an absent air. They wereletters about very insignificant affairs; the renewal of a lease or two;the reinvestment of a sum of money that had been lent on mortgage, andhad fallen in lately; transactions that scarcely called for theemployment of Mr. Saltram's intellectual powers. But he gave them veryserious attention nevertheless, well aware, all the time that thisbusiness consultation was only the widow's excuse for her visit; andwhile she seemed to be listening to his advice, her eyes were wanderinground the room all the time, noting the dust and confusion, thesoda-water bottles huddled in one corner, the pile of books heaped in acareless mass in another, the half-empty brandy-bottle between a couple ofstone ink-jars on the mantelpiece. She was thinking what a dreary placeit was, and that there was the stamp of decay and ruin somehow upon theman who occupied it. And she loved him so well, and would have given allthe world to have redeemed his life. 

It is doubtful whether Adela Branston heard one syllable of that counselwhich Mr. Saltram administered so gravely. Her mind was full of thefailure of this desperate step which she had taken. He seemed fartherfrom her now than before they had met, obstinately adverse to profit byher friendship, cold and cruel. 

"You will come and dine with us very soon, I hope, " she said as she roseto go, "My cousin, Mrs. Pallinson, will be home in a day or two. She hasbeen nursing her son for the last few days; but he is much better, and Iexpect her back immediately. We shall be so pleased to see you; you willname an early day, won't you? Monday shall we say, or Sunday? You can'tplead business on Sunday. "

"My dear Mrs. Branston, I really am not well enough for visiting. "

"But dining with us does not come under the head of visiting. We will bequite alone, if you wish it. I shall be hurt if you refuse to come. "

"If you put it in that way, I cannot refuse; but I fear you will find mewretched company. "

"I am not afraid of that. And now I must ask you to forgive me forhaving wasted so much of your time, before I say good-morning. "

"There has been no time of mine wasted. I have learned to know yourgenerous heart even better than I knew it before, and I think I alwaysknew that it was a noble one. Believe me, I am not ungrateful orindifferent to so much goodness. "

He accompanied her downstairs, and through the courts and passages to theplace where she had left her cab, in spite of the ticket-porter, who washanging about ready to act as escort. He saw her safely seated in thehackney vehicle, and then walked slowly back to his chambers, thinkingover the interview which had just concluded. 

"Poor little soul, " he said softly to himself; "dear little soul! Thereare men who would go to the end of the world for a woman like that; yes, if she had not a sixpence. And to think that I, who thought myself sostrong in the wisdom of the world, should have let such a prize slipthrough my fingers? For what? For a fancy, for a caprice that has broughtconfusion and shame upon me--disappointment and regret. "

He breathed a profound sigh. From first to last life had been more orless a disappointment to this man. He had lived alone; lived for himself, despising the ambitious aims and lofty hopes of other men, thinking thebest prizes this world can give scarcely worth that long struggle whichis so apt to end in failure; perfect success was so rare a result, itseemed to him. He made a rough calculation of his chances in any givenline when he was still fresh from college, and finding the figuresagainst him, gave up all thoughts of doing great things. By-and-by, whenhis creditors grew pressing and it was necessary for him to earn money insome way, he found that it was no trouble to him to write; so he wrotewith a spasmodic kind of industry, but a forty-horse power when he choseto exercise it. For a long time he had no thought of winning name or famein literature. It was only of late it had dawned upon him that he hadwasted labour and talent, out of which a wiser man would have created forhimself a reputation; and that reputation is worth something, if only asa means of making money. 

This conviction once arrived at, he had worked hard at a book which hethought must needs make some impression upon the world whenever he couldafford time to complete it. In the meanwhile his current work occupied somuch of his life, that he was fain to lay the _magnum opus_ aside everynow and then, and it still needed a month or two of quiet labour. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AT FAULT. 

Gilbert Fenton took up his abode at the dilapidated old inn at Crosber, thinking that he might be freer there than at the Grange; a dismal placeof sojourn under the brightest circumstances, but unspeakably dreary forhim who had only the saddest thoughts for his companions. He wanted to beon the spot, to be close at hand to hear tidings of the missing girl, andhe wanted also to be here in the event of John Holbrook's return--to comeface to face with this man, if possible, and to solve that question whichhad sorely perplexed him of late--the mystery that hung about the man whohad wronged him. 

He consulted Ellen Carley as to the probability of Mr. Holbrook's return. The girl seemed to think it very unlikely that Marian's husband wouldever again appear at the Grange. His last departure had appeared like afinal one. He had paid every sixpence he owed in the neighbourhood, andhad been liberal in his donations to the servants and hangers-on of theplace. Marian's belongings he had left to Ellen Carley's care, tellingher to pack them, and keep them in readiness for being forwarded to anyaddress he might send. But his own books and papers he had carefullyremoved. 

"Had he many books here?" Gilbert asked. 

"Not many, " the girl answered; "but he was a very studious gentleman. Hespent almost all his time shut up in his own room reading and writing. "

"Indeed!"

In this respect the habits of the unknown corresponded exactly with thoseof John Saltram. Gilbert Fenton's heart beat a little quicker at thethought that he was coming nearer by a step to the solution of thatquestion which was always uppermost in his mind now. 

"Do you know if he wrote books--if he was what is called a literaryman--living by his pen?" he asked presently. 

"I don't know; I never heard his wife say so. But Mrs. Holbrook wasalways reserved about him and his history. I think he had forbidden herto talk about his affairs. I know I used to fancy it was a dull life forher, poor soul, sitting in his room hour after hour, working while hewrote. He used not to allow her to be with him at all at first, butlittle by little she persuaded him to let her sit with him, promising notto disturb him by so much as a word; and she never did. She seemed quitehappy when she was with him, contented, and proud to think that herpresence was no hindrance to him. "

"And you think he loved her, don't you?"

"At first, yes; but I think a kind of weariness came over himafterwards, and that she saw it, and almost broke her heart about it. She was so simple and innocent, poor darling, it wasn't easy for her tohide anything she felt. "

Gilbert asked the bailiff's daughter to describe Mr. Holbrook to him, asshe had done more than once before. But this time he questioned herclosely, and contrived that her description of this man's outwardsemblance should be especially minute and careful. 

Yes, the picture which arose before him as Ellen Carley spoke was thepicture of John Saltram. The description seemed in every particular toapply to the face and figure of his one chosen friend. But then all suchverbal pictures are at best vague and shadowy, and Gilbert knew that hecarried that one image in his mind, and would be apt unconsciously totwist the girl's words into that one shape. He asked if any picture orphotograph of Mr. Holbrook had been left at the Grange, and Ellen Carleytold him no, she had never even seen a portrait of Marian's husband. 

He was therefore fain to be content with the description which seemed soexactly to fit the friend he loved, the friend to whom he had clung witha deeper, stronger feeling since this miserable suspicion had taken rootin his mind. 

"I think I could have forgiven him if he had come between us in a boldand open way, " he said to himself, brooding over this harassing doubt ofhis friend; "yes, I think I could have forgiven him, in spite of thebitterness of losing her. But to steal her from me with cowardlytreacherous secrecy, to hide my treasure in an obscure corner, and thengrow weary of her, and blight her fair young life with his coldness, --canI forgive him these things? can all the memory of the past plead with mefor him when I think of these things? O God, grant that I am mistaken;that it is some other man who has done this, and not John Saltram; notthe man I have loved and honoured for fifteen years of my life!"

But his suspicions were not to be put away, not to be driven out of hismind, let him argue against them as he might. He resolved, therefore, that as soon as he should have made every effort and taken every possiblemeans towards the recovery of the missing girl, he would make it hisbusiness next to bring this thing home to John Saltram, or acquit him forever. 

It is needless to dwell upon that weary work, which seemed destined toresult in nothing but disappointment. The local constabulary and theLondon police alike exerted all their powers to obtain some trace ofMarian Holbrook's lost footsteps; but no clue to the painful mystery wasto be found. From the moment when she vanished from the eyes of theservant-woman watching her departure from the Grange gate, she seemed tohave disappeared altogether from the sight of mankind. If by somewitchcraft she had melted into the dim autumnal mist that hung about theriver-bank, she could not have left less trace, or vanished moremysteriously than she had done. The local constabulary gave in very soon, in spite of Gilbert Fenton's handsome payment in the present, and noblepromises of reward in the future. The local constabulary were honest anduninventive. They shook their heads gloomily, and said "Drownded. "

"But the river has been dragged, " Gilbert cried eagerly, "and there hasbeen nothing found. "

He shuddered at the thought of that which might have been hauled to shorein the foul weedy net. The face he loved, changed, disfigured, awful--thedamp clinging hair. 

"Holes, " replied the chief of the local constabulary, sententiously;"there's holes in that there river where you might hide half a dozendrownded men, and never hope to find 'em, no more than if they was at thebottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Lord bless your heart, sir, you Londonersdon't know what a river is, in a manner of speaking, " added the man, whowas most likely unacquainted with the existence of the Thames, comparedwith which noble stream this sluggish Hampshire river was the veriestditch. "I've known a many poor creatures drownded in that river, andnever one of 'em to come to light--not that the river was dragged for_them_. Their friends weren't of the dragging class, they weren't. "

The London police were more hopeful and more delusive. They were alwayshearing of some young lady newly arrived at some neighbouring town orvillage who seemed to answer exactly to the description of Mrs. Holbrook. And, behold, when Gilbert Fenton hurried off post-haste to the village ortown, and presented himself before the lady in question, he found for themost part that she was ten years older than Marian, and as utterly unlikeher as it was possible for one Englishwoman to be unlike another. 

He possessed a portrait of the missing girl--a carefully finishedphotograph, which had been given to him in the brief happy time when shewas his promised wife; and he caused this image to be multiplied anddistributed wherever the search for Marian was being made. He neglectedno possible means by which he might hope to obtain tidings; advertisingcontinually, in town and country, and varying his advertisements in sucha manner as to insure attention either from the object of his inquiries, or any one acquainted with her. 

But all his trouble was in vain. No reply, or, what was worse, worthlessand delusive replies, came to his advertisements. The London police, whohad pretended to be so hopeful at first, began to despair in a visiblemanner, having put all their machinery into play, and failed to obtaineven the most insignificant result. They were fain to confess at lastthat they could only come to pretty much the same conclusion as thatarrived at by their inferiors, the rustic officials; and agreed that inall probability the river hid the secret of Marian Holbrook's fate. Shehad been the victim of either crime or accident. Who should say which?The former seemed the more likely, as she had vanished in broad daylight, when, it was scarcely possible that her footsteps could go astray; whilein that lonely neighbourhood a crime was never impossible. 

"She had a watch and chain, I suppose?" the officer inquired. "Ladieswill wear 'em. "

Gilbert ascertained from Ellen Carley that Marian had always worn herwatch and chain, had worn them when she left the Grange for the lasttime. She had a few other trinkets too, which she wore habitually, quaintold-fashioned things, of some value. 

How well Gilbert remembered those little family treasures, which she hadexhibited to him at Captain Sedgewick's bidding!

"Ah, " muttered the officer when he heard this, "quite enough to cost herher life, if she met with one of your ugly customers. I've known a murdercommitted for the sake of three-and-sixpence in my time; and pushing ayoung woman into the river don't count for murder among that sort ofpeople. You see, some one may come by and fish her out again; so it can'twell be more than manslaughter. "

A dull horror came over Gilbert Fenton as he heard these professionalspeculations, but at the worst he could not bring himself to believe thatthese men were right, and that the woman he loved had been the victim ofsome obscure wretch's greed, slain in broad daylight for the sake of afew pounds' worth of jewelry. 

When everything had been done that was possible to be done in that partof the country, Mr. Fenton went back to London. But not before he hadbecome very familiar with the household at the Grange. From the first hehad liked and trusted Ellen Carley, deeply touched by her fidelity toMarian. He made a point of dropping in at the Grange every evening, whennot away from Crosber following up some delusive track started by hismetropolitan counsellors. He always went there with a faint hope thatEllen Carley might have something to tell him, and with a vague notionthat John Holbrook might return unexpectedly, and that they two mightmeet in the old farm-house. But Mr. Holbrook did not reappear, nor hadEllen any tidings for her evening visitor; though she thought of littleelse than Marian, and never let a day pass without making some smalleffort to obtain a clue to that mystery which now seemed so hopeless. Gilbert grew to be quite at home in the little wainscoted parlour at theGrange, smoking his cigar there nightly in a tranquil contemplative mood, while Mr. Carley puffed vigorously at his long clay pipe. There was aspecial charm for him in the place that had so long being Marian's home. He felt nearer to her, somehow, under that roof, and as if he must needsbe on the right road to some discovery. The bailiff, although prone tosilence, seemed to derive considerable gratification from Mr. Fenton'svisits, and talked to that gentleman with greater freedom than he waswont to display in his intercourse with mankind. Ellen was not alwayspresent during the whole of the evening, and in her absence the bailiffwould unbosom himself to Gilbert on the subject of his daughter'sundutiful conduct; telling him what a prosperous marriage the girl mightmake if she had only common sense enough to see her own interests in theright light, and wasn't the most obstinate self-willed hussy that everset her own foolish whims and fancies against a father's wishes. 

"But a woman's fancies sometimes mean a very deep feeling, Mr. Carley, "pleaded Gilbert; "and what worldly-wise people call a good home, is notalways a happy one. It's a hard thing for a young woman to marry againsther inclination. "

"Humph!" muttered the bailiff in a surly tone. "It's a harder thing forher to marry a pauper, I should think, and to bring a regiment ofchildren into the world, always wanting shoes and stockings. But you're abachelor, you see, Mr. Fenton, and can't be expected to know what shoesand stockings are. Now there happens to be a friend of mine--a steady, respectable, middle-aged man--who worships the ground my girl walks on, and could make her mistress of as good a house as any within twenty milesof this, and give a home to her father in his old age, into the bargain;for I'm only a servant here, and it can't be expected that I am to go ontoiling and slaving about this place for ever. I don't say but what I'vesaved a few pounds, but I haven't saved enough to keep me out of theworkhouse. "

This seemed to Gilbert rather a selfish manner of looking at a daughter'smatrimonial prospects, and he ventured to hint as much in a polite way. But the bailiff was immovable. 

"What a young woman wants is a good home, " he said decisively; "whethershe has the sense to know it herself, or whether she hasn't, that's whatshe's got to look for in life. "

Gilbert had not spent many evenings at the Grange before he had thehonour of being introduced to the estimable middle-aged suitor, whoseclaims Mr. Carley was always setting forth to his daughter. He sawStephen Whitelaw, and that individual's colourless expressionlesscountenance, redeemed from total blankness only by the cunning visible inthe small grey eyes, impressed him with instant distrust and dislike. 

"God forbid that frank warm-hearted girl should ever be sacrificed tosuch a fellow as this, " he said to himself, as he sat on the oppositeside of the hearth, smoking his cigar, and meditatively contemplating Mr. Whitelaw conversing in his slow solemn fashion with the man who was soeager to be his father-in-law. 

In the course of that first evening of their acquaintance, Gilbert wassurprised to see how often Stephen Whitelaw looked at him, with astrangely-attentive expression, that had something furtive in it, somehidden meaning, as it seemed to him. Whenever Gilbert spoke, the farmerlooked up at him, always with the same sharp inquisitive glance, the samecunning twinkle in his small eyes. And every time he happened to look atMr. Whitelaw during that evening, he found the watchful eyes turnedtowards him in the same unpleasant manner. The sensation caused by thiskind of surveillance on the part of the farmer was so obnoxious to him, that at parting he took occasion to speak of it in a friendly way. 

"I fancy you and I must have met before to-night, Mr. Whitelaw, " he said;"or that you must have some notion to that effect. You've looked at mewith an amount of interest my personal merits could scarcely call for. "

"No, no, sir, " the farmer answered in his usual slow deliberate way; "itisn't that; I never set eyes on you before I came into this roomto-night. But you see, Ellen, she's interested in you, and I take aninterest in any one she takes to. And we've all of us thought so muchabout your searching for that poor young lady that's missing, and takingsuch pains, and being so patient-like where another would have given inat the first set-off--so, altogether, you're a general object ofinterest, you see. "

Gilbert did not appear particularly flattered by this compliment. Hereceived it at first with rather an angry look, and then, after a pause, was vexed with himself for having been annoyed by the man's clumsyexpression of sympathy--for it was sympathy, no doubt, which Mr. Whitelawwished to express. 

"It has been sad work, so far, " he said. "I suppose you can give me nohint, no kind of advice as to any step to be taken in the future. "

"Lord bless you, no sir. Everything that could be done was done beforeyou came here. Mr. Holbrook didn't leave a stone unturned. He did hisduty as a man and a husband, sir. The poor young lady wasdrowned--there's no doubt about that. "

"I don't believe it, " Gilbert said, with a quiet resolute air, whichseemed quite to startle Mr. Whitelaw. 

"You don't believe she was drowned! You mean to say you think she'salive, then?" he asked, with unusual sharpness and quickness of speech. 

"I have a firm conviction that she still lives; that, with God'sblessing, I shall see her again. "

"Well, sir, " Mr. Whitelaw replied, relapsing into his accustomedslowness, and rubbing his clumsy chin with his still clumsier hand, in athoughtful manner, "of course it ain't my place to go against anygentleman's convictions--far from it; but if you see Mrs. Holbrook beforethe dead rise out of their graves, my name isn't Stephen Whitelaw. Youmay waste your time and your trouble, and you may spend your money as itwas so much water, but set eyes upon that missing lady you never will;take my word for it, or don't take my word for it, as you please. "

Gilbert wondered at the man's earnestness. Did he really feel some kindof benevolent interest in the fate of a helpless woman, or was it only avulgar love of the marvellous and horrible that moved him? Gilbert leanedto the latter opinion, and was by no means inclined to give StephenWhitelaw credit for any surplus stock of benevolence. He saw a good dealmore of Ellen Carley's suitor in the course of his evening visits to theGrange, and had ample opportunity for observing Mr. Whitelaw's mode ofcourtship, which was by no means of the demonstrative order, consistingin a polite silence towards the object of his affections, broken only byone or two clumsy but florid compliments, delivered in a deliberate butsemi-jocose manner. The owner of Wyncomb Farm had no idea of making hardwork of his courtship. He had been angled for by so many damsels, andcourted by so many fathers and mothers, that he fancied he had but to saythe word when the time came, and the thing would be done. Any evidence ofavoidance, indifference, or even dislike upon Ellen Carley's part, troubled him in the smallest degree. He had heard people talk of youngRandall's fancy for her, and of her liking for him, but he knew that herfather meant to set his heel upon any nonsense of this kind; and he didnot for a moment imagine it possible that any girl would resolutelyoppose her father's will, and throw away such good fortune as he couldoffer her--to ride in her own chaise-cart, and wear a silk gown always onSundays, to say nothing of a gold watch and chain; and Mr. Whitelaw meantto endow his bride with a ponderous old-fashioned timepiece and heavybrassy-looking cable which had belonged to his mother. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

BAFFLED, NOT BEATEN. 

The time came when Gilbert Fenton was fain to own to himself that therewas no more to be done down in Hampshire: professional science and hisown efforts had been alike futile. If she whom he sought still lived--andhe had never for a moment suffered himself to doubt this--it was morethan likely that she was far away from Crosber Grange, that there hadbeen some motive for her sudden flight, unaccountable as that flightmight seem in the absence of any clue to the mystery. 

Every means of inquiry being exhausted in Hampshire, there was nothingleft to Gilbert but to return to London--that marvellous city, wherethere always seems the most hope of finding the lost, wide as thewilderness is. 

"In London I shall have clever detectives always at my service, " Gilbertthought; "in London I may be able to solve the question of JohnHolbrook's identity. "

So, apart from the fact that his own affairs necessitated his promptreturn to the great city, Gilbert had another motive for leaving the dullrural neighbourhood where he had wasted so many anxious hours, so muchthought and care. 

For the rest, he knew that Ellen Carley would be faithful--always on thewatch for any clue to the mystery of Marian Holbrook's fate, always readyto receive the wanderer with open arms, should any happy chance bring herback to the Grange. Assured of this, he felt less compunction in turninghis back upon the spot where his lost love had vanished from the eyes ofmen. 

Before leaving, he gave Ellen a letter for Marian's husband, in theimprobable event of that gentleman's reappearance at the Grange--a fewsimple earnest lines, entreating Mr. Holbrook to believe in the writer'sfaithful and brotherly affection for his wife, and to meet him in Londonon an early occasion, in order that they might together concert freshmeans for bringing about her restoration to her husband and home. Hereminded Mr. Holbrook of his friendship for Captain Sedgewick, and thatgood man's confidence in him, and declared himself bound by his respectfor the dead to be faithful to the living--faithful in all forgiveness ofany wrong done him in the past. 

He went back to London cruelly depressed by the failure of his efforts, and with a blank dreary feeling that there was little more for him to do, except to wait the working of Providence, with the faint hope that one ofthose happy accidents which sometimes bring about a desired result whenall human endeavour has been in vain, might throw a sudden light onMarian Holbrook's fate. 

During the whole of that homeward journey he brooded an those darksuspicions of Mr. Holbrook which Ellen Carley had let fall in theirearlier interviews. He had checked the girl on these occasions, and hadprevented the full utterance of her thoughts, generously indignant thatany suspicion of foul play should attach to Marian's husband, and utterlyincredulous of such a depth of guilt as that at which the girl's hintspointed; but now that he was leaving Hampshire, he felt vexed withhimself for not having urged her to speak freely--not having consideredher suspicions, however preposterous those suspicions might have appearedto him. 

Marian's disappearance had taken a darker colour in his mind since thattime. Granted that she had left the Grange of her own accord, having somespecial reason for leaving secretly, at whose bidding would she have soacted except her husband's--she who stood so utterly alone, without afriend in the world? But what possible motive could Mr. Holbrook have hadfor such an underhand course--for making a conspiracy and a mystery outof so simple a fact as the removal of his wife from a place whence he wasfree to remove her at any moment? Fair and honest motive for such acourse there could be none. Was it possible, looking at the business froma darker point of view, to imagine any guilty reason for the carrying outof such a plot? If this man had wanted to bring about a life-longseverance between himself and his wife, to put her away somewhere, tokeep her hidden from the eyes of the world--in plainer words, to get ridof her--might not this pretence of losing her, this affectation ofdistress at her loss, be a safe way of accomplishing his purpose? Whoelse was interested in doing her any wrong? Who else could have hadsufficient power over her to beguile her away from her home?

Pondering on these questions throughout all that weary journey across awintry landscape of bare brown fields and leafless trees, Gilbert Fentontravelled London-wards, to the city which was so little of a home forhim, but in which his life had seemed pleasant enough in its owncommonplace fashion until that fatal summer evening when he first sawMarian Nowell's radiant face in the quiet church at Lidford. 

He scarcely stopped to eat or drink at the end of his journey, regalinghimself only with a bottle of soda-water, imperceptibly flavoured withcognac by the hands of a ministering angel at the refreshment-counter ofthe Waterloo Station, and then hurrying on at once in a hansom to thatdingy street in Soho where Mr. Medler sat in his parlour, like theproverbial spider waiting for the advent of some too-confiding fly. 

The lawyer was at home, and seemed in no way surprised to see Mr. Fenton. 

"I have come to you about a bad business, Mr. Medler, " Gilbert began, seating himself opposite the shabby-looking office-table, with itscovering of dusty faded baize, upon which there seemed to be alwaysprecisely the same array of papers in little bundles tied with red tape;"but first let me ask you a question: Have you heard from Mrs. Holbrook?"

"Not a line. "

"And have you taken no further steps, no other means of communicatingwith her?" Gilbert asked. 

"Not yet. I think of sending my clerk down to Hampshire, or of going downmyself perhaps, in a day or two, if my business engagements will permitme. "

"Do you not consider the case rather an urgent one, Mr. Medler? I shouldhave supposed that your curiosity would have been aroused by the absenceof any reply to your letters--that you would have looked at the businessin a more serious light than you appear to have done--that you would havetaken alarm, in short. "

"Why should I do so?" the lawyer demanded carelessly. 

"It is Mrs. Holbrook's business to look after her affairs. The propertyis safe enough. She can administer to the will as soon as she pleases. Icertainly wonder that the husband has not been a little sharper and moreactive in the business. "

"You have heard nothing of him, then, I presume?"

"Nothing. "

Gilbert remembered what Ellen Carley had told him about Marian's keepingthe secret of her newly-acquired fortune from her husband, until sheshould be able to tell it to him with her own lips; waiting for thathappy moment with innocent girlish delight in the thought that he was toowe prosperity to her. 

It seemed evident, therefore, that Mr. Holbrook could know nothing of hiswife's inheritance, nor of Mr. Medler's existence, supposing the lawyer'sletter to have reached the Grange before Marian's disappearance, and tohave been destroyed or carried away by her. 

He inquired the date of this letter; whereupon Mr. Medler referred to aletter-book in which there was a facsimile of the document. It had beenposted three days before Marian left the Grange. 

Gilbert now proceeded to inform Mr. Medler of his client's mysteriousdisappearance, and all the useless efforts that had been made to solvethe mystery. The lawyer listened with an appearance of profound interestand astonishment, but made no remark till the story was quite finished. 

"You are right, Mr. Fenton, " he said at last. "It is a bad business, avery bad business. May I ask you what is the common opinion among peoplein that part of the world--in the immediate neighbourhood of the event, as to this poor lady's fate?"

"An opinion with which I cannot bring myself to agree--an opinion which Ipray God may prove as unfounded as I believe it to be. It is generallythought that Mrs. Holbrook has fallen a victim to some common crime--thatshe was robbed, and then thrown into the river. "

"The river has been dragged, I suppose?"

"It has; but the people about there seem to consider that no conclusivetest. "

"Had Mrs. Holbrook anything valuable about her at the time of herdisappearance?"

"Her watch and chain and a few other trinkets. "

"Humph! There are scoundrels about the country who will commit thedarkest crime for the smallest inducement. I confess the business hasrather a black look, Mr. Fenton, and that I am inclined to concur withthe country people. "

"An easy way of settling the question for those not vitally interested inthe lady's fate, " Gilbert answered bitterly. 

"The lady is my client, sir, and I am bound to feel a warm interest inher affairs, " the lawyer said, with the lofty tone of a man whose finerfeelings have been outraged. 

"The lady was once my promised wife, Mr. Medler, " returned Gilbert, "andnow stands to me in the place of a beloved and only sister. For me themystery of her fate is an all-absorbing question, an enigma to thesolution of which I mean to devote the rest of my life, if need be. "

"A wasted life, Mr. Fenton; and in the meantime that river down yondermay hide the only secret. "

"O God!" cried Gilbert passionately, "how eager every one is to make anend of this business! Even the men whom I paid and bribed to help me grewtired of their work, and abandoned all hope after the feeblest, mostmiserable attempts to earn their reward. "

"What can be done in such a case, Mr. Fenton?" demanded the lawyer, shrugging his shoulders with a deprecating air. "What can the police domore than you or I? They have only a little more experience, that's all;they have no recondite means of solving these social mysteries. You haveadvertised, of course?"

"Yes, in many channels, with a certain amount of caution, but in such amanner as to insure Mrs. Holbrook's identification, if she had falleninto the hands of any one willing to communicate with me, and to insureher own attention, were she free to act for herself. "

"Humph! Then it seems to me that everything has been done that can bedone. "

"Not yet. The men whom I employed in Hampshire--they were recommended tome by the Scotland-yard authorities, certainly--may not have been up tothe mark. In any case, I shall try some one else. Do you know anything ofthe detective force?"

Mr. Medler assumed an air of consideration, and then said, "No, he didnot know the name of a single detective; his business did not bring himin contact with that class of people. " He said this with the tone of aman whose practice was of the loftiest and choicest kind--conveyancing, perhaps, and the management of estates for the landed gentry, marriage-settlements involving the disposition of large fortunes, and soon; whereas Mr. Medler's business lying chiefly among the criminalpopulation, his path in life might have been supposed to be not veryremote from the footsteps of eminent police-officers. 

"I can get the information elsewhere, " Gilbert said carelessly. "Believeme, I do not mean to let this matter drop. "

"My dear sir, if I might venture upon a word of friendly advice--not in aprofessional spirit, but as between man and man--I should warn youagainst wasting your time and fortune upon a useless pursuit. If Mrs. Holbrook has vanished from the world of her own free will--a thing thatoften happens, eccentric as it may be--she will reappear in good time ofher own free will. If she has been the victim of a crime, that crime willno doubt come to light in due course, without any efforts of yours. "

"That is the common kind of advice, Mr. Medler, " answered Gilbert. "Prudent counsel, no doubt, if a man could be content to take it, andwell meant; but, you see, I have loved this lady, love her still, andshall continue so to love her till the end of my life. It is not possiblefor me to rest in ignorance of her fate. "

"Although she jilted you in favour of Mr. Holbrook?" suggested the lawyerwith something of a sneer. 

"That wrong has been forgiven. Fate did not permit me to be her husband, but I can be her friend and brother. She has need of some one to stand inthat position, poor girl! for her lot is very lonely. And now I want youto explain the conditions of her grandfather's will. It is her father whowould profit, I think I gathered from our last conversation, in the eventof Marian's death. "

"In the event of her dying childless--yes, the father would take all. "

"Then he is really the only person who could profit by her death?"

"Well, yes, " replied the lawyer with some slight hesitation; "under hergrandfather's will, yes, her father would take all. Of course, in theevent of her father having died previously, the husband would come in asheir-at-law. You see it was not easy to exclude the husband altogether. "

"And do you believe that Mr. Nowell is still living to claim hisinheritance?"

"I believe so. I fancy the old man had some tidings of his son before thewill was executed; that he, in short, heard of his having been met withnot long ago, over in America. "

"No doubt he will speedily put in an appearance now, " said Gilbertbitterly--"now that there is a fortune to be gained by the assertion ofhis identity. "

"Humph!" muttered the lawyer. "It would not be very easy for him to puthis hand on sixpence of Jacob Nowell's money, in the absence of any proofof Mrs. Holbrook's death. There would be no end of appeals to the Courtof Chancery; and after all manner of formulas he might obtain a decreethat would lock up the property for twenty-four years. I doubt, if theexecutor chose to stick to technicals, and the business got intochancery, whether Percival Nowell would live long enough to profit by hisfather's will. "

"I am glad of that, " said Gilbert. "I know the man to be a scoundrel, andI am very glad that he is unlikely to be a gainer by any misfortune thathas befallen his daughter. Had it been otherwise, I should have beeninclined to think that he had had some hand in this disappearance. "

The lawyer looked at Mr. Fenton with a sharp inquisitive glance. 

"In other words, you would imply that Percival Nowell may have made awaywith his daughter. You must have a very bad opinion of human nature, Mr. Fenton, to conceive anything so horrible. "

"My suspicions do not go quite so far as that, " said Gilbert. "God forbidthat it should be so. I have a firm belief that Marian Holbrook lives. But it is possible to get a person out of the way without the last worstcrime of which mankind is capable. "

"It would seem more natural to suspect the husband than the father, Ishould imagine, " Mr. Medler answered, after a thoughtful pause. 

"I cannot see that. The husband had nothing to gain by his wife'sdisappearance, and everything to lose. "

"He might have supposed the father to be dead, and that he would stepinto the fortune. He might not know enough of the law of property to beaware of the difficulties attending a succession of that kind. There is amost extraordinary ignorance of the law of the land prevailing amongwell-educated Englishmen. Or he may have been tired of his wife, and haveseen his way to a more advantageous alliance. Men are not alwayssatisfied with one wife in these days, and a man who married in such astrange underhand manner would be likely to have some hidden motive forsecrecy. "

The suggestion was not without force for Gilbert Fenton. His face grewdarker, and he was some time before he replied to Mr. Medler's remarks. That suspicion which of late had been perpetually floating dimly in hisbrain--that vague distrust of his one chosen friend, John Saltram, flashed upon him in this moment with a new distinctness. If this man, whom he had so loved and trusted, had betrayed him, had so utterlyfalsified his friend's estimate of his character, was it not easy enoughto believe him capable of still deeper baseness, capable of growing wearyof his stolen wife, and casting her off by some foul secret means, inorder to marry a richer woman? The marriage between John Holbrook andMarian Nowell had taken place several months before Michael Branston'sdeath, at a time when perhaps Adela Branston's admirer had begun todespair of her release. And then fate had gone against him, and Mrs. Branston's fortune lay at his feet when it was too late. 

Thus, and thus only, could Gilbert Fenton account in any easy manner forJohn Saltram's avoidance of the Anglo-Indian's widow. A little more thana year ago it had seemed as if the whole plan of his life was built upona marriage with this woman; and now that she was free, and obviouslywilling to make him the master of her fortune, he recoiled from theposition, unreasonably and unaccountably blind or indifferent to itsadvantages. 

"There shall be an end of these shapeless unspoken doubts, " Gilbert saidto himself. "I will see John Saltram to-day, and there shall be anexplanation between us. I will be his dupe and fool no longer. I will getat the truth somehow. "

Gilbert Fenton said very little more to the lawyer, who seemed by nomeans sorry to get rid of him. But at the door of the office he paused. 

"You did not tell me the names of the executors to Jacob Nowell's will, "he said. 

"You didn't ask me the question, " answered Mr. Medler curtly. "There isonly one executor--myself. "

"Indeed! Mr. Nowell must have had a very high opinion of you to leave youso much power. "

"I don't know about power. Jacob Nowell knew me, and he didn't know manypeople. I don't say that he put any especial confidence in me--for it washis habit to trust no one, his boast that he trusted no one. But he wasobliged to name some one for his executor, and he named me. "

"Shall you consider it your duty to seek out or advertise for PercivalNowell?" asked Gilbert. 

"I shall be in no hurry to do that, in the absence of any proof of hisdaughter's death. My first duty would be to look for her. "

"God grant you may be more fortunate than I have been! There is my card, Mr. Medler. You will be so good as to let me have a line immediately, atthat address, if you obtain any tidings of Mrs. Holbrook. "

"I will do so. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

STRICKEN DOWN. 

A hansom carried Gilbert Fenton to the Temple, without loss of time. There was a fierce hurry in his breast, a heat and fever which he hadscarcely felt since the beginning of his troubles; for his lurkingsuspicion of his friend had gathered shape and strength all at once, andpossessed his mind now to the exclusion of every other thought. 

He ran quickly up the stairs. The outer and inner doors of John Saltram'schambers were both ajar. Gilbert pushed them open and went in. Thefamiliar sitting-room looked just a little more dreary than usual. Thelitter of books and papers, ink-stand and portfolio, was transferred toone of the side-tables, and in its place, on the table where his friendhad been accustomed to write, Gilbert saw a cluster of medicine-bottles, a jug of toast-and-water, and a tray with a basin of lukewarmgreasy-looking beef-tea. 

The door between the two rooms stood half open, and from the bedchamberwithin Gilbert heard the heavy painful breathing of a sleeper. He went tothe door and looked into the room. John Saltram was lying asleep, in anuneasy attitude, with both arms thrown over his head. His face had ahaggard look that was made all the more ghastly by two vivid crimsonspots upon his sunken cheeks; there were dark purple rings round hiseyes, and his beard was of more than a week's growth. 

"Ill, " Gilbert muttered, looking aghast at this dreary picture, withstrangely conflicting feelings of pity and anger in his breast; "struckdown at the very moment when I had determined to know the truth. "

The sick man tossed himself restlessly from side to side in his feverishsleep, changed his position two or three times with evident weariness andpain, and then opened his eyes and stared with a blank unseeing gaze athis friend. That look, without one ray of recognition, went to Gilbert'sheart somehow. 

"O God, how fond I was of him!" he said to himself. "And if he has been atraitor! If he were to die like this, before I have wrung the truth fromhim--to die, and I not dare to cherish his memory--to be obliged to liveout my life with this doubt of him!"

This doubt! Had he much reason to doubt two minutes afterwards, whenJohn Saltram raised himself on his gaunt arm, and looked piteously roundthe room?

"Marian!" he called. "Marian!"

"Yes, " muttered Gilbert, "it is all true. He is calling his wife. "

The revelation scarcely seemed a surprise to him. Little by little thatsuspicion, so vague and dim at first, had gathered strength, and now thatall his doubts received confirmation from those unconscious lips, itseemed to him as if he had known his friend's falsehood for a long time. 

"Marian, come here. Come, child, come, " the sick man cried in feebleimploring tones. "What, are you afraid of me? Is this death? Am I dead, and parted from her? Would anything else keep her from me when I call forher, the poor child that loved me so well? And I have wished myself freeof her--God forgive me!--wished myself free. "

The words were muttered in broken gasping fragments of sentences; butGilbert heard them and understood them very easily. Then, after lookingabout the room, and looking full at Gilbert without seeing him, JohnSaltram fell back upon his tumbled pillows and closed his eyes. Gilbertheard a slipshod step in the outer room, and turning round, found himselfface to face with the laundress--that mature and somewhat depressingmatron whom he had sought out a little time before, when he wanted todiscover Mr. Saltram's whereabouts. 

This woman, upon seeing him, burst forth immediately into jubilation. 

"O, sir, what a providence it is that you've come!" she cried. "Poor deargentleman, he has been that ill, and me not knowing what to do more thana baby, except in the way of sending for a doctor when I see how bad hewas, and waiting on him myself day and night, which I have done faithful, and am that worn-out in consequence, that I shake like a haspen, andcan't touch a bit of victuals. I had but just slipped round to the court, while he was asleep, poor dear, to give my children their dinner; forit's a hard trial, sir, having a helpless young family depending uponone; and it would but be fair that all I have gone through should beconsidered; for though I says it as shouldn't, there isn't one of yourhired nurses would do more; and I'm willing to continue of it, provisoedas I have help at nights, and my trouble considered in my wages. "

"You need have no apprehension; you shall be paid for your trouble. Hashe been long ill?"

"Well, sir, he took the cold as were the beginning of his illness afortnight ago come next Thursday. You may remember, perhaps, as it cameon awful wet in the afternoon, last Thursday week, and Mr. Saltram wasout in the rain, and walked home in it, --not being able to get a cab, Isuppose, or perhaps not caring to get one, for he was always a carelessgentleman in such respects, --and come in wet through to the skin; andinstead of changing his clothes, as a Christian would have done, justgives himself a shake like, as he might have been a New-fondling dog thathad been swimming, and sits down before the fire, which of course drawedout the steam from his things and made it worse, and writes away for dearlife till twelve o'clock that night, having something particular tofinish for them magazines, he says; and so, when I come to tidy-up a bitthe last thing at night, I found him sitting at the table writing, anddidn't take no more notice of me than a dog, which was his way, thoughnever meant unkindly--quite the reverse. "

The laundress paused to draw breath, and to pour a dose of medicine fromone of the bottles on the table. 

"Well, sir, the next day, he had a vi'lent cold, as you may suppose, andwas low and languid-like, but went on with his writing, and it weren't nogood asking him not. 'I want money, Mrs. Pratt, ' he said; 'you can't tellhow bad I want money, and these people pay me for my stuff as fast as Isend it in. ' The day after that he was a deal worse, and had a wanderingway like, as if he didn't know what he was doing; and sat turning overhis papers with one hand, and leaning his head upon the other, andgroaned so that it went through one like a knife to hear him. 'It's nouse, ' he said at last; 'it's no use!' and then went and threw hisselfdown upon that bed, and has never got up since, poor dear gentleman! Iwent round to fetch a doctor out of Essex Street, finding as he was nobetter in the evening, and awful hot, and still more wandering-like--Mr. Mew by name, a very nice gentleman--which said as it were rheumaticfever, and has been here twice a day ever since. "

"Has Mr. Saltram never been in his right senses since that day?" Gilbertasked. 

"O yes, sir; off and on for the first week he was quite hisself at times;but for the last three days he hasn't known any one, and has talked andjabbered a deal, and has been dreadful restless. "

"Does the doctor call it a dangerous case?"

"Well, sir, not to deceive you, he ast me if Mr. Saltram had any friendsas I could send for; and I says no, not to my knowledge; 'for, ' says Mr. Mew, 'if he have any relations or friends near at hand, they ought to betold that he's in a bad way;' and only this morning he said as how heshould like to call in a physician, for the case was a bad one. "

"I see. There is danger evidently, " Gilbert said gravely. "I will waitand hear what the doctor says. He will come again to-day, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; he's sure to come in the evening. "

"Good; I will stay till the evening. I should like you to go roundimmediately to this Mr. Mew's house, and ask for the address of someskilled nurse, and then go on, in a cab if necessary, and fetch her. "

"I could do that, sir, of course, --not but what I feel myself capable ofnursing the poor dear gentleman. "

"You can't nurse him night and day, my good woman. Do what I tell you, and bring back a professional nurse as soon as you can. If Mr. Mew shouldbe out, his people are likely to know the address of such a person. "

He gave the woman some silver, and despatched her; and then, being alone, sat down quietly in the sick-room to think out the situation. 

Yes, there was no longer any doubt; that piteous appeal to Marian hadsettled the question. John Saltram, the friend whom he had loved, was thetraitor. John Saltram had stolen his promised wife, had come between himand his fair happy future, and had kept the secret of his guilt in adastardly spirit that made the act fifty times blacker than it would haveseemed otherwise. 

Sitting in the dreary silence of that sick chamber, a silence broken onlyby the painful sound of the sleeper's difficult breathing, many thingscame back to his mind; circumstances trivial enough in themselves, butinvested with a grave significance when contemplated by the light oftoday's revelation. 

He remembered those happy autumn afternoons at Lidford; those long, drowsy, idle days in which John Saltram had given himself up so entirelyto the pleasure of the moment, with surely something more than meresympathy with his friend's happiness. He remembered that last longevening at the cottage, when this man had been at his best, full of lifeand gaiety; and then that sudden departure, which had puzzled him so muchat the time, and yet had seemed no surprise to Marian. It had been theresult of some suddenly-formed resolution perhaps, Gilbert thought. 

"Poor wretch! he may have tried to be true to me, " he said to himself, with a sharp bitter pain at his heart. 

He had loved this man so well, that even now, knowing himself to havebeen betrayed, there was a strange mingling of pity and anger in hismind, and mixed with these a touch of contempt. He had believed in JohnSaltram; had fancied him nobler and grander than himself, somehow; a manwho, under a careless half-scornful pretence of being worse than hisfellows, concealed a nature that was far above the common herd; and yetthis man had proved the merest caitiff, a weak cowardly villain. 

"To take my hand in friendship, knowing what he had done, and how mylife was broken! to pretend sympathy; to play out the miserable farce tothe very last! Great heaven! that the man I have honoured could becapable of so much baseness!"

The sleeper moved restlessly, the eyes were opened once more and turnedupon Gilbert, not with the same utter blankness as before, but withoutthe faintest recognition. The sick man saw some one watching him, and thefigure was associated with an unreal presence, the phantom of his brain, which had been with him often in the day and night. 

"The man again!" he muttered. "When will she come?" And then raisinghimself upon his elbow, he cried imploringly, "Mother, you fetch her!"

He was speaking to his mother, whom he had loved very dearly--his motherwho had been dead fifteen years. 

Gilbert's mind went back to that far-away time in Egypt, when he had lainlike this, helpless and unconscious, and this man had nursed and watchedhim with unwearying tenderness. 

"I will see him safely through this, " he said to himself, "and then----"

And then the account between them must be squared somehow. Gilbert Fentonhad no thought of any direful vengeance. He belonged to an age in whichinjuries are taken very quietly, unless they are wrongs which the law canredress--wounds which can be healed by a golden plaster in the way ofdamages. 

He could not kill his friend; the age of duelling was past, and he notromantic enough to be guilty of such an anachronism as mortal combat. Yetnothing less than a duel to the death could avenge such a wrong. 

So friendship was at an end between those two, and that was all; it wasonly the utter severance of a tie that had lasted for years, nothingmore. Yet to Gilbert it seemed a great deal. His little world hadcrumbled to ashes; love had perished, and now friendship had died thissudden bitter death, from which there was no possible resurrection. 

In the midst of such thoughts as these he remembered the sick man'smedicine. Mrs. Pratt had given him a few hurried directions beforedeparting on her errand. He looked at his watch, and then went over tothe table and prepared the draught and administered it with a firm andgentle hand. 

"Who's that?" John Saltram muttered faintly. "It seems like the touch ofa friend. "

He dropped back upon the pillow without waiting for any reply, and fellinto a string of low incoherent talk, with closed eyes. 

The laundress was a long time gone, and Gilbert sat alone in the dismallittle bedroom, where there had never been the smallest attempt atcomfort since John Saltram had occupied it. He sat alone, or with thatawful companionship of one whose mind was far away, which was so muchmore dreary than actual loneliness--sat brooding over the history of hisfriend's treachery. 

What had he done with Marian? Was her disappearance any work of his, after all? Had he hidden her away for some secret reason of his own, andthen acted out the play by pretending to search for her? Knowing him forthe traitor he was, could Gilbert Fenton draw any positive line ofdemarcation between the amount of guilt which was possible and that whichwas not possible to him?

What had he done with Marian? How soon would he be able to answer thatquestion? or would he ever be able to answer it? The thought of thisdelay was torture to Gilbert Fenton. He had come here to-day thinking tomake an end of all his doubts, to force an avowal of the truth from thosefalse lips. And behold, a hand stronger than his held him back. Hisinterrogation must await the answer to that awful question--life ordeath. 

The woman came in presently, bustling and out of breath. She had found avery trustworthy person, recommended by Mr. Mew's assistant--a person whowould come that evening without fail. 

"It was all the way up at Islington, sir, and I paid the cabmanthree-and-six altogether, which he said it were his fare. And how has thepoor dear been while I was away?" asked Mrs. Pratt, with her head on oneside and an air of extreme solicitude. 

"Very much as you see him now. He has mentioned a name once or twice, thename of Marian. Have you ever heard that?"

"I should say I have, sir, times and often since he's been ill. 'Marian, why don't you come to me?' so pitiful; and then, 'Lost, lost!' in such aawful wild way. I think it must be some favourite sister, sir, or a younglady as he has kep' company with. "

"Marian!" cried the voice from the bed, as if their cautious talk hadpenetrated to that dim brain. "Marian! O no, no; she is gone; I have losther! Well, I wished it; I wanted my freedom. "

Gilbert started, and stood transfixed, looking intently at theunconscious speaker. Yes, here was the clue to the mystery. John Saltramhad grown tired of his stolen bride--had sighed for his freedom. Whoshould say that he had not taken some iniquitous means to rid himself ofthe tie that had grown troublesome to him?

Gilbert Fenton remembered Ellen Carley's suspicions. He was no longerinclined to despise them. 

It was dreary work to sit by the bedside watching that familiar face, towhich fever and delirium had given a strange weird look; dismal work tocount the moments, and wonder when that voice, now so thick of utteranceas it went on muttering incoherent sentences and meaningless phrases, would be able to reply to those questions which Gilbert Fenton wasburning to ask. 

Was it a guilty conscience, the dull slow agony of remorse, which hadstricken this man down--this strong powerfully-built man, who was astranger to illness and all physical suffering? Was the body only crushedby the burden of the mind? Gilbert could not find any answer to thesequestions. He only knew that his sometime friend lay there helpless, unconscious, removed beyond his reach as completely as if he had beenlying in his coffin. 

"O God, it is hard to bear!" he said half aloud: "it is a bitter trial tobear. If this illness should end in death, I may never know Marian'sfate. "

He sat in the sick man's room all through that long dismal afternoon, waiting to see the doctor, and with the same hopeless thoughts repeatingthemselves perpetually in his mind. 

It was nearly eight o'clock when Mr. Mew at last made his evening visit. He was a grave gray-haired little man, with a shrewd face and a pleasantmanner; a man who inspired Gilbert with confidence, and whose presencewas cheering in a sick-room; but he did not speak very hopefully of JohnSaltram. 

"It is a bad case, sir--a very bad case, " he said gravely, after he hadmade his careful examination of the patient's condition. "There has beena violent cold caught, you see, through our poor friend's recklessness inneglecting to change his damp clothes, and rheumatic fever has set in. But it appears to me that there are other causes at work--mentaldisturbance, and so on. Our friend has been taxing his brain a little tooseverely, I gather from Mrs. Pratt's account of him; and these thingswill tell, sir; sooner or later they have their effect. "

"Then you apprehend danger?"

"Well, yes; I dare not tell you that there is an absence of danger. Mr. Saltram has a fine constitution, a noble frame; but the strain is asevere one, especially upon the mind. "

"You spoke just now of over-work as a cause for this mental disturbance. Might it not rather proceed from some secret trouble of mind, some hiddencare?" Gilbert asked anxiously. 

"That, sir, is an open question. The mind is unhinged; there is no doubtof that. There is something more here than the ordinary delirium we lookfor in fever cases. "

"You have talked of a physician, Mr. Mew; would it not be well to callone in immediately?"

"I should feel more comfortable if my opinion were supported, sir: notthat I believe there is anything more can be done for our patient than Ihave been doing; but the case is a critical one, and I should be glad tofeel myself supported. "

"If you will give me the name and address of the gentleman you would liketo call in, I will go for him immediately. "

"To-night? Nay, my dear sir, there is no occasion for such haste;to-morrow morning will do very well. "

"To-morrow morning, then; but I will make the appointment to-night, if Ican. "

Mr. Mew named a physician high in reputation as a specialist in suchcases as John Saltram's; and Gilbert dashed off at once in a hansom toobtain the promise of an early visit from this gentleman on the followingmorning. He succeeded in his errand; and on returning to the Temple foundthe professional nurse installed, and the sick-room brightened andfreshened a little by her handiwork. The patient was asleep, and hisslumber was more quiet than usual. 

Gilbert had eaten nothing since breakfast, and it was now nearly nineo'clock in the evening; but before going out to some neighbouring tavernto snatch a hasty dinner, he stopped to tell Mrs. Pratt that he shouldsleep in his friend's chamber that night. 

"Why, you don't mean that, sir, sure to goodness, " cried the laundress, alarmed; "and not so much as a sofy bedstead, nor nothing anywayscomfortable. "

"I could sleep upon three or four chairs, if it were necessary; but thereis an old sofa in the bedroom. You might bring that into this room forme; and the nurse can have it in the day-time. She won't want to be lyingdown to-night, I daresay. I don't suppose I shall sleep much myself, butI am a little knocked up, and shall be glad of some sort of rest. I wantto be on the spot, come what may. "

"But, sir, with the new nurse and me, there surely can't be no necessity;and you might be round the first thing in the morning like to see how thepoor dear gentleman has slep'. "

"I know that, but I would rather be on the spot. I have my own especialreasons. You can go home to your children. "

"Thank you kindly, sir; which I shall be very glad to take care of 'em, poor things. And I hope, sir, as you won't forget that I've gone througha deal for Mr. Saltram--if so be as he shouldn't get better himself, which the Lord forbid--to take my trouble into consideration, bein' as hewere always a free-handed gentleman, though not rich. "

"Your services will not be forgotten, Mrs. Pratt, depend upon it. Perhaps I'd better give you a couple of sovereigns on account: that'llmake matters straight for the present. "

"Yes, sir; and many thanks for your generosity, " replied the laundress, agreeably surprised by this prompt donation, and dropping gratefulcurtseys before her benefactor; "and Mr. Saltram shall want nothing as mycare can provide for him, you may depend upon it. "

"That is well. And now I am going out to get some dinner; I shall be backin half an hour. "

The press and bustle of the day's work was over at the tavern to whichGilbert bent his steps. Dinners and diners seemed to be done with for onemore day; and there were only a couple of drowsy-looking waiters foldingtable-cloths and putting away cruet-stands and other paraphernalia inlong narrow closets cut in the papered walls, and invisible by day. 

One of these functionaries grew brisk again, with a wan factitiousbriskness, at sight of Gilbert, made haste to redecorate one of thetables, and in bland insinuating tones suggested a dinner of six coursesor so, as likely to be agreeable to a lonely and belated diner; wellaware in the depths of his inner consciousness that the six courses wouldbe all more or less warmings-up of viands that had figured in the day'sbill of fare. 

"Bring me a chop or a steak, and a pint of dry sherry, " Gilbert saidwearily. 

"Have a slice of turbot and lobster-sauce, sir--the turbot are uncommonfine to-day; and a briled fowl and mushrooms. It will be ready in fiveminutes. "

"You may bring me the fowl, if you like: I won't wait for fish. I'm in ahurry. "

The attendant gave a faint sigh, and communicated the order for the fowland mushrooms through a speaking-tube. It was the business of his life tobeguile his master's customers into over-eating themselves, and to sethis face against chops and steaks; but he felt that this particularcustomer was proof against his blandishments. He took Gilbert an eveningpaper, and then subsided into a pensive silence until the fowl appearedin an agreeable frizzling state, fresh from the gridiron, but a bird ofsome experience notwithstanding, and wingless. It was a very hasty meal. Gilbert was eager to return to those chambers in the Temple--eager to belistening once more for some chance words of meaning that might bedropped from John Saltram's pale parched lips in the midst of incoherentravings. Come what might, he wanted to be near at hand, to watch thatsick-bed with a closer vigil than hired nurse ever kept; to be ready tosurprise the briefest interval of consciousness that might come all of asudden to that hapless fever-stricken sinner. Who should say that such aninterval would not come, or who could tell what such an interval mightreveal?

Gilbert Fenton paid for his dinner, left half his wine undrunk, andhurried away; leaving the waiter with rather a contemptuous idea of him, though that individual condescended to profit by his sobriety, andfinished the dry sherry at a draught. 

It was nearly ten when Gilbert returned to the chambers, and all wasstill quiet, that heavy slumber continuing; an artificial sleep at thebest, produced by one of Mr. Mew's sedatives. The sofa had been wheeledfrom the bedroom to the sitting-room, and placed in a comfortable cornerby the fire. There were preparations too for a cup of tea, to be made andconsumed at any hour agreeable to the watcher; a small teakettlesimmering on the hob; a tray with a cup and saucer, and queer littleblack earthenware teapot, on the table; a teacaddy and other appliancesclose at hand, --all testifying to the grateful attention of the vanishedPratt. 

Gilbert shared the nurse's watch till past midnight. Long before thatJohn Saltram woke from his heavy sleep, and there was more of thatincoherent talk so painful to hear--talk of people that were dead, ofscenes that were far away, even of those careless happy wanderings inwhich those two college friends had been together; and then mere nonsensetalk, shreds and patches of random thought, that scorned to be drawnfrom, some rubbish-chamber, some waste-paper basket of the brain. 

It was weary work. He woke towards eleven, and a little after twelvedropped asleep again; but this time, the effect of the sedative havingworn off, the sleep was restless and uneasy. Then came a brief intervalof quiet; and in this Gilbert left him, and flung himself down upon thesofa, to sink into a slumber that was scarcely more peaceful than that ofthe sick man. 

He was thoroughly worn out, however, and slept for some hours, to beawakened suddenly at last by a shrill cry in the next room. He sprang upfrom the sofa, and rushed in. John Saltram was sitting up in bed, proppedby the pillows on which his two elbows were planted, looking about himwith a fierce haggard face, and calling for "Marian. " The nurse hadfallen asleep in her arm-chair by the fire, and was slumbering placidly. 

"Marian, " he cried, "Marian, why have you left me? God knows I loved you;yes, even when I seemed cold and neglectful. Everything was against me;but I loved you, my dear, I loved you! Did I ever say that you camebetween me and fortune--was I mean enough, base enough, ever to say that?It was a lie, my love; you were my fortune. Were poverty and obscurityhard things to bear for you? No, my darling, no; I will face themto-morrow, if you will come back to me. O no, no, she is gone; my lifehas gone: I broke her heart with my hard bitter words; I drove my angelaway from me. "

He had not spoken so coherently since Gilbert had been with him thatday. Surely this must be an interval of consciousness, orsemi-consciousness. Gilbert went to the bedside, and, seating himselfthere quietly, looked intently at the altered face, which stared at himwithout a gleam of recognition. 

"Speak to me, John Saltram, " he said. "You know me, don't you--the manwho was once your friend, Gilbert Fenton?"

The other burst into a wild bitter laugh. "Gilbert Fenton--my friend, theman who trusts me still! Poor old Gilbert! and I fancied that I lovedhim, that I would have freely sacrificed my own happiness for his. "

"And yet you betrayed him, " Gilbert said in a low distinct voice. "Butthat may be forgiven, if you have been guilty of no deeper wrong thanthat. John Saltram, as you have a soul to be saved, what have you donewith Marian--with--your wife?"

It cost him something, even in that moment of excitement, to pronouncethose two words. 

"Killed her!" the sick man answered with the same mad laugh. "She was toogood for me, you see; and I grew weary of her calm beauty, and I sickenedof her tranquil goodness. First I sacrificed honour, friendship, everything to win her; and then I got tired of my prize. It is my nature, I suppose; but I loved her all the time; she had twined herself about myheart somehow. I knew it when she was lost. "

"What have you done with her?" repeated Gilbert, in a low stern voice, with his grasp upon John Saltram's arm. 

"What have I done with her? I forget. She is gone--I wanted my freedom;I felt myself fettered, a ruined man. She is gone; and I am free, free tomake a better marriage. "

"O God!" muttered Gilbert, "is this man the blackest villain that evercumbered the earth? What am I to think, what am I to believe?"

Again he repeated the same question, with a stem kind of patience, as ifhe would give this guilty wretch the benefit of every possible doubt, theunwilling pity which his condition demanded. Alas! he could obtain nocoherent answer to his persistent questioning. Vague self-accusation, madreiteration of that one fact of his loss; nothing more distinct came fromthose fevered lips, nor did one look of recognition flash into thosebloodshot eyes. 

The time at which this mystery was to be solved had not come yet; therewas nothing to be done but to wait, and Gilbert waited with a sublimepatience through all the alternations of a long and wearisome sickness. 

"Talk of friends, " Mrs. Pratt exclaimed, in a private conference with thenurse; "never did I see such a friend as Mr. Fenting, sacrificing ofhimself as he do, day and night, to look after that poor creature inthere, and taking no better rest than he can get on that old horsehairsofy, which brickbats or knife boards isn't harder, and never do you hearhim murmur. "

And yet for this man, whose, battle with the grim enemy, Death, hewatched so patiently, what feeling could there be in Gilbert Fenton'sheart in all the days to come but hatred or contempt? He had loved him sowell, and trusted him so completely, and this was the end of it. 

Christmas came while John Saltram was lying at death's door, feeblyfighting that awful battle, struggling unconsciously with the bony handthat was trying to drag him across that fatal threshold; just able tokeep himself on this side of that dread portal beyond which there lies sodeep a mystery, so profound a darkness. Christmas came; and there werebells ringing, and festive gatherings here and there about the greatdreary town, and Gilbert Fenton was besieged by friendly invitations fromMrs. Lister, remonstrating with him for his want of common affection inpreferring to spend that season among his London friends rather than inthe bosom of his family. 

Gilbert wrote: to his sister telling her that he had particular businesswhich detained him in town. But had it been otherwise, had he not beenbound prisoner to John Saltram's sick-room, he would scarcely have caredto take his part in the conventional feastings and commonplacejovialities of Lidford House. Had he not dreamed of a bright home whichwas to be his at this time, a home beautified by the presence of thewoman he loved? Ah, what delight to have welcomed the sacred day in theholy quiet of such a home, they two alone together, with all the worldshut out!

CHAPTER XXXI. 

ELLEN CARLEY'S TRIALS. 

Christmas came in the old farm-house near Crosber; and Ellen Carley, whohad no idea of making any troubled thoughts of her own an excuse forneglect of her household duties, made the sombre panelled rooms brightwith holly and ivy, laurel and fir, and busied herself briskly in theconfection of such pies and puddings as Hampshire considered necessary tothe due honour of that pious festival. There were not many people to seethe greenery and bright holly-berries which embellished the grave oldrooms, not many whom Ellen very much cared for to taste the pies andpuddings; but duty must be done, and the bailiff's daughter did her workwith a steady industry which knew no wavering. 

Her life had been a hard one of late, very lonely since Mrs. Holbrook'sdisappearance, and haunted with a presence which was most hateful toher. Stephen Whitelaw had taken to coming to the Grange much oftener thanof old. There was seldom an evening now on which his insignificant figurewas not to be seen planted by the hearth in the snug little oak-parlour, smoking his pipe in that dull silent way of his, which was calculated toaggravate a lively person like Ellen Carley into some open expression ofdisgust or dislike. Of late, too, his attentions had been of a morepronounced character; he took to dropping sly hints of his pretensions, and it was impossible for Ellen any longer to doubt that he wanted her tobe his wife. More than this, there was a tone of assurance about the man, quiet as he was, which exasperated Miss Carley beyond all measure. He hadthe air of being certain of success, and on more than one occasion spokeof the day when Ellen would be mistress of Wyncomb Farm. 

On his repetition of this offensive speech one evening, the girl took himup sharply:--

"Not quite so fast, if you please, Mr. Whitelaw, " she said; "it takes twoto make a bargain of that kind, just the same as it takes two to quarrel. There's many curious changes may come in a person's life, no doubt, andfolks never know what's going to happen to them; but whatever changes maycome upon me, _that_ isn't one of them. I may live to see the inside ofthe workhouse, perhaps, when I'm too old for service; but I shall neversleep under the roof of Wyncomb Farmhouse. "

Mr. Whitelaw gave a spiteful little laugh. 

"What a spirited one she is, ain't she, now?" he said with a sneer. "O, you won't, won't you, my lass; you turn up that pretty little nose ofyours--it do turn up a bit of itself, don't it, though?--at Wyncomb Farmand Stephen Whitelaw; your father tells a different story, Nell. "

"Then my father tells a lying story, " answered the girl, blushing crimsonwith indignation; "and it isn't for want o' knowing the truth. He knowsthat, if it was put upon me to choose between your house and the union, I'd go to the union--and with a light heart too, to be free of you. Ididn't want to be rude, Mr. Whitelaw; for you've been civil-spoken enoughto me, and I daresay you're a good friend to my father; but I can't helpspeaking the truth, and you've brought it on yourself with yournonsense. "

"She's got a devil of a tongue of her own, you see, Whitelaw, " said thebailiff, with a savage glance at his daughter; "but she don't mean abovea quarter what she says--and when her time comes, she'll do as she's bid, or she's no child of mine. "

"O, I forgive her, " replied Mr. Whitelaw, with a placid air ofsuperiority; "I'm not the man to bear malice against a pretty woman, andto my mind a pretty woman looks all the prettier when she's in apassion. I'm not in a hurry, you see, Carley; I can bide my time; but Ishall never take a mistress to Wyncomb unless I can take the one I like. "

After this particular evening, Mr. Whitelaw's presence seemed more thanever disagreeable to poor Ellen. He had the air of her fate somehow, sitting rooted to the hearth night after night, and she grew to regardhim with a half superstitious horror, as if he possessed some occultpower over her, and could bend her to his wishes in spite of herself. Thevery quietude of the man became appalling to her. Such a man seemedcapable of accomplishing anything by the mere force of persistence, bythe negative power that lay in his silent nature. 

"I suppose he means to sit in that room night after night, smoking hispipe and staring with those pale stupid eyes of his, till I change mymind and promise to marry him, " Ellen said to herself, as she meditatedangrily on the annoyance of Mr. Whitelaw's courtship. "He may sit theretill his hair turns gray--if ever such red hair does turn to anythingbetter than itself--and he'll find no change in me. I wish Frank werehere to keep up my courage. I think if he were to ask me to run away withhim, I should be tempted to say yes, at the risk of bringing ruin uponboth of us; anything to escape out of the power of that man. But comewhat may, I won't endure it much longer. I'll run away to service soonafter Christmas, and father will only have himself to thank for the lossof me. "

It was Mr. Whitelaw who appeared as principal guest at the Grange onChristmas-day; Mr. Whitelaw, supported on this occasion by a widowedcousin of his who had kept house for him for some years, and who bore astrong family likeness to him both in person and manner, and Ellen Carleythought that it was impossible for the world to contain a moredisagreeable pair. These were the guests who consumed great quantities ofEllen's pies and puddings, and who sat under her festal garlands of hollyand laurel. She had been especially careful to hang no scrap ofmistletoe, which might have afforded Mr. Whitelaw an excuse for apractical display of his gallantry; a fact which did not escape theplayful observation of his cousin, Mrs. Tadman. 

"Young ladies don't often forget to put up a bit of mistletoe, " said thismatron, "when there's a chance of them they like being by;" and sheglanced in a meaning way from Ellen to the master of Wyncomb Farm. 

"Miss Carley isn't like the generality of young ladies, " Mr. Whitelawanswered with a glum look, and his kinswoman was fain to drop thesubject. 

Alone with Ellen, sly Mrs. Tadman took occasion to launch out intoenthusiastic praises of her cousin; to which the girl listened inprofound silence, closely watched all the time by the woman's sharp grayeyes. And then by degrees her tone changed ever so little, and she ownedthat her kinsman was not altogether faultless; indeed it was curious toperceive what numerous shortcomings were coexistent with those shiningmerits of his. 

"He has been a good friend to me, " continued the matron; "that I neverhave denied and never shall deny. But I have been a good servant to him;ah! there isn't a hired servant as would toil and drudge, and watch andpinch, as I have done to please him, and never have had payment from himmore than a new gown at Christmas, or a five-pound note after harvest. And of course, if ever he marries, I shall have to look for a new home;for I know too much of his ways, I daresay, for a wife to like to have meabout her--and me of an age when it seem a hard to have to go amongstrangers--and not having saved sixpence, where I might have put by ahundred pounds easy, if I hadn't been working without wages for arelation. But I've not been called a servant, you see; and I supposeStephen thinks that's payment enough for my trouble. Goodness knows I'vesaved him many a pound, and that he'll know when I'm gone; for he's near, is Stephen, and it goes to his heart to part with a shilling. "

"But why should you ever leave him, Mrs. Tadman?" Ellen asked kindly. "Ishouldn't think he could have a better housekeeper. "

"Perhaps not, " answered the widow, shaking her head with mysterioussignificance; "but his wife won't think that; and when he's got a wifehe'll want her to be his housekeeper, and to pinch and scrape as I'vepinched and scraped for him. Lord help her!" concluded Mrs. Tadman, with afaint groan, which was far from complimentary to her relative's character. 

"But perhaps he never will marry, " argued Ellen coolly. 

"O, yes, he will, Miss Carley, " replied Mrs. Tadman, with anothersignificant movement of her head; "he's set his heart on that, and he's sethis heart on the young woman he means to marry. "

"He can't marry her unless she's willing to be his wife, any how, " saidEllen, reddening a little. 

"O, he'll find a way to make her consent, Miss Carley, depend upon that. Whatever Stephen Whitelaw sets his mind upon, he'll do. But I don't envythat poor young woman; for she'll have a hard life of it at Wyncomb, anda hard master in my cousin Stephen. "

"She must be a very weak-minded young woman if she marries him againsther will, " Ellen said laughing; and then ran off to get the tea ready, leaving Mrs. Tadman to her meditations, which were not of a lively natureat the best of times. 

That Christmas-day came to an end at last, after a long evening in theoak parlour enlivened by a solemn game at whist and a ponderous supper ofcold sirloin and mince pies; and looking out at the wintry moonlight, andthe shadowy garden and flat waste of farm-land from the narrow casementin her own room. Ellen Carley wondered what those she loved best in theworld were doing and thinking of under that moonlit sky. Where was MarianHolbrook, that new-found friend whom she had loved so well, and whosefate remained so profound a mystery? and what was Frank Randall doing, far away in London, where he had gone to fill a responsible position in alarge City firm of solicitors, and whence he had promised to returnfaithful to his first love, as soon as he found himself fairly on theroad to a competence wherewith to endow her?

Thus it was that poor Ellen kept the close of her Christmas-day, lookingout over the cold moonlit fields, and wondering how she was to escapefrom the persecution of Stephen Whitelaw. 

That obnoxious individual had invited Mr. Carley and his daughter tospend New-year's-day at Wyncomb; a display of hospitality so foreign tohis character, that it was scarcely strange that Mrs. Tadman opened hereyes and stared aghast as she heard the invitation given. It had beenaccepted too, much to Ellen's disgust; and her father told her more thanonce in the course of the ensuing week that she was to put on her bestgown, and smarten herself up a bit, on New-year's-day. 

"And if you want a new gown, Nell, I don't mind giving it you, " said thebailiff, in a burst of generosity, and with the prevailing masculine ideathat a new gown was a panacea for all feminine griefs. "You can walk overto Malsham and buy it any afternoon you like. "

But Ellen did not care for a new gown, and told her father so, with aword or two of thanks for his offer. She did not desire fine dresses; shehad indeed been looking over and furbishing up her wardrobe of late, witha view to that possible flight of hers, and it was to her cotton workinggowns that she had paid most attention: looking forward to begin a harderlife in some stranger's service--ready to endure anything rather than tomarry Stephen Whitelaw. And of late the conviction had grown upon herthat her father was very much in earnest, and that before long it wouldbe a question whether she should obey him, or be turned out of doors. Shehad seen his dealings with other people, and she knew him to be apassionate determined man, hard as iron in his anger. 

"I won't give him the trouble to turn me out of doors, " Ellen said toherself. "When I know his mind, and that there's no hope of turning him, I'll get away quietly, and find some new home. He has no real power overme, and I have but to earn my own living to be independent of him. And Idon't suppose Frank will think any the worse of me for having been aservant, " thought the girl, with something like a sob. It seemed hardthat she must needs sink lower in her lover's eyes, when she was so farbeneath him already; he a lawyer's son, a gentleman by education, and shean untaught country girl. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE PADLOCKED DOOR AT WYNCOMB. 

The countenance of the new year was harsh, rugged, and gloomy--as of astony-hearted, strong-minded new year, that had no idea of making hiswintry aspect pleasant, or brightening the gloom of his infancy with anydeceptive gleams of January sunshine. A bitter north wind made a drearyhowling among the leafless trees, and swept across the broad bare fieldswith merciless force--a bleak cruel new-year's-day, on which to go outa-pleasuring; but it was more in harmony with Ellen Carley's thoughtsthan brighter weather could have been; and she went to and fro about hermorning's work, up and down cold windy passages, and in and out of thefrozen dairy, unmoved by the bitter wind which swept the crisp waves ofdark brown hair from her low brows, and tinged the tip of her impertinentlittle nose with a faint wintry bloom. 

The bailiff was in very high spirits this first morning of the newyear--almost uproarious spirits indeed, which vented themselves insnatches of boisterous song, as he bustled backwards and forwards fromhouse to stables, dressed in his best blue coat and bright buttons and acapacious buff waistcoat; with his ponderous nether limbs clothed inknee-cords, and boots with vinegar tops; looking altogether the typicalBritish farmer. 

Those riotous bursts of song made his daughter shudder. Somehow, hisgaiety was more alarming to her than his customary morose humour. It wasall the more singular, too, because of late William Carley had beenespecially silent and moody, with the air of a man whose mind is weigheddown by some heavy burden--so gloomy indeed, that his daughter hadquestioned him more than once, entreating to know if he were distressedby any secret trouble, anything going wrong about the farm, and so on. The girl had only brought upon herself harsh angry answers by theseconsiderate inquiries, and had been told to mind her own business, andnot pry into matters that in no way concerned her. 

"But it does concern me to see you downhearted, father, " she answeredgently. 

"Does it really, my girl? What! your father's something more than astranger to you, is he? I shouldn't have thought it, seeing how you'vegone again me in some things lately. Howsomedever, when I want your help, I shall know how to ask for it, and I hope you'll give it freely. I don'twant fine words; they never pulled anybody out of the ditch that I'veheard tell of. "

Whatever the bailiff's trouble had been, it seemed to be lightenedto-day, Ellen thought; and yet that unusual noisy gaiety of his gave heran uncomfortable feeling: it did not seem natural or easy. 

Her household work was done by noon, and she dressed hurriedly, while herfather called for her impatiently from below--standing at the foot of thewide bare old staircase, and bawling up to her that they should be lateat Wyncomb. She looked very pretty in her neat dark-blue merino dress andplain linen collar, when she came tripping downstairs at last, flushedwith the hurry of her toilet, and altogether so bright a creature that itseemed a hard thing she should not be setting out upon some real pleasuretrip, instead of that most obnoxious festival to which she was summoned. 

Her father looked at her with a grim kind of approval. 

"You'll do well enough, lass, " he said; "but I should like you to havehad something smarter than that blue stuff. I wouldn't have minded acouple of pounds or so to buy you a silk gown. But you'll be able to buyyourself as many silk gowns as ever you like by-and-by, if you play yourcards well and don't make a fool of yourself. "

Ellen knew what he meant well enough, but did not care to take any noticeof the speech. The time would soon come, no doubt, when she must take herstand in direct opposition to him, and in the meanwhile it would be worsethan foolish to waste breath in idle squabbling. 

They were to drive to Wyncomb in the bailiff's gig; rather an obsoletevehicle, with a yellow body, a mouldy leather apron, and high wheelspicked out with red, drawn by a tall gray horse that did duty with theplough on ordinary occasions. Stephen Whitelaw's house was within an easywalk of the Grange; but the gig was a more dignified mode of approachthan a walk, and the bailiff insisted on driving his daughter to hersuitor's abode in that conveyance. 

Wyncomb was a long low gray stone house, of an unknown age; a spacioushabitation enough, with many rooms, and no less than three staircases, but possessing no traces of that fallen grandeur which pervaded theGrange. It had been nothing better than a farm-house from timeimmemorial, and had been added to and extended and altered to suit theconvenience of successive generations of farmers. It was agloomy-looking house at all times, Ellen Carley thought, but especiallygloomy under that leaden winter sky; a house which it would have beenalmost impossible to associate with pleasant family gatherings or thejoyous voices of young children; a grim desolate-looking house, thatseemed to freeze the passing traveller with its cold blank stare, as ifits gloomy portal had a voice to say to him, "However lost you may be forlack of shelter, however weary for want of rest, come not here!"

Idle fancies, perhaps; but they were the thoughts with which WyncombFarmhouse always inspired Ellen Carley. 

"The place just suits its master's hard miserly nature, " she said. "Onewould think it had been made on purpose for him; or perhaps the Whitelawshave been like that from generation to generation. "

There was no such useless adornment as a flower-garden at Wyncomb. Stephen Whitelaw cared about as much for roses and lilies as he cared forGreek poetry or Beethoven's sonatas. At the back of the house there was agreat patch of bare shadowless ground devoted to cabbages and potatoes, with a straggling border of savoury herbs; a patch not even divided fromthe farm land beyond, but melting imperceptibly into a field ofmangel-wurzel. There were no superfluous hedges upon Mr. Whitelaw'sdominions; not a solitary tree to give shelter to the tired cattle in thelong hot summer days. Noble old oaks and patriarch beeches, tallsycamores and grand flowering chestnuts, had been stubbed upremorselessly by that economical agriculturist; and he was now the proudpossessor of one of the ugliest and most profitable farms in Hampshire. 

In front of the gray-stone house the sheep browsed up to the parlourwindows, and on both sides of the ill-kept carriage-drive leading fromthe white gate that opened into the meadow to the door of Mr. Whitelaw'sabode. No sweet-scented woodbine or pale monthly roses beautified thefront of the house in spring or summer time. The neglected ivy hadovergrown one end of the long stone building and crept almost to theponderous old chimneys; and this decoration, which had come of itself, was the only spot of greenery about the place. Five tall poplars grew ina row about a hundred yards from the front windows; these, strange tosay, Mr. Whitelaw had suffered to remain. They served to add a littleextra gloom to the settled grimness of the place, and perhaps harmonisedwith his tastes. 

Within Wyncomb Farmhouse was no more attractive than without. The roomswere low and dark; the windows, made obscure by means of heavy woodworkand common glass, let in what light they did admit with a grudging air, and seemed to frown upon the inmates of the chamber they were supposed tobeautify. There were all manner of gloomy passages, and unexpectedflights of half-a-dozen stairs or so, in queer angles of the house, andthere was a prevailing darkness everywhere; for the Whitelaws of departedgenerations, objecting to the window tax, had blocked up every casementthat it was possible to block up; and the stranger exploring WyncombFarmhouse was always coming upon those blank plastered windows, which hadan unpleasant ghostly aspect, and set him longing for a fireman's hatchetto hew them open and let in the light of day. 

The furniture was of the oldest, black with age, worm-eaten, ponderous;queer old four-post bedsteads, with dingy hangings of greenish brown oryellowish green, from which every vestige of the original hue had fadedlong ago; clumsy bureaus, and stiff high-backed chairs with thick legsand gouty feet, heavy to move and uncomfortable to sit upon. The housewas clean enough, and the bare floors of the numerous bed-chambers, whichwere only enlivened here and there with small strips or bands of Dutchcarpet, sent up a homely odour of soft soap; for Mrs. Tadman took afierce delight in cleaning, and the solitary household drudge who toiledunder her orders had a hard time of it. There was a dismal kind ofneatness about everything, and a bleak empty look in the sparselyfurnished rooms, which wore no pleasant sign of occupation, no look ofhome. The humblest cottage, with four tiny square rooms and a thatchedroof, and just a patch of old-fashioned garden with a sweetbrier hedgeand roses growing here and there among the cabbages; would have been apleasanter habitation than Wyncomb, Ellen Carley thought. 

Mr. Whitelaw exhibited an unwonted liberality upon this occasion. Thedinner was a ponderous banquet, and the dessert a noble display of nutsand oranges, figs and almonds and raisins, flanked by two old-fashioneddecanters of port and sherry; and both the bailiff and his host did amplejustice to the feast. It was a long dreary afternoon of eating anddrinking; and Ellen was not sorry to get away from the prim wainscotedparlour, where her father and Mr. Whitelaw were solemnly sipping theirwine, to wander over the house with Mrs. Tadman. 

It was about four o'clock when she slipped quietly out of the room atthat lady's invitation, and the lobbies and long passages had a shadowylook in the declining light. There was light enough for her to see therooms, however; for there were no rare collections of old china, nopictures or adornments of any kind, to need a minute inspection. 

"It's a fine old place, isn't it?" asked Mrs. Tadman. "There's not manyfarmers can boast of such a house as Wyncomb. "

"It's large enough, " Ellen answered, with a tone which implied thereverse of admiration; "but it's not a place I should like to live in. I'm not one to believe in ghosts or such nonsense, but if I could haveany such foolish thoughts, I should have them here. The house looks as ifit was haunted, somehow. "

Mrs. Tadman laughed a shrill hard laugh, and rubbed her skinny hands withan air of satisfaction. 

"You're not easy to please, Miss Carley, " she said; "most folks think adeal of Wyncomb; for, you see, it's only them that live in a house as canknow how dull it is; and as to the place being haunted, I never heardtell of anything of that kind. The Whitelaws ain't the kind of people tocome back to this world, unless they come to fetch their money, and thenthey'd come fast enough, I warrant. I used to see a good deal of myuncle, John Whitelaw, when I was a girl, and never did a son take afterhis father closer than my cousin Stephen takes after him; just the samesaving prudent ways, and just the same masterful temper, always keptunder in that quiet way of his. "

As Ellen Carley showed herself profoundly indifferent to the lights andshades of Mr. Whitelaw's character, Mrs. Tadman did not pursue thesubject, but with a gentle sigh led the way to another room, and so onfrom room to room, till they had explored all that floor of the house. 

"There's the attics above; but you won't care to see _them_, " she said. "The shepherd and five other men sleep up there. Stephen thinks it keepsthem steadier sleeping under the same roof with their master; and he'sable to ring them up of a morning, and to know when they go to theirwork. It's wearying for me to have to get up and see to their breakfasts, but I can't trust Martha Holden to do that, or she'd let them eat us outof house and home. There's no knowing what men like that can eat, and aside of bacon would go as fast as if you was to melt it down to tallow. But you must know what they are, Miss Carley, having to manage for yourfather. "

"Yes, " Ellen answered, "I'm used to hard work. "

"Ah, " murmured the matron, with a sigh, "you'd have plenty of it, if youcame here. "

They were at the end of a long passage by this time; a passage leading tothe extreme end of the house, and forming part of that ivy-covered wingwhich seemed older than the rest of the building. It was on a lower levelthan the other part, and they had descended two or three steps at theentrance to this passage. The ceilings were lower too, the beams thatsupported them more massive, the diamond-paned windows smaller and moreheavily leaded, and there was a faint musty odour as of a place that waskept shut up and uninhabited. 

"There's nothing more to see here, " said Mrs. Tadman quickly; "I hadbetter go back I don't know what brought me here; it was talking, Isuppose, made me come without thinking. There's nothing to show you thisway. "

"But there's another room there, " Ellen said, pointing to a door justbefore them--a heavy clumsily-made door, painted black. 

"That room--well, yes; it's a kind of a room, but hasn't been used forfifty years and more, I've heard say. Stephen keeps seeds there andsuch-like. It's always locked, and he keeps the key of it. "

There was nothing in this closed room to excite either curiosity orinterest in Ellen's mind, and she was turning away from the door withperfect indifference, when she started and suddenly seized Mrs. Tadman'sarm. 

"Hark!" she said, in a frightened, breathless way; "did you hear that?"

"What, child?"

"Did you say there was no one in there--no one?"

"Lord bless your heart, no, Miss Carley, nor ever is. What a turn you didgive me, grasping hold of my arm like that!"

"I heard something in there--a footstep. It must be the servant. "

"What, Martha Holden! I should like to see her venturing into any roomStephen keeps private to himself. Besides, that door's kept locked; tryit, and satisfy yourself. "

The door was indeed locked--a door with a clumsy old-fashioned latch, securely fastened by a staple and padlock. Ellen tried it with her ownhand. 

"Is there no other door to the room?" she asked. 

"None; and only one window, that looks into the wood-yard, and is almostalways blocked up with the wood piled outside it. You must have heard themuslin bags of seed blowing about, if you heard anything. "

"I heard a footstep, " said Ellen firmly; "a human footstep. I told youthe house was haunted, Mrs. Tadman. "

"Lor, Miss Carley, I wish you wouldn't say such things; it's enough tomake one's blood turn cold. Do come downstairs and have a cup of tea. It's quite dark, I declare; and you've given me the shivers with yourqueer talk. "

"I'm sorry for that; but the noise I heard must have been either real orghostly, and you won't believe it's real. "

"It was the seed-bags, of course. "

"They couldn't make a noise like human footsteps. However, it's nobusiness of mine, Mrs. Tadman, and I don't want to frighten you. "

They went downstairs to the parlour, where the tea-tray and a pair ofcandles were soon brought, and where Mrs. Tadman stirred the fire into ablaze with an indifference to the consumption of fuel which made herkinsman stare, even on that hospitable occasion. The blaze made the darkwainscoted room cheerful of aspect, however, which the two candles couldnot have done, as their light was almost absorbed by the gloomypanelling. 

After tea there was whist again, and a considerable consumption ofspirits-and-water on the part of the two gentlemen, in which Mrs. Tadmanjoined modestly, with many protestations, and, with the air of takingonly an occasional spoonful, contrived to empty her tumbler, and allowedherself to be persuaded to take another by the bailiff, whose jovialityon the occasion was inexhaustible. 

The day's entertainment came to an end at last, to Ellen's inexpressiblerelief; and her father drove her home in the yellow gig at rather analarming pace, and with some tendency towards heeling over into a ditch. They got over the brief journey safely, however, and Mr. Carley was stillin high good humour. He went off to see to the putting up of his horsehimself, telling his daughter to wait till he came back, he had somethingparticular to say to her before she went to bed. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

"WHAT MUST BE SHALL BE. "

Ellen Carley waited in the little parlour, dimly lighted by one candle. The fire had very nearly gone out, and she had some difficulty inbrightening it a little. She waited very patiently, wondering what herfather could have to say to her, and not anticipating much pleasure fromthe interview. He was going to talk about Stephen Whitelaw and hishateful money perhaps. But let him say what he would, she was prepared tohold her own firmly, determined to provoke him by no open opposition, unless matters came to an extremity, and then to let him see at once andfor ever that her resolution was fixed, and that it was useless topersecute her. 

"If I have to go out of this house to-night, I will not flinch, " she saidto herself. 

She had some time to wait. It had been past midnight when they came home, and it was a quarter to one when William Carley came into the parlour. Hewas in a unusually communicative mood to-night, and had beensuperintending the grooming of his horse, and talking to the underlingwho had waited up to receive him. 

He was a little unsteady in his gait as he came into the parlour, andEllen knew that he had drunk a good deal at Wyncomb. It was no new thingfor her to see him in this condition unhappily, and the shrinkingshuddering sensation with which he inspired her to-night was painfullyfamiliar. 

"It's very late, father, " she said gently, as the bailiff flung himselfheavily into an arm-chair by the fire-place. "If you don't want me foranything particular, I should be glad to go to bed. "

"Would you, my lass?" he asked grimly. "But, you see, I do want you forsomething particular, something uncommon particular; so there's no callfor you to be in a hurry. Sit down yonder, " he added, pointing to thechair opposite his own. "I've got something to say to you, somethingserious. "

"Father, " said the girl, looking him full in the face, pale to the lips, but very firm, "I don't think you're in a state to talk seriously ofanything. "

"O, you don't, don't you, Miss Impudence? You think I'm drunk, perhaps. You'll find that, drunk or sober, I've only one mind about you, and thatI mean to be obeyed. Sit down, I tell you. I'm not in the humour to standany nonsense to-night. Sit down. "

Ellen obeyed this mandate, uttered with a fierceness unusual even in Mr. Carley, who was never a soft-spoken man. She seated herself quietly onthe opposite side of the hearth, while her father took down his pipe fromthe chimney-piece, and slowly filled it, with hands that trembled alittle over the accustomed task. 

When he had lighted the pipe, and smoked about half-a-dozen whiffs with agreat assumption of coolness, he addressed himself to his daughter in analtered and conciliating tone. 

"Well, Nelly, " he said, "you've had a rare day at Wyncomb, and a regularramble over the old house with Steph's cousin. What do you think of it?"

"I think it's a queer gloomy old place enough, father. I wonder there'sany one can live in it. The dark bare-looking rooms gave me the horrors. I used to think this house was dull, and seemed as if it was haunted; butit's lively and gay as can be, compared to Wyncomb. "

"Humph!" muttered the bailiff. "You're a fanciful young lady, Miss Nell, and don't know a fine substantial old house when you see one. Life's comea little too easy to you, perhaps. It might have been better for you ifyou'd seen more of the rough side. Being your own missus too soon, andmissus of such a place as this, has spoiled you a bit. I tell you, Nell, there ain't a better house in Hampshire than Wyncomb, though it mayn'tsuit your fanciful notions. Do you know the size of Stephen Whitelaw'sfarm?"

"No, father; I've never thought about it. "

"What do you say to three hundred acres--over three hundred, nigher tofour perhaps?"

"I suppose it's a large farm, father. But I know nothing about suchthings. "

"You suppose it's large, and you know nothing about such things!" criedthe bailiff, with an air of supreme irritation. "I don't believe any manwas ever plagued with such an aggravating daughter as mine. What do yousay to being mistress of such a place, girl?--mistress of close upon fourhundred acres of land; not another man's servant, bound to account forevery blade of grass and every ear of corn, as I am, but free andindependent mistress of the place, with the chance of being left a widowby and by, and having it all under your own thumb; what do you say tothat?"

"Only the same that I have always said, father. Nothing would everpersuade me to marry Stephen Whitelaw. I'd rather starve. "

"And you shall starve, if you stick to that, " roared William Carley witha blasphemous oath. "But you won't be such a fool, Nell. You'll hearreason; you won't stand out against your poor old father and against yourown interests. The long and the short of it is, I've given Whitelaw mypromise that you shall be his wife between this and Easter. "

"What!" exclaimed Ellen, with a faint cry of horror; "you don't mean thatyou've promised that, father! You can't mean it!"

"I can and do mean it, lass. "

"Then you've made a promise that will never be kept. You might have knownas much when you made it. I'm sure I've been plain-spoken enough aboutStephen Whitelaw. "

"That was a girl's silly talk. I didn't think to find you a fool when Icame to the point. I let you have your say, and looked to time to bringyou to reason. Come, Nell, you're not going against your father, areyou?"

"I must, father, in this. I'd rather die twenty deaths than marry thatman. There's nothing I wouldn't rather do. "

"Isn't there? You'd rather see your father in gaol, I suppose, if it cameto that?"

"See you in gaol!" cried the girl aghast. "For heaven's sake, what do youmean, father? What fear is there of your being sent to prison, because Iwon't marry Stephen Whitelaw? I'm not a baby, " she added, with ahysterical laugh; "you can't frighten me like that. "

"No; you're a very wise young woman, I daresay; but you don't knoweverything. You've seen me downhearted and out of sorts for this lasthalf-year; but I don't suppose you've troubled yourself much about it, except to worry me with silly questions sometimes, when I've not been inthe humour to be talked to. Things have been going wrong with me eversince hay-harvest, and I haven't sent Sir David sixpence yet for lastyear's crops. I've put him off with one excuse after another from monthto month. He's a careless master enough at most times, and neverover-sharp with my accounts. But the time has come when I can't put himoff any longer. He wants money badly, he says; and I'm afraid he beginsto suspect something. Any way, he talks of coming here in a week or so tolook into things for himself. If he does that, I'm ruined. "

"But the money, father--the money for the crops--how has it gone? You hadit, haven't you?"

"Yes, " the bailiff answered with a groan; "I've had it, worse luck. "

"And how has it gone?"

"What's that to you? What's the good of my muddling my brains withfigures to-night? It's gone, I tell you. You know I'm fond of seeing arace, and never miss anything in that way that comes-off within a day'sdrive of this place. I used to be pretty lucky once upon a time, when Ibacked a horse or bet against one. But this year things have gone deadagainst me; and my bad luck made me savage somehow, so that I went deeperthan I've been before, thinking to get back what I'd lost. "

"O, father, father! how could you, and with another man's money?"

"Don't give me any of your preaching, " the bailiff answered gloomily; "Ican get enough of that at Malsham Chapel if I want it. It's in your powerto pull me through this business if you choose. "

"How can I do that, father?"

"A couple of hundred pounds will set me square. I don't say there hasn'tbeen more taken, first and last; but that would do it. Stephen Whitelawwould lend me the money--give it me, indeed, for it comes to that--theday he gets your consent to be his wife. "

"And you'd sell me to him for two hundred pounds, father?" the girl askedbitterly. 

"I don't want to go to gaol. "

"And if you don't get the money from Stephen, what will happen?"

"I can't tell you that to a nicety. Penal servitude for life, mostlikely. They'd call mine a bad case, I daresay. "

"But Sir David might be merciful to you, father. You've served him foralong time. "

"What would he care for that? I've had his money, and he's not a man thatcan afford to lose much. No, Nell, I look for no mercy from Sir David;those careless easy-going men are generally the hardest in such abusiness as this. It's a clear case of embezzlement, and nothing can saveme unless I can raise money enough to satisfy him. "

"Couldn't you borrow it of some one else besides Stephen Whitelaw?"

"Who else is there that would lend me two hundred pounds? Ask yourselfthat, girl. Why, I haven't five pounds' worth of security to offer. "

"And Mr. Whitelaw will only lend the money upon one condition?"

"No, curse him!" cried William Carley savagely. "I've been at him allthis afternoon, when you and that woman were out of the room, trying toget it out of him as a loan, without waiting for your promise; but he'stoo cautious for that. 'The day Ellen gives her consent, you shall havethe money, ' he told me; 'I can't say anything fairer than that or moreliberal. '"

"He doesn't suspect why you want it, does he, father?" Ellen asked with apainful sense of shame. 

"Who can tell what he may suspect? He's as deep as Satan, " said thebailiff, with a temporary forgetfulness of his desire to exhibit thisintended son-in-law of his in a favourable light. "He knows that I wantthe money very badly; I couldn't help his knowing that; and he must thinkit's something out of the common that makes me want two hundred pounds. "

"I daresay he guesses the truth, " Ellen said, with a profound sigh. 

It seemed to her the bitterest trial of all, that her father'swrong-doing should be known to Stephen Whitelaw. That hideous prospect ofthe dock and the gaol was far off as yet; she had not even begun torealise it; but she did fully realise the fact of her father's shame, andthe blow seemed to her a heavy one, heavier than she could bear. 

For some minutes there was silence between father and daughter. The girlsat with her face hidden in her hands; the bailiff smoked his pipe insullen meditation. 

"Is there no other way?" Ellen asked at last, in a plaintive despairingtone; "no other way, father?"

"None, " growled William Carley. "You needn't ask me that question again;there is no other way; you can get me out of my difficulties if youchoose. I should never have been so venturesome as I was, if I hadn'tmade sure my daughter would soon be a rich woman. You can save me if youlike, or you can hold-off and let me go to prison. There's no goodpreaching about it or arguing about it; you've got the choice and youmust make it. Most young women in your place would think themselvesuncommon lucky to have such a chance as you've got, instead of making atrouble about it, let alone being able to get their father out of ascrape. But you're your own mistress, and you must do as you please. "

"Let me have time to think, " the girl pleaded piteously; "let me haveonly a little time to think, father. And you do believe that I'm sorryfor you, don't you?" she asked, kneeling beside him and clasping hisunwilling hand. "O father, I hope you believe that!"

"I shall know what to believe when I know what you're going to do, " thebailiff answered moodily; and his daughter knew him too well to hope forany more gracious speech than this. 

She bade him good-night, and went slowly up to her own room to spend theweary wakeful hours in a bitter struggle, praying that she might beenlightened as to what she ought to do; praying that she might die ratherthan become the wife of Stephen Whitelaw. 

When she and her father met at breakfast in the dull gray Januarymorning, his aspect was even darker than it had been on the previousnight; but he did not ask her if she had arrived at any conclusion. Hetook his meal in sullen silence, and left her without a word. 

They met again a little before noon, at which hour it was Mr. Carley'shabit to consume a solid luncheon. He took his seat in the same gloomysilence that he had preserved at breakfast-time, but flung an open letteracross the table towards his daughter. 

"Am I to read this?" she asked gently. 

"Yes, read it, and see what I've got to look to. "

The letter was from Sir David Forster; an angry one, revealing strongsuspicions of his agent's dishonesty, and announcing that he should be atthe Grange on the fifth of the month, to make a close investigation ofall matters connected with the bailiff's administration. It was a letterthat gave little hope of mercy, and Ellen Carley felt that it was so. Shesaw that there were no two sides to the question: she must save herfather by the utter sacrifice of her own feelings, or suffer him toperish. 

She sat for some minutes in silence, with Sir David's letter in her hand, staring blankly at the lines in a kind of stupor; while her father atecold roast-beef and pickled-cabbage--she wondered how he could eat atsuch a time--looking up at her furtively every now and then. 

At last she laid down the letter, and lifted her eyes to his face. Adeadly whiteness and despair had come over the bright soubrette beauty, and even William Carley's hard nature was moved a little by the alteredexpression of his daughter's countenance. 

"It must be as you wish, father, " she said slowly; "there is no help forit; I cannot see you brought to disgrace. Stephen Whitelaw must have theprice he asks for his money. "

"That's a good lass, " cried the bailiff, springing up and clasping hisdaughter in his arms, a most unusual display of affection on his part;"that's bravely spoken, Nell, and you never need repent the choicethat'll make you mistress of Wyncomb Farm, with a good home to give yourfather in his old age. "

The girl drew herself hastily from his embrace, and turned away from himwith a shudder. He was her father, and there was something horrible inthe idea of his disgrace; but there was very little affection for him inher mind. He was willing to sell her into bondage in order to savehimself. It was in this light she regarded the transaction with StephenWhitelaw. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

DOUBTFUL INFORMATION. 

The early days of the new year brought little change in John Saltram'scondition. Mr. Mew, and the physician who saw him once in every threedays, seemed perhaps a shade more hopeful than they had been, but wouldexpress no decided opinion when Gilbert pressed them with closequestioning. The struggle was still going on--the issue still doubtful. 

"If we could keep the mind at rest, " said the physician, "we should haveevery chance of doing better; but this constant restlessness, thishyper-activity of the brain, of which you and Mr. Mew tell me, must needsmake a perpetual demand upon the patient's physical powers. The waste isalways going on. We cannot look for recovery until we obtain morerepose. "

Several weeks had passed since the beginning of John Saltram's illness, and there were no tidings from Mr. Medler. Every day Gilbert had expectedsome communication from that practitioner, only to be disappointed. Hehad called twice in Soho, and on both occasions had been received by ashabby-looking clerk, who told him that Mr. Medler was out, and notlikely to come home within any definite time. He was inclined to fancy, by the clerk's manner on his second visit, that there was some desire toavoid an interview on Mr. Medler's part; and this fancy made him all themore anxious to see that gentleman. He did not, therefore, allow muchtime to elapse between this second visit to the dingy chambers in Sohoand a third. This time he was more fortunate; for he saw the lawyer lethimself in at the street-door with his latch-key, just as the cab thatdrove him approached the house. 

The same shabby clerk opened the door to him. 

"I want to see your master, " he said decisively, making a move towardsthe office-door. 

The clerk contrived to block his way. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, I don't think Mr. Medler's in; but I'll go andsee. "

"You needn't give yourself the trouble. I saw your master let himself inat this door a minute ago. I suppose you were too busy to hear him comein. "

The clerk coughed a doubtful kind of cough, significant of perplexity. 

"Upon my word, sir, I believe he's out; but I'll see. "

"Thanks; I'd rather see myself, if you please, " Gilbert said, passing theperturbed clerk before that functionary could make up his mind whether heought to intercept him. 

He opened the office-door and went in. Mr. Medler was sitting at hisdesk, bending over some formidable document, with the air of a man who isprofoundly absorbed by his occupation; with the air also, Gilbertthought, of a man who has been what is vernacularly called "on thelisten. "

"Good-morning, Mr. Medler, " Gilbert said politely; "your clerk had such aconviction of your being out, that I had some difficulty in convincinghim you were at home. "

"I've only just come in; I suppose Lucas didn't hear me. "

"I suppose not; I've been here twice before in search of you, as Iconclude you have been told. I have expected to hear from you daily. "

"Well, yes--yes, " replied the lawyer in a meditative way; "I am awarethat I promised to write--under certain circumstances. "

"Am I to conclude, then, that you were silent because you had nothing tocommunicate? that you have obtained no tidings of any kind respectingMrs. Holbrook?"

Mr. Medler coughed; a cough no less expressive of embarrassment than thatof his clerk. 

"Why, you see, Mr. Fenton, " he began, crossing his legs, and rubbing hishands in a very deliberate manner, "when I made that promise withreference to Mrs. Holbrook, I made it of course without prejudice to theinterests or inclinations of my client. I might be free to communicate toyou any information I received upon this subject--or I might find myselfpledged to withhold it. "

Gilbert's face flushed with sudden excitement. 

"What!" he cried, "do you mean to say that you have solved the mystery ofMarian Holbrook's fate? that you know her to be alive--safe--well, andhave kept back the knowledge from me?"

"I have been compelled to submit to the wishes of my client. I will notsay that I have not offered considerable opposition to her desire uponthis point, but finding her resolution fixed, I was bound to respect it. "

"She is safe--then all this alarm has been needless? You have seen her?"

"Yes, Mr. Fenton, I have seen her. "

"And she--she forbade you to let me know of her safety? She was willingthat I should suffer all the anguish of uncertainty as to her fate? Icould not have believed her so unkind. "

"Mrs. Holbrook had especial reasons for wishing to avoid allcommunication with former acquaintances. She explained those reasons tome, and I fully concurred in them. "

"She might have such reasons with regard to other people; she could havenone with reference to me. "

"Pardon me, she mentioned your name in a very particular manner. "

"And yet she has had good cause to trust in my fidelity. "

"She has a very great respect and esteem for you, I am aware. She said asmuch to me. But her reasons for keeping her affairs to herself just noware quite apart from her personal feeling for yourself. "

"I cannot understand this. I am not to see her then, I suppose; not to betold her address?"

"No; I am strictly forbidden to disclose her address to any one. "

"Yet you can positively assure me that she is in safety--her ownmistress--happy?"

"She is in perfect safety--her own mistress--and as happy as it ispossible she can be under the unfortunate circumstances of her marriedlife. She has left her husband for ever; I will venture to tell you somuch as that. "

"I am quite aware of that fact. "

"How so? I thought Mr. Holbrook was quite unknown to you?"

"I have learnt a good deal about him lately. "

"Indeed!" exclaimed the lawyer, with a genuine air of surprise. 

"But of course your client has been perfectly frank in her communicationswith you upon this subject?" Gilbert said. 

"Yes; I know that Mrs. Holbrook has left her husband, but I did not for amoment suppose she had left him of her own free will. From my knowledgeof her character and sentiments, that is just the last thing I could haveimagined possible. There was no quarrel between them; indeed, she wasexpecting his return with delight at the very time when she left her homein Hampshire. The thought of sharing her fortune with him was one ofperfect happiness. How can you explain her abrupt flight from him in theface of this?"

"I am not free to explain matters, Mr. Fenton, " answered the lawyer; "youmust be satisfied with the knowledge that the lady about whom you havebeen so anxious is safe. "

"I thank God for that, " Gilbert said earnestly; "but that, knowledge ofitself is not quite enough. I shall be uneasy so long as there is thissecrecy and mystery surrounding her fate. There is something in thissudden abandonment of her husband which is painfully inexplicable to me. "

"Mrs. Holbrook may have received some sudden revelation of her husband'sunworthiness. You are aware that a letter reached her a few hours beforeshe left Hampshire? There is no doubt that letter influenced her actions. I do not mind admitting a fact which is so obvious. "

"The revelation that could move her to such a step must have been a verystartling one. "

"It was strong enough to decide her course, " replied the lawyer gravely. 

"And you can assure me that she is in good hands?" Gilbert askedanxiously. 

"I have every reason to suppose so. She is with her father. "

Mr. Medler announced this fact as if there were nothing extraordinary init. Gilbert started to his feet. 

"What!" he exclaimed; "she is with Mr. Nowell--the father who neglectedher in her youth, who of course seeks her now only for the sake of herfortune? And you call that being in good hands, Mr. Medler? For my ownpart, I cannot imagine a more dangerous alliance. When did PercivalNowell come to England?"

"A very short time ago. I have only been aware of his return within thelast two or three weeks. His first step on arriving in this country wasto seek for his daughter. "

"Yes; when he knew that she was rich, no doubt. "

"I do not think that he was influenced by mercenary motives, " the lawyersaid, with a calm judicial air. "Of course, as a man of the world, I amnot given to look at such matters from a sentimental point of view. But Ireally believe that Mr. Nowell was anxious to find his daughter, and toatone in some measure for his former neglect. "

"A very convenient repentance, " exclaimed Gilbert, with a short bitterlaugh. "And his first act is to steal his daughter from her home, andhide her from all her former friends. I don't like the look of thisbusiness, Mr. Medler; I tell you so frankly. "

"Mr. Nowell is my client, you must remember, Mr. Fenton. I cannot consentto listen to any aspersion of his character, direct or indirect. "

"And you positively refuse to tell me where Mrs. Holbrook is to befound?"

"I am compelled to respect her wishes as well as those of her father. "

"She has been placed in possession of her property, I suppose?"

"Yes; her grandfather's will has been proved, and the estate now standsin her name. There was no difficulty about that--no reason for delay. "

"Will you tell me if she is in London?" Gilbert asked impatiently. 

"Pardon me, my dear sir, I am pledged to say nothing about Mrs. Holbrook's whereabouts. "

Gilbert gave a weary sigh. 

"Well, I suppose it is useless to press the question, Mr. Medler, " hesaid. "I can only repeat that I don't like the look of this business. Your client, Mr. Nowell, must have a very strong reason for secrecy, andmy experience of life has shown me that there is very seldom mysterywithout wrong doing of some kind behind it. I thank God that Mrs. Holbrook is safe, for I suppose I must accept your assurance that she isso; but until her position is relieved from all this secrecy, I shall notcease to feel uneasy as to her welfare. I am glad, however, that theissue of events has exonerated her husband from any part in herdisappearance. "

He was glad to know this--glad to know that however base a traitor tohimself, John Saltram had not been guilty of that deeper villany which hehad at times been led to suspect. Gilbert Fenton left Mr. Medler's officea happier man than when he had entered it, and yet only half satisfied. It was a great thing to know that Marian was safe; but he would havewished her in the keeping of any one rather than of him whom the worldwould have called her natural protector. 

Nor was his opinion of Mr. Medler by any means an exalted one. Noassertion, of that gentleman inspired him with heart-felt confidence; andhe had not left the lawyer's office long before he began to ask himselfwhether there was truth in any portion of the story he had heard, orwhether he was not the dupe of a lie. 

Strange that Marian's father should have returned at so opportune amoment; still more strange that Marian should suddenly desert the husbandshe had so devotedly loved, and cast in her lot with a father of whom sheknew nothing but his unkindness. What if this man Medler had been, lyingto him from first to last, and was plotting to get old Jacob Nowell'sfortune into his own hands?

"I must find her, " Gilbert said to himself; "I must be certain that sheis in safe hands. I shall know no rest till I have found her. "

Harassed and perplexed beyond measure, he walked through the busy streetsof that central district for some time without knowing where he wasgoing, and without the faintest purpose in his steps. Then the notionsuddenly flashed upon him that he might hear something of PercivalNowell at the shop in Queen Anne's Court, supposing the old business tobe still carried on there under the sway of Mr. Tulliver; and it seemedtoo early yet for the probability of any change in that quarter. 

Gilbert was in the Strand when this notion occurred to him. He turned hissteps immediately, and went back to Wardour-street, and thence to thedingy court where he had first discovered Marian's grandfather. 

There was no change; the shop looked exactly the same as it had looked inthe lifetime of Jacob Nowell. There were the same old guineas in thewooden bowl, the same tarnished tankards and teapots on view behind thewire-guarded glass, the same obscure hints of untold riches within, inthe general aspect of the place. 

Mr. Tulliver darted forward from his usual lurking-place as Gilbert wentin at the door. 

"O!" he exclaimed, with undisguised disappointment, "it's you, is it, sir? I thought it was a customer. "

"I am sorry to disappoint your expectation of profit. I have looked in toask you two or three questions, Mr. Tulliver; that is all. "

"Any information in my power I'm sure I shall be happy to afford, sir. Won't you be pleased to take a seat?"

"How long is it since you saw Mr. Nowell, your former employer's son?"Gilbert asked, dropping into the chair indicated by the shopman, andcoming at once to the point. 

Mr. Tulliver was somewhat startled by the question. That was evident, though he was not a man who wore his heart upon his sleeve. 

"How long is it since I've seen Mr. Nowell--Mr. Percival Nowell, sir?" herepeated, staring thoughtfully at his questioner. 

"Yes; you need not be afraid to speak freely to me; I know Mr. Nowell isin London. "

"Well, sir, I've not seen him often since his father's death. "

Since his father's death! And according to Mr. Medler, Jacob Nowell's sonhad only arrived in England after the old man's death;--or stay, thelawyer had declared that he had been only aware of Percival's returnwithin the last two or three weeks. That was a different thing, ofcourse; yet was it likely this man could have returned, and his father'slawyer have remained ignorant of his arrival?

Gilbert did not allow the faintest expression of surprise to appear onhis countenance. 

"Not often since your master's death: but how often before?"

"Well, he used to come in pretty often before the old man died; but theywere both of 'em precious close. Mr. Percival never let out that he wasmy master's son, but I guessed as much before he'd been here many times. "

"How was it that I never came across him?"

"Chance, I suppose; but he's a deep one. If you'd happened to come inwhen he was here, I daresay he'd have contrived to slip away somehowwithout your seeing him. "

"When did he come here last?" asked Gilbert. 

"About a fortnight ago. He came with Mr. Medler, the lawyer, whointroduced him formally as my master's son; and they took possession ofthe place between them for Mrs. Holbrook, making an arrangement with meto carry on the business, and making precious hard terms too. "

"Have you seen Mrs. Holbrook since that morning when she left London forHampshire, immediately after her grandfather's death?"

"Never set eyes on her since then; but she's in London, they told me, living with her father. She came up to claim the property. I say, thehusband must be rather a curious party, mustn't he, to stand that kind ofthing, and part company with her just when she's come into a fortune?"

"Have you any notion where Mrs. Holbrook or her father is to be found? Ishould be glad to make you a handsome present if you could enlighten meupon that point. "

"I wish I could, sir. No, I haven't the least idea where the gentlemanhangs out. Oysters ain't closer than that party. I thought he'd get hispaw upon his father's money, somehow, when I used to see him hangingabout this place. But I don't believe the old man ever meant him to havea sixpence of it. "

There was very little satisfaction, to be obtained from Mr. Tulliver; andexcept as to the one fact of Percival Nowell's return, Gilbert leftQueen Anne's Court little wiser than when he entered it. 

Brooding upon the revelations of that day as he walked slowly westward, he began to think that Percival and Mr. Medler had been in league fromthe time of the prodigal son's return, and that his own exclusion fromthe will as executor, and the substitution of the lawyer's name, had beenbrought about for no honourable purpose. What would a weak inexperiencedwoman be between two such men? or what power could Marian have, onceunder her father's influence, to resist his will? How she had fallenunder that influence so completely as to leave her husband and her quietcountry home, without a word of explanation, was a difficult question toanswer; and Gilbert Fenton meditated upon it with a troubled mind. 

He walked westward, indifferent where he went in the perplexity of histhoughts, anxious to walk off a little of his excitement if he could, and to return to his sick charge in the temple in a calmer frame of mind. It was something gained, at the worst, to be able to return to JohnSaltram's bedside freed from that hideous suspicion which had tormentedhim of late. 

Walking thus, he found himself, towards the close of the brief winterday, at the Marble Arch. He went through the gate into the empty Park, and was crossing the broad road near the entrance, when an open carriagepassed close beside him, and a woman's voice called to the coachman tostop. 

The carriage stopped so abruptly and so near him that he paused andlooked up, in natural wonderment at the circumstance. A lady dressed inmourning was leaning forward out of the carriage, looking eagerly afterhim. A second glance showed him that this lady was Mrs. Branston. 

"How do you do, Mr. Fenton, " she cried, holding out her littleblack-gloved hand: "What an age since I have seen you! But you have notforgotten me, I hope?"

"That is quite impossible, Mrs. Branston. If I had not been very muchabsorbed in thought just now, I should have recognised you sooner. It wasvery kind of you to stop to speak to me. "

"Not at all. I have something most particular to say to you. If you arenot in a very great hurry, would you mind getting into the carriage, andletting me drive you round the Park? I can't keep you standing in theroad to talk. "

"I am in no especial hurry, and I shall be most happy to take a turnround the Park with you. "

Mrs. Branston's footman opened the carriage-door, and Gilbert took hisseat opposite the widow, who was enjoying her afternoon drive alone foronce in a way; a propitious toothache having kept Mrs. Pallinson withindoors. 

"I have been expecting to see you for ever so long, Mr. Fenton. Why doyou never call upon me?" the pretty little widow began, with her usualfrankness. 

"I have been so closely occupied lately; and even if I had not been so, Ishould have scarcely expected to find you in town at this unfashionableseason. "

"I don't care the least in the world for fashion, " Mrs. Branston said, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders. "That is only an excuse ofyours, Mr. Fenton; you completely forgot my existence, I have no doubt. All my friends desert me now-a-days--older friends than you. There is Mr. Saltram, for instance. I have not seen him for--O, not for ever so long, "concluded the widow, blushing in the dusk as she remembered that visit ofhers to the Temple--that daring step which ought to have brought JohnSaltram so much nearer to her, but which had resulted in nothing butdisappointment and regret--bitter regret that she should have cast herwomanly pride into the very dust at this man's feet to no purpose. 

But Adela Branston was not a proud woman; and even in the midst of herregret for having done this foolish thing, she was always ready to makeexcuses for the man she loved, always in danger of committing some newfolly in his behalf. 

Gilbert Fenton felt for the poor foolish little woman, whose fair facewas turned to him with such a pleading look in the wintry twilight. Heknew that what he had to tell her must needs carry desolation to herheart--knew that in the background of John Saltram's life there lurkedeven a deeper cause of grief for this gentle impressionable little soul. 

"You will not wonder that Mr. Saltram has not called upon you lately whenyou know the truth, " he said gravely: "he has been very ill. "

Mrs. Branston clasped her hands, with a faint cry of terror. 

"Very ill--that means dangerously ill?"

"Yes; for some time he was in great danger. I believe that is past now;but I am not quite sure of his safety even yet. I can only hope that hemay recover. "

Hope that he might recover, yes; but to be a friend of his, Gilbert's, never more. It was a dreary prospect at best. John Saltram would recover, to seek and reclaim his wife, and then those two must needs pass for everout of Gilbert Fenton's life. The story would be finished, and his ownpart of it bald enough to be told on the fly-leaf at the end of the book. 

Mrs. Branston bore the shock of his ill news better than Gilbert hadexpected. There is good material even in the weakest of womankind whenthe heart is womanly and true. 

She was deeply shocked, intensely sorry; and she made no attempt to maskher sorrow by any conventional speech or pretence whatsoever. She madeGilbert give her all the details of John Saltram's illness, and when hehad told her all, asked him plainly if she might be permitted to see thesick man. 

"Do let me see him, if it is possible, " she said; "it would be such acomfort to me to see him. "

"I do not say such a thing is not possible, my dear Mrs. Branston; but Iam sure it would be very foolish. "

"O, never mind that; I am always doing foolish things. It would only beone folly more, and would hardly count in my history. Dear Mr. Fenton, dolet me see him. "

"I don't think you quite know what you are asking, Mrs. Branston. Such asick-bed as John Saltram's would be a most painful scene for you. He hasbeen delirious from the beginning of his illness, and is so still. Herarely has an interval of anything like consciousness, and in all thetime that I have been with him has never yet recognised me; indeed, there are moments when I am inclined to fear that his brain may bepermanently deranged. "

"God forbid!" exclaimed Adela, in a voice that was choked with tears. 

"Yes, such a result as that would be indeed a sore calamity. I have everywish to set your mind at ease, believe me, Mrs. Branston, but in JohnSaltram's present state I am sure it would be ill-advised for you to seehim. "

"Of course I cannot press the question if you say that, " Adela answereddespondently; "but I should have been so glad if you could have allowedme to see him. Not that I pretend to the smallest right to do so; but wewere very good friends once--before my husband's death. He has changed tome strangely since that time. "

Gilbert felt that it was almost cruel to keep this poor little soul inutter ignorance of the truth. He did not consider himself at liberty tosay much; but some vague word of warning might serve as a slight checkupon the waste of feeling which was going on in the widow's heart. 

"There may be a reason for that change, Mrs. Branston, " he said. "Mr. Saltram may have formed some tie of a kind to withdraw him from all otherfriendships. "

"Some attachment, you mean!" exclaimed the widow; "some otherattachment, " she added, forgetting how much the words betrayed. "Do youthink that, Mr. Fenton? Do you think that John Saltram has some secretlove-affair upon his mind?"

"I have some reason to suspect as much, from words that he has droppedduring his delirium. "

There was a look of unspeakable pain in Mrs. Branston's face, which hadgrown deadly pale when Gilbert first spoke of John Saltram's illness. Thepretty childish lips quivered a little, and her companion knew that shewas suffering keenly. 

"Have you any idea who the lady is?" she asked quietly, and with moreself-command than Gilbert had expected from her. 

"I have some idea. "

"It is no one whom I know, I suppose?"

"The lady is quite a stranger to you. "

"He might have trusted me, " she said mournfully; "it would have beenkinder in him to have trusted me. "

"Yes, Mrs. Branston; but Mr. Saltram has unfortunately made concealmentthe policy of his life. He will find it a false policy sooner or late. "

"It was very cruel of him not to tell me the truth. He might have knownthat I should look kindly upon any one he cared for. I may be a veryfoolish woman, Mr. Fenton, but I am not ungenerous. "

"I am sure of that, " Gilbert said warmly, touched by her candour. 

"You must let me know every day how your friend is going on, Mr. Fenton, "Adela said after a pause; "I shall consider it a very great favour if youwill do so. "

"I will not fail. "

They had returned to Cumberland-gate by this time, and at Gilbert'srequest Mrs. Branston allowed him to be set down near the Arch. He calleda cab, and drove to the Temple; while poor Adela went back to thesplendid gloom of Cavendish-square, with all the fabric of her futurelife shattered. 

Until this hour she had looked upon John Saltram's fidelity to herself asa certainty; she knew, now that her hope was slain all at once, what aliving thing it had been, and how great a portion of her own existencehad taken its colour therefrom. 

It was fortunate for Mrs. Branston that Mrs. Pallinson's toothache, andthe preparations and medicaments supplied to her by her son--all declaredto be infallible, and all ending in ignominious failure--occupied thatlady's attention at this period, to the exclusion of every other thought, or Adela's pale face might have excited more curiosity than it did. As itwas, the matron contented herself by making some rather snappish remarksupon the folly of going out to drive late on a January afternoon, andretired to administer poultices and cataplasms to herself in the solitudeof her own apartment soon after dinner, leaving Adela Branston free toponder upon John Saltram's cruelty. 

"If he had only trusted me, " she said to herself more than once duringthose mournful meditations; "if he had only given me credit for somelittle good sense and generosity, I should not feel it as keenly as I do. He must have known that I loved him--yes, I have been weak enough to lethim see that--and I think that once he used to like me a little--in thoseold happy days when he came so often to Maidenhead. Yes, I believe healmost loved me then. "

And then the thought that this man was lying desperately ill, perhaps indanger of death, blotted out every other thought. It was so bitter toknow him in peril, and to be powerless to go to him; worse than uselessto him were she by his side, since it was another whose image haunted hiswandering brain--another whose voice he longed to hear. 

She spent a sleepless melancholy night, and had no rest next day, until acommissionnaire brought her a brief note from Gilbert Fenton, telling herthat if there were any change at all in the patient, it was on the sideof improvement. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

BOUGHT WITH A PRICE. 

Ellen Carley was not allowed any time to take back the promise given toher father, had she been inclined to do so. Mr. Whitelaw made hisappearance at the Grange early in the evening of the 2nd of January, witha triumphant simper upon his insipid countenance, which was inexpressiblyprovoking to the unhappy girl. It was clear to her, at first sight ofhim, that her father had been at Wyncomb that afternoon, and her hatefulsuitor came secure of success. His wooing was not a very romantic episodein his commonplace existence. He did not even attempt to see Ellen alone;but after he had been seated for about half-an-hour in thechimney-corner, nestling close to the fire in a manner he much affected, being of a particularly chilly temperament, given to shiver and turn blueon the smallest provocation, he delivered himself solemnly of thefollowing address:--

"I make no doubt, Miss Carley, that you have taken notice for some timepast of my sentiments towards yourself. I have never made any secret ofthose sentiments, neither have I talked much about them, not being a manof many words. I used to fancy myself the very reverse of a marrying man, and I don't say but what at this moment I think the man who lives anddies a bachelor does the wisest for his own comfort and his ownprosperity. But we are not the masters of our feelings, Miss Carley. Youhave growed upon me lately somehow, so that I've got not to care for mylife without you. Ask Mrs. Tadman if my appetite hasn't fell off withinthis last six months to a degree that has frightened her; and a man of myregular habits must be very far gone in love, Miss Carley, when hisappetite forsakes him. From the time I came to know you as a young woman, in the bloom of a young woman's beauty, I said to myself, 'That's thegirl I'll marry, and no other. ' Your father can bear me out in that, forI said the same to him. And finding that I had his approval, I wassatisfied to bide my time, and wait till you came round to the same wayof thinking. Your father tells me yesterday afternoon, and again thisafternoon, that you have come round to that way of feeling. I hope hehasn't deceived me, Miss Carley. "

This was a very long speech for Stephen Whitelaw. It was uttered inlittle gasps or snatches of speech, the speaker stopping at the end ofevery sentence to take breath. 

Ellen Carley sat on that side of the comfortable round table most remotefrom Mr. Whitelaw, deadly pale, with her hands clasped before her. Onceshe lifted her eyes with a piteous look to her father's face; but he wassmoking his pipe solemnly, with his gaze fixed upon the blazing logs inthe grate, and contrived not to see that mute despairing appeal. He hadnot looked at his daughter once since Stephen Whitelaw's arrival, nor hadhe made any attempt to prepare her for this visit, this rapidconsummation of the sacrifice. 

"Come, Miss Carley, " said the former rather impatiently, after there hadbeen a dead silence of some minutes, "I want to get an answer direct fromyour own lips. Your father hasn't been deceiving me, has he?"

"No, " Ellen said in a low voice, almost as if the reply were dragged fromher by some physical torture. "If my father has given you a promise forme, I will keep it. But I don't want to deceive you, on my part, Mr. Whitelaw, " she went on in a somewhat firmer tone. "I will be your wife, since you and my father have settled that it must be so; but I canpromise no more than that. I will be dutiful and submissive to you as awife, you may be sure--only----"

Mr. Whitelaw smiled a very significant smile, which implied that it wouldbe his care to insure his wife's obedience, and that he was troubled byno doubts upon that head. 

The bailiff broke-in abruptly at this juncture. 

"Lord bless the girl, what need is there of all this talk about what shewill be and what she won't be? She'll be as good a wife as any woman inEngland, I'll stake my life upon that. She's been a good daughter, as allthe world knows, and a good daughter is bound to make a good wife. Say nomore about it, Nell. Stephen Whitelaw knows he'll make no bad bargain inmarrying you. "

The farmer received this remark with a loud sniff, expressive of offendeddignity. 

"Very likely not, William Carley, " he said; "but it isn't every man thatcan make your daughter mistress of such a place as Wyncomb; and such menas could do it would look for money with a wife, however young and prettyshe might be. There's two sides to a bargain, you see, William, and Ishould like things to be looked at in that light between you and me. "

"You've no call to take offence, Steph, " answered the bailiff with aconciliating grin. "I never said you wasn't a good match for my girl; buta pretty girl and a prudent clever housekeeper like Nell is a fortune inherself to any man. "

"Then the matter's settled, I suppose, " said Mr. Whitelaw; "and thesooner the wedding comes off the better, to my mind. If my wife that isto be wants anything in the way of new clothes, I shall be happy to putdown a twenty-pound note--or I'd go as far as thirty--towards 'em. "

Ellen shook her head impatiently. 

"I want nothing new, " she said; "I have as many things as I care tohave. "

"Nonsense, Nell, " cried her father, frowning at her in a significantmanner to express his disapproval of this folly, and in so doing lookingat her for the first time since her suitor's advent. "Every young womanlikes new gowns, and of course you'll take Steph's friendly offer, andthank him kindly for it. He knows that I'm pretty hard-up just now, andwon't be able to do much for you; and it wouldn't do for Mrs. Whitelaw ofWyncomb to begin the world with a shabby turn-out. "

"Of course not, " replied the farmer; "I'll bring you the cash to-morrowevening, Nell; and the sooner you buy your wedding-gown the better. There's nothing to wait for, you see. I've got a good home to take youto. Mother Tadman will march, of course, between this and my wedding-day. I sha'n't want her when I've a wife to keep house for me. "

"Of course not, " said the bailiff. "Relations are always dangerous abouta place--ready to make mischief at every hand's turn. "

"O, Mr. Whitelaw, you won't turn her out, surely--your own flesh andblood, and after so many years of service. She told me how hard she hadworked for you. "

"Ah, that's just like her, " growled the farmer. "I give her a comfortablehome for all these years, and then she grumbles about the work. "

"She didn't grumble, " said Ellen hastily. "She only told me howfaithfully she had served you. "

"Yes; that comes to the same thing. I should have thought you would haveliked to be mistress of your house, Nell, without any one to interferewith you. "

"Mrs. Tadman is nothing to me, " answered Ellen, who had been by no meansprepossessed by that worthy matron; "but I shouldn't like her to beunfairly treated on my account. "

"Well, we'll think about it, Nell; there's no hurry. She's worth hersalt, I daresay. "

Mr. Whitelaw seemed to derive a kind of satisfaction from the utteranceof his newly-betrothed's Christian name, which came as near the raptureof a lover as such a sluggish nature might be supposed capable of. ToEllen there was something hideous in the sound of her own name spoken bythose hateful lips; but he had a sovereign right so to address her, nowand for evermore. Was she not his goods, his chattels, bought with aprice, as much as a horse at a fair?

That nothing might be wanting to remind her of the sordid bargain, Mr. Whitelaw drew a small canvas bag from his pocket presently--a bag whichgave forth that pleasant chinking sound that is sweet to the ears of somany as the music of gold--and handed it across the hearth to WilliamCarley. 

"I'm as good as my word, you see, " he said with a complacent air ofpatronage. "There's the favour you asked me for; I'll take your IOU forit presently, if it's all the same to you--as a matter of form--and to begiven back to you upon my wedding-day. "

The bailiff nodded assent, and dropped the bag into his pocket with asigh of relief. And then the two men went on smoking their pipes in theusual stolid way, dropping out a few words now and then by way of socialconverse; and there was nothing in Mr. Whitelaw's manner to remind Ellenthat she had bound herself to the awful apprenticeship of marriagewithout love. But when he took his leave that night he approached herwith such an evident intention of kissing her as could not be mistaken bythe most inexperienced of maidens. Poor Ellen indulged in no girlishresistance, no pretty little comedy of alarm and surprise, butsurrendered her pale lips to the hateful salute with the resignation of amartyr. It was better that she should suffer this than that her fathershould go to gaol. That thought was never absent from her mind. Nor wasthis sacrifice to filial duty quite free from the leaven of selfishness. For her own sake, as much as for her father's, Ellen Carley would havesubmitted to any penalty rather than disgrace. To have him branded as athief must needs be worse suffering than any life-long penance she mightendure in matrimony. To lose Frank Randall's love was less than to lethim learn her father's guilt. 

"The daughter of a thief!" she said to herself. "How he would despisehimself for having ever loved me, if he knew me to be that!"

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

COMING ROUND. 

Possessed with a thorough distrust of Mr. Medler and only half satisfiedas to the fact of Marian's safety, Gilbert Fenton lost no time in seekingprofessional aid in the work of investigating this perplexing socialmystery. He went once more to the metropolitan detective who had beenwith him in Hampshire, and whose labours there had proved so futile. Thetask now to be performed seemed easy enough. Mr. Proul (Proul was thename of the gentleman engaged by Gilbert) had only to discover thewhereabouts of Percival Nowell; a matter of no great difficulty, Gilbertimagined, since it was most likely that Marian's father had frequentpersonal communication with the lawyer; nor was it improbable that hewould have business with his agent or representative, Mr. Tulliver, inQueen Anne's Court. Provided with these two addresses, Gilbert fanciedthat Mr. Proul's work must needs be easy enough. 

That gentleman, however, was not disposed to make light of the dutycommitted to him; whether from a professional habit of exaggerating theimportance of any mission undertaken by him, or in perfect singleness ofmind, it is not easy to say. 

"It's a watching business, you see sir, " he told Gilbert, "and is prettysure to be tedious. I may put a man to hang about this Mr. Medler'sbusiness all day and every day for a month at a stretch, and he may misshis customer at the last, especially as you can't give me any kind ofdescription of the man you want. "

"Surely your agent could get some information out of Medler's clerk; it'sin his trade to do that kind of thing, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, sir; I don't deny that I might put a man on to the clerk, andit might answer. On the other hand, such a gentleman's clerk would belikely to be uncommon well trained and uncommon little trusted. "

"But we want to know so little, " Gilbert exclaimed impatiently; "onlywhere this man lives, and who lives with him. "

"Yes, " murmured Mr. Proul, rubbing his chin thoughtfully; "it ain't much, as you say, and it might be got out of the clerk, if the clerk knows it;but as to Mrs. Holbrook having got away from Hampshire and come toLondon, that's more than I can believe. I worked that business harder andcloser than ever I worked any business yet. You told me to spare neithermoney nor time, and I didn't spare either; though it was more a questionof time than money, for my expenses were light enough, as you know. Idon't believe Mrs. Holbrook could have got away from Malsham station upto the time when I left Hampshire. I'm pretty certain she couldn't haveleft the place any other way than by rail; I'm more than certain shecouldn't have been living anywhere in the neighbourhood when I washunting for her. In short, it comes to this--I stick to my old opinion, that the poor lady was drowned in Malsham river. "

This was just what Gilbert, happily for his own peace, could not bringhimself to believe. He was ready to confide in Mr. Medler as a model oftruth and honesty, rather than admit the possibility of Marian's death. 

"We have this man Medler's positive assertion, that Mrs. Holbrook is withher father, you see, Mr. Proul, " he said doubtfully. 

"_That_ for Medler's assertion!" exclaimed the detective contemptuously;"there are lawyers in London who will assert anything for aconsideration. Let him produce the lady; and if he does produce her, Igive him leave to say that Thomas Henry Proul is incapable of hisbusiness; or, putting it in vulgar English, that T. H. P. Is a duffer. Ofcourse I shall carry out any business you like to trust me with, Mr. Fenton, and carry it out thoroughly. I'll set a watch upon Mr. Medler'soffices, and I'll circumvent him by means of his clerk, if I can; butit's my rooted conviction that Mrs. Holbrook never left Hampshire. "

This was discouraging; and with that ready power to adapt itself tocircumstances which is a distinguishing characteristic of the human mind, Gilbert Fenton began to entertain a very poor opinion of the worthyProul's judgment. But not knowing any better person whose aid he couldenlist in this business, he was fain to confide his chances of success tothat gentleman, and to wait with all patience for the issue of events. Much of this dreary interval of perpetual doubt and suspense was spentbeside John Saltram's sick bed. There were strangely mingled feelings inthe watcher's breast; a pitying regret that struggled continually withhis natural anger; a tender remembrance of past friendship, which hedespised as a shameful weakness in his nature, but could not banish fromhis mind, as he sat in the stillness of the sick-room, watching thehelpless creature who had once kept as faithful a vigil for him. 

To John Saltram's recovery he looked also as to his best chance ofrestoring Marian to her natural home. The influence that he himself waspowerless to bring to bear upon Percival Nowell's daughter might beeasily exerted by her husband. 

"She was lured away from him, perhaps, by some specious lie of herfather's, some cruel slander of the husband. There had been bitter wordsbetween them. Saltram has betrayed as much in his wandering talk; but tothe last there was no feeling but love for him in her heart. Ellen Carleyis my witness for that; nothing less than some foul lie could havetempted her away from him. "

In the meantime, pending the sick man's recovery, the grand point was todiscover the whereabouts of Marian and her father; and for this discoveryGilbert was compelled to trust to the resources of the accomplishedProul. So eager was he for the result, that if be could have kept a watchupon Mr. Medler's office with his own eyes, he would have done so; butthis being out of the question, and the more prudent course a completeavoidance of the lawyer's neighbourhood, he could only await the resultof his paid agent's researches, in the hope that Mr. Nowell was still inLondon, and would have need of frequent communication with his latefather's solicitor. The first month of the year dragged itself slowly toan end, and the great city underwent all those pleasing alternations, from snow to mud, from the slipperiness of a city paved with plate-glassto the sloppiness of a metropolis ankle-deep in a rich brown compound ofabout the consistency and colour of mock-turtle soup, which are commonto great cities at this season; and still John Saltram lingered on in theshabby solitude of his Temple chambers, slowly mending, Mr. Mew declared, towards the end of the month, and in a fair way towards recovery. Thetime came at last when the fevered mind began to cease from its perpetualwanderings; when the weary brain, sorely enfeebled by its long intervalof unnatural activity, dropped suddenly into a state of calm that wasakin to apathy. 

The change came with an almost alarming suddenness. It was at thebeginning of February, close upon the dead small hours of a bleak windynight, and Gilbert was keeping watch alone in the sick-room, while theprofessional nurse slept comfortably on the sofa in the sitting-room. Itwas his habit now to spend the early part of the night in such duty asthis, and to go home to bed between four and five in the morning, atwhich time the nurse was ready to relieve guard. 

He had been listening to the dismal howling of the winds, threateningdamage to neighbouring chimney-pots of rickety constitution, and thinkingidly of the men that had come and gone amidst those old buildings, andhow few amongst them all had left any mark behind them; inclined tospeculate too how many of them had been men capable of better work thanthey had done, only carelessly indifferent to the doing of it, like himwho lay on that bed yonder, with one muscular arm, powerful even in itswasted condition, thrown wearily above his head, and an undefinable look, that seemed half pain, half fatigue, upon his haggard face. 

Suddenly, while Gilbert Fenton was meditating in this idle desultorymanner, the sleeper awakened, looked full at him, and called him by hisname. 

"Gilbert, " he said very quietly, "is it really you?"

It was the first time, in all his long watches by that bed, that JohnSaltram had recognised him. The sick man had talked of him often in hisdelirium; but never before had he looked his former friend in the facewith one ray of recognition in his own. An indescribable thrill of painwent through Gilbert's heart at the sound of that calm utterance of hisname. How sweet it would have been to him, what a natural thing it wouldhave seemed, to have fallen upon his old friend's breast and wept aloudin the deep joy of this recovery! But they were friends no longer. He hadto remember how base a traitor this man had been to him. 

"Yes, John, it is I. "

"And you have been here for a long time. O God, how many months have Ibeen lying here? The time seems endless; and there have been so manypeople round me--a crowd of strange faces--all enemies, all against me. And people in the next room--that was the worst of all. I have neverseen them, but I have always known that they were there. They could notdeceive me as to that--hiding behind that door, and watching me as I layhere. You might have turned them out, Gilbert, " he added peevishly; "itseems a hard thing that you could let them stay there to torment me. "

"There has been no one in either of the rooms, John; no one but myselfand the hired nurse, the doctors, and Mrs. Pratt now and then. Thesepeople have no existence out of your sick fancy. You have been, very ill, delirious, for a long time. I thank God that your reason has beenrestored to you; yes, I thank God with all my heart for that. "

"Have I been mad?" the other asked. 

"Your mind has wandered. But that has passed at last with the fever, asthe doctors hoped it might. You are calm now, and must try to keepyourself quiet; there must be no more talk between us to-night. "

The sick man took no notice of this injunction; but for the time was notdisobedient, and lay for some minutes staring at the watcher's face witha strange half-vacant smile upon his own. 

"Gilbert, " he said at last, "what have they done with my wife? Why hasshe been kept away from me?"

"Your wife? Marian?"

"Yes Marian. You know her name, surely. Did she know that I was ill, andyet stayed away from me?"

"Was her place here, John Saltram?--that poor girl whom you married undera false name, whom you tried to hide from all the world. Have you everbrought her here? Have you ever given her a wife's license, or a wife'splace? How many lies have you not told to hide that which any honest manwould have been proud to confess to all the world?"

"Yes, I have lied to you about her, I have hidden my treasure. But it wasfor your sake, Gilbert; it was for the sake of our old friendship. Icould not hear to lose you; I could not bear to stand revealed before youas the weak wretch who betrayed your trust and stole your promised wife. Yes, Gilbert, I have been guilty beyond all measure. I have looked you inthe face and told you lies. I wanted to keep you for my friend; I couldnot stand the thought of a life-long breach between us. Gilbert, oldfriend, have pity on me. I was weak--wicked, if you like--but I loved youvery dearly. "

He stretched out his bony hand with an appealing gesture, but it was nottaken. Gilbert sat with his head turned away, his face hidden from thesick man. 

"Anything would have been better than the course you chose, " he said atlast in a very quiet voice. "If she loved you better than me--than me, who would have thought it so small a thing to lay down my life for herhappiness, or to stand aloof and keep the secret of my broken heart whileI blest her as the cherished wife of another--if you had certain reasonto be sure she loved you, you should have asserted your right to claimher love like a man, and should have been prompt to tell me the bittertruth. I am a man, and would have borne the blow as a man should bear it. But to sneak into my place behind my back, to steal her away from me, tomarry her under a false name--a step that might go far to invalidate themarriage, by the way--and then leave me to piece-out the broken story, syllable by syllable, to suffer all the torture of a prolonged suspense, all the wasted passion of anger and revenge against an imaginary enemy, to find at last that the man I had loved and trusted, honoured andadmired beyond all other men throughout the best years of my life, wasthe man who had struck this secret blow--it was the conduct of a villainand a coward, John Saltram. I have no words to speak my contempt for sobase a betrayal. And when I remember your pretended sympathy, yourfriendly counsel--O God! it was the work of a social Judas; nothing waswanted but the kiss. "

"Yes, " the other answered with a faint bitter laugh; "it was very bad. Once having began, you see, it was but to add one lie to another. Anything seemed better than to tell you the truth. I fancied yourdevotion for Marian would wear itself out much sooner than it did--thatyou would marry some one else; and then I thought, when you were happy, and had forgotten that old fancy, I would have confessed the truth, andtold you it was your friend who was your rival. It might have seemed easyto you to forgive me under those happier circumstances, and so our oldfriendship might never have been broken. I waited for that, Gilbert. Don't suppose that it was not painful to me to act so base a part; don'tsuppose that I did not suffer. I did--in a hundred ways. You have seenthe traces of that slow torture in my face. In every way I had sinnedfrom my weak desire to win my love and yet keep my friend; and God knowsthe burden of my sin has been heavy upon me. I will tell you some day--ifever I am strong enough for so many words, and if you will hear me outpatiently--the whole story of my temptation; how I struggled against it, and only gave way at last when life seemed insupportable to me withoutthe woman I loved. "

After this he lay quiet again for some minutes, exhausted by havingspoken so long. All the factitious strength, which had made him loud andviolent in his delirium, was gone; he seemed as weak as a sick child. 

"Where is she?" he asked at last; "why doesn't she come to me? You havenot answered that question. "

"I have told you that her place is not here, " Gilbert replied evasively. "You have no right to expect her here, never having given her the rightto come. "

"No; it is my own fault. She is in Hampshire still, I suppose. Poor girl, I would give the world to see her dear face looking down at me. I mustget well and go back to her. When shall I be strong enough totravel?--to-morrow, or if not to-morrow, the next day; surely the nextday--eh, Gilbert?"

He raised himself in the bed in order to read the answer in Gilbert'sface, but fell back upon the pillows instantly, exhausted by the effort. Memory had only returned to him in part. It was clear that he hadforgotten the fact of Marian's disappearance, --a fact of which he hadseemed half-conscious long ago in his delirium. 

"How did you find out that Marian was my wife?" he asked presently, withperfect calmness. "Who betrayed my secret?"

"Your own lips, in your delirious talk of her, which has been incessant;and if collateral evidence were needed to confirm your words, this, whichI found the other day marking a place in your Shakespeare. "

Gilbert took a scrap of ribbon from his breast, a ribbon with a blueground and a rosebud on it, --a ribbon which he had chosen himself forMarian, in the brief happy days of their engagement. 

John Saltram contemplated the scrap of colour with a smile that was halfsombre, half ironical. 

"Yes, it was hers, " he said; "she wore it round that slim swan's throatof hers; and one morning, when I was leaving her in a particularly weakframe of mind, I took it from her neck and brought it away in my bosom, for the sake of having something about me that she had worn; and then Iput it in the book, you see, and forgot all about it. A fitting emblem ofmy love--full of passion and fervour to-day, at the point of deathto-morrow. There have been times when I would have given the world toundo what I had done, when my life seemed blighted by this foolishmarriage; and again, happier moments, when my wife was all the universeto me, and I had not a thought or a dream beyond her. God bless her! Youwill let me go to her, Gilbert, the instant I am able to travel, as soonas I can drag myself anyhow from this bed to the railway? You will notstand between me and my love?"

"No, John Saltram; God knows, I have never thought of that. "

"And you knew I was a traitor--you knew it was my work that had destroyedyour scheme of happiness--and yet have been beside me, watching mepatiently through this wretched illness?"

"That was a small thing to do You did as much, and a great deal more, for me, when I was ill in Egypt. It was a mere act of duty. "

"Not of friendship. It was Christian charity, eh, Gilbert? If thine enemyhunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; and so on. It was not theact of a friend?"

"No, John Saltram, between you and me there can never again be any suchword as friendship. What little I have done for you I think I would havedone for a stranger, had I found a stranger as helpless and unfriended asI found you. I am quite sure that to have done less would have been toneglect a sacred duty. There is no question of obligation. Till you areon your feet again, a strong man, I will stand by you; when that timecomes, we part for ever. "

John Saltram sank back upon his pillow with a heavy sigh, but uttered noprotest against this sentence. And this was all that came of Gilbert'svengeful passion against the man who had wronged him; this was the end ofa long-cherished anger. "A lame and impotent conclusion, " perhaps, butsurely the only end possible under the circumstances. He could not wagewar against a feeble creature, whose hold on life was still anuncertainty; he could not forget his promise to Marian, that no harmshould come to her husband through any act of his. So he sat quietly bythe bedside of his prostrate foe, watched him silently as he fell into abrief restless slumber, and administered his medicine when he woke with ahand that was as gentle as a woman's. 

Between four and five o'clock the nurse came in from the next room totake her place, refreshed by a sleep of several hours; and then Gilbertdeparted in the chill gloom of the winter's morning, still as dark asnight, --departed with his mind lightened of a great load; for it had beenvery terrible to him to think that the man who had once been his friendmight go down to the grave without an interval of reason. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A FULL CONFESSION. 

Gilbert did not go to the Temple again till he had finished his day'swork at St. Helen's, and had eaten his modest dinner at a tavern inFleet-street. He found that Mr. Mew had already paid his second visit tothe sick-room, and had pronounced himself much relieved and delighted bythe favourable change. 

"I have no fear now, " he had said to the nurse. "It is now only aquestion of getting back the physical strength, which has certainlyfallen to a very low ebb. Perfect repose and an entire freedom from careare what we have to look to. "

This the nurse told Gilbert. "He has been very restless all day, " sheadded, "though I've done what I could to keep him quiet. But he worrieshimself, now that his senses have come back, poor gentleman; and it isn'teasy to soothe him any way. He keeps on wondering when he'll be wellenough to move, and so on, over and over again. Once, when I left theroom for a minute and went back again, I found him attempting to get outof bed--only to try his strength, he said. But he's no more strength thana new-born baby, poor soul, and it will be weeks before he's able tostir. If he worries and frets, he'll put himself back for a certainty;but I daresay you'll have more influence over him than I, sir, and thatyou may be able to keep him quiet. "

"I doubt that, " answered Gilbert; "but I'll do my best. Has he beendelirious to-day?"

"No, sir, not once; and of course that's a great thing gained. "

A feeble voice from the inner room called Gilbert by name presently, andhe went in at its bidding. 

"Is that you, Gilbert? Come in, for pity's sake. I was sure of the voice. So you have come on your errand of charity once more. I am very glad tosee you, though you are not my friend. Sit down, ministering Christian, sit by my side; I have some questions to ask you. "

"You must not talk much, John. The doctor insists upon perfecttranquillity. "

"He might just as well insist upon my making myself Emperor of all theRussias; one demand would be about as reasonable as the other. How longhave I been lying here like a log--a troublesome log, by the way; for Ifind from some hints the nurse dropped to-day as to the blessing of myrecovery, that I have been somewhat given to violence;--how long have Ibeen ill, Gilbert?"

"A very long time. "

"Give me a categorical answer. How many weeks and days?"

"You were taken ill about the middle of December, and we are now in thefirst week of February. "

"Nearly two months; and in all that time I have been idle--_ergo_, noremittances from publishers. How have I lived, Gilbert? How have thecurrent expenses of my illness been paid? And the children ofIsrael--have they not been clamorous? There was a bill due in January, Iknow. I was working for that when I got pulled up. How is it that my vilecarcass is not in their hands?"

"You need give yourself no trouble; the bill has been taken up. "

"By you, of course? Yes; you do not deny it. And you have been spendingyour money day by day to keep me alive. But then you would have done asmuch for a stranger. Great heaven, what a mean hound I seem to myself, asI lie here and think what you have done for me, and how I have actedtowards you!" He turned himself in his bed with a great effort, and laywith his face to the wall. "Let me hide my face from you, " he said; "I ama shameful creature. "

"Believe me, once more, there is not the faintest shadow of anobligation, " Gilbert responded eagerly; "I can very well afford anythingI have done; shall never feel myself the poorer for it by a sixpence. Icannot bear that these things should be spoken of between us. You knowhow often I have begged you to let me help you in the past, and howwounded I have been by your refusal. "

"Yes, when we were friends, before I had ever wronged you. If I had takenyour help then, I should hardly have felt the obligation. But, stay, I amnot such a pauper as I seem. My wife will have money; at least you toldme that the old man was rich. "

"Yes, your wife will have money, plenty of money. You have no need totrouble yourself about financial matters. You have only to consider whatthe doctor has said. Your recovery depends almost entirely upon yourtranquillity of mind. If you want to get well speedily, you must rememberthis. "

"I do want to get well. I am in a fever to get well; I want to see mywife. But my recovery will be evidently a tedious affair. I cannot waitto see her till I am strong enough to travel. Why should she not come tome here? She can--she must come. Write to her, Gilbert; tell her how Ilanguish for her presence; tell her how ill I have been. "

"Yes; I will write by and by. "

"By and by! Your tone tells me that you do not mean what you say. Thereis something you are keeping from me. O, my God, what was that happenedbefore I was ill? My wife was missing. I was hunting for her without restfor nearly a week; and then they told me she was drowned, that there wasno hope of finding her. Was that real, Gilbert? or only a part of mydelirium? Speak to me, for pity's sake. Was it real?"

"Yes, John; your perplexity and trouble were real, but unnecessary; yourwife is safe. "

"Safe? Where?"

"She is with her father. "

"She did not even know that her father was living. "

"No, not till very lately. He has come home from America, it seems, andMarian is now under his protection. "

"What! she could desert me without a word of warning--without thefaintest hint of her intention--to go to a father of whom she knewnothing, or nothing that was not eminently to his discredit!"

"There may have been some strong influence brought to bear to induce herto take such a step. "

"What influence?"

"Do not worry yourself about that now; make all haste to get well, andthen it will be easy for you to win her back. "

"Yes; only place me face to face with her, and I do not think there wouldbe much question as to that. But that she should forsake me of her ownfree will! It is so unlike my Marian--my patient, long-suffering Marian;I can scarcely believe such a thing possible. But that question can soonbe put at rest. Write to her, Gilbert; tell her that I have been atdeath's door; that my chance of recovery hangs upon her will. Father orno father, _that_ will bring her to my side. "

"I will do so, directly I know her address. "

"You do not know where she is?"

"Not yet. I am expecting to obtain that information every day. I havetaken measures to ascertain where she is. "

"And how do you know that she is with her father?"

"I have the lawyer's authority for that; a lawyer whom the old man, JacobNowell, trusted, whom he left sole executor to his will. "

It was necessary above all things that John Saltram's mind should be setat rest; and in order to secure this result Gilbert was fain to affect asupreme faith in Mr. Medler. 

"You believe this man, Gilbert?" the invalid asked anxiously. 

"Of course. He has no reason for deceiving me. "

"But why withhold the father's address?"

"It is easy enough to conjecture his reasons for that; a dread of yourinfluence robbing him of his daughter. Her fortune has made her a prizeworth disputing, you see. It is natural enough that the father shouldwish to hide her from you. "

"For the sake of the money?--yes, I suppose that is the beginning and endof his scheme. My poor girl! No doubt he has told her all manner of liesabout me, and so contrived to estrange that faithful heart. Will youinsert an advertisement in the _Times_, Gilbert, under initials, tellingher of my illness, and entreating her to come to me?"

"I will do so if you like; but I daresay Nowell will be cautious enoughto keep the advertisement-sheet away from her, or to watch it prettyclosely, and prevent her seeing anything we may insert. I am taking meansto find them, John I, must entreat you to rest satisfied with that. "

"Rest satisfied, --when I am uncertain whether I shall ever see my wifeagain! That is a hard thing to do. "

"If you harass yourself, you will not live to see her again. Trust in me, John; Marian's safety is as dear to me as it can be to you. I am hersworn friend and brother, her self-appointed guardian and defender. Ihave skilled agents at work; we shall find her, rely upon it. "

It was a strange position into which Gilbert found himself drifting; theconsoler of this man who had so basely robbed him. They could never befriends again, these two; he had told himself that, not once, but manytimes during the weary hours of his watching beside John Saltram'ssick-bed. They could never more be friends; and yet he found himself in amanner compelled to perform the offices of friendship. Nor was it easy topreserve anything like the neutral standing which he had designed forhimself. The life of this sometime friend of his hung by so frail a link, he had such utter need of kindness; so what could Gilbert do but consolehim for the loss of his wife, and endeavour to inspire him with a hopefulspirit about her? What could he do less than friendship would have done, although his affection for this old friend of his youth had perished forevermore? The task of consolation was not an easy one. Once restored tohis right mind, with a vivid sense of all that had happened to him beforehis illness, John Saltram was not to be beguiled into a false security. The idea that his wife was in dangerous hands pursued him perpetually, and the consciousness of his own impotence to rescue her goaded him to akind of mental fever. 

"To be chained here, Gilbert, lying on this odious bed like a dog, whenshe needs my help! How am I to bear it?"

"Like a man, " the other answered quietly. "Were you as well as I am thismoment, there's nothing you could do that I am not doing. Do you think Ishould sit idly here, if the best measures had not been taken to findyour wife?"

"Forgive me. Yes; I have no doubt you have done what is best. But if Iwere astir, I should have the sense of doing something. I could urge onthose people you employ, work with them even. "

"You would be more likely to hinder than to assist them. They know theirwork, and it is a slow drudging business at best, which requires morepatience than you possess. No, John, there is nothing to be done but towait, and put our trust in Providence and in time. "

This was a sermon which Gilbert Fenton had occasion to preach very oftenin the slow weary days that followed John Saltram's recovery of his rightsenses. The sick man, tossing to and fro upon the bed he loathed withsuch an utter loathing, could not refrain from piteous bewailings of hishelplessness. He was not a good subject for sickness, had never servedhis apprenticeship to a sick-bed until now, and the ordeal seemed to hima very long one. In all that period of his delirious wanderings there hadbeen an exaggerated sense of time in his mind. It seemed to him that hehad been lying there for years, lost in a labyrinth of demented fancies. Looking back at that time, now that his reason had been restored to him, he was able to recall his delusions one by one, and it was very difficultfor him to understand, even now, that they were all utterly groundless, the mere vagabondage of a wandering brain; that the people he had fanciedclose at hand, lurking in the next room--he had rarely seen them closeabout his bed, but had been possessed with a vivid sense of theirneighbourhood--had been never near him; that the old friends andassociates of his boyhood, who had been amongst these fancied visitors, were for the greater number dead and passed away long before this time;that he had been, in every dream and every fancy of that weary interval, the abject slave of his own hallucinations. Little by little his strengthcame back to him by very slow degrees--so slowly, indeed, that theprocess of recovery might have sorely tried the patience of any man lesspatient than Gilbert. There came a day at last when the convalescent wasable to leave his bed for an hour or so, just strong enough to crawl intothe sitting-room with the help of Gilbert's arm, and to sit in aneasy-chair, propped up by pillows, very feeble of aspect, and with a wanhaggard countenance that pleaded mutely for pity. It was impossible toharbour revengeful feelings against a wretch so stricken. 

Mr. Mew was much elated by this gradual improvement in his patient, andconfessed to Gilbert, in private, that he had never hoped for so happy aresult. "Nothing but an iron constitution, and your admirable care, couldhave carried our friend through such an attack, sir, " he said decisively. "And now that we are getting round a little, we must have change ofair--change of air and of scene; that is imperatively necessary. Mr. Saltram talks of a loathing for these rooms; very natural under thecircumstances. We must take him away directly he can bear the removal. "

"I rather doubt his willingness to stir, " Gilbert answered, thoughtfully. "He has anxieties that are likely to chain him to London. "

"If there is any objection of that kind it must be conquered, " Mr. Mewsaid. "A change will do your friend more good than all the physic I cangive him. "

"Where would you advise me to take him?"

"Not very far. He couldn't stand the fatigue of a long journey. I shouldtake him to some quiet little place near town--the more countrified thebetter. It isn't a very pleasant season for the country; but in spite ofthat, the change will do him good. "

Gilbert promised to effect this arrangement, as soon as the patient waswell enough to be moved. He would run down to Hampton or Kingston, hetold Mr. Mew, in a day or two, and look for suitable lodgings. 

"Hampton or Kingston by all means, " replied the surgeon cheerily. "Bothvery pleasant places in their way, and as mild as any neighbourhoodwithin easy reach of town. Don't go too near the water, and be sure yourrooms are dry and airy--that's the main point. We might move him earlynext week, I fancy; if we get him up for an hour or two every day in theinterval. "

Gilbert had kept Mrs. Branston very well informed as to John Saltram'sprogress, and that impetuous little woman had sent a ponderous retainerof the footman species to the Temple daily, laden now with hothousegrapes, and anon with dainty jellies, clear turtle-soups, or delicatepreparations of chicken, blancmanges and iced drinks; the conveyancewhereof was a sore grievance to the ponderous domestic, in spite of allthe aid to be derived from a liberal employment of cabs. Adela Branstonhad sent these things in defiance of her outraged kinswoman, Mrs. Pallinson, who was not slow to descant upon the impropriety of such aproceeding. 

"I wonder you can talk in such a way, when you know how friendless thispoor Mr. Saltram is, and how little trouble it costs me to do as much asthis for him. But I daresay the good Samaritan had some one at home whoobjected to the waste of that twopence he paid for the poor traveller. "

Mrs. Pallinson gave a little shriek of horror on hearing this allusion, and protested against so profane a use of the gospel. 

"But the gospel was meant to be our guide in common things, wasn't it, Mrs. Pallinson? However, there's not the least use in your being angry;for I mean to do what I can for Mr. Saltram, and there's no one in theworld could turn me from my intention. "

"Indeed!" cried the elder lady, indignantly; "and when he recovers youmean to marry him, I daresay. You will be weak enough to throw away yourfortune upon a profligate and a spendthrift, a man who is certain to makeany woman miserable. "

And hereupon there arose what Sheridan calls "a very pretty quarrel"between the two ladies, which went very near to end in Mrs. Pallinson'stotal withdrawal from Cavendish-square. Very nearly, but not quite, tothat agreeable consummation did matters proceed; for, on the very vergeof the final words which could have spoken the sentence of separation, Mrs. Pallinson was suddenly melted, and declared that nothing, nooutrage of her feelings--"and heaven knows how they have been trodden onthis day, " the injured matron added in parenthesis--should induce her todesert her dearest Adela. And so there was a hollow peace patched up, andMrs. Branston felt that the blessings of freedom, the delightful reliefof an escape from Pallinsonian influences, were not yet to be hers. Directly she heard from Gilbert that change of air had been ordered forthe patient, she was eager to offer her villa near Maidenhead for hisaccommodation. "The house is always kept in apple-pie order, " she wroteto Gilbert; "and I can send down more servants to make everythingcomfortable for the invalid. "

"I know he is fond of the place, " she added in conclusion, after settingout all the merits of the villa with feminine minuteness; "at least Iknow he used to like it, and I think it would please him to get wellthere. I can only say that it would make _me_ very happy; so do arrangeit, dear Mr. Fenton, if possible, and oblige yours ever faithfully, ADELABRANSTON. "

"Poor little woman, " murmured Gilbert, as he finished the letter. "No; wewill not impose upon her kindness; we will go somewhere else. Better forher that she should see and hear but little of John Saltram for all timeto come; and then the foolish fancy will wear itself out perhaps, and shemay live to be a happy wife yet; unless she, too, is afflicted with thefatal capability of constancy. Is that such a common quality, I wonder?are there many so luckless as to love once and once only, and who, setting all their hopes upon one cast, lose all if that be fatal?"

Gilbert told John Saltram of Mrs. Branston's offer, which he was asprompt to decline as Gilbert himself had been. "It is like her to wishit, " he said; "but no, I should feel myself a double traitor and impostorunder her roof. I have done her wrong enough already. If I could haveloved her, Gilbert, all might have been well for you and me. God knows Itried to love her, poor little woman; and she is just the kind of womanwho might twine herself about any man's heart--graceful, pretty, gracious, tender, bright and intelligent enough for any man; and not tooclever. But _my_ heart she never touched. From the hour I saw that_other_, I was lost. I will tell you all about that some day. No; we willnot go to the villa. Write and give Mrs. Branston my best thanks for thegenerous offer, and invent some excuse for declining it; that's a goodfellow. "

By-and-by, when the letter was written, John Saltram said, --"I do notwant to go out of town at all, Gilbert. It's no use for the doctor totalk; I can't leave London till we have news of Marian. "

Gilbert had been prepared for this, and set himself to argue the pointwith admirable patience. Mr. Proul's work would go on just as well, heurged, whether they were in London or at Hampton. A telegram would bringthem any tidings as quickly in the one place as the other. "I am notasking you to go far, remember, " he added. "You will be within an hour'sjourney of London, and the doctors declare this change is indispensableto your recovery. You have told us what a horror you have of theserooms. "

"Yes; I doubt if any one but a sick man can understand his loathing ofthe scene of his illness. That room in there is filled with the shadowsthat haunted me in all those miserable nights--when the fever was at itsworst, and I lived amidst a crowd of phantoms. Yes, I do most profoundlyhate that room. As for this matter of change of air, Gilbert, dispose ofme as you please; my worthless existence belongs to you. "

Gilbert was quick to take advantage of this concession. He went down toHampton next day, and explored the neighbourhood on both sides of theThames. His choice fell at last on a pretty little house within a stone'sthrow of the Palace gates, the back windows whereof looked out upon thenow leafless solitude of Bushy Park, and where there was acomfortable-looking rosy-faced landlady, whose countenance was verypleasant to contemplate after the somewhat lachrymose visage of Mrs. Pratt. Here he found he could have all the accommodation he required, andhither he promised to bring the invalid early in the following week. 

There were as yet no tidings worth speaking of from Mr. Proul. Thatdistinguished member of the detective profession waited upon GilbertFenton with his budget twice a week, but the budget was a barren one. Mr. Proul's agent pronounced Mr. Medler's clerk the toughest individual ithad ever been his lot to deal with. No amount of treating at thepublic-house round the corner--and the agent had ascended from theprimitive simplicity of a pint of porter to the highest flights in theart of compound liquors--could exert a softening influence upon thatrigid nature. Either the clerk knew nothing about Percival Nowell, or hadbeen so well schooled as to disclose nothing of what he knew. Money hadbeen employed by the agent, as well as drink, as a means of temptation;but even every insidious hint of possible gains had failed to move theill-paid underling to any revelation. 

"It's my belief the man knows nothing, or else I should have had it outof him by hook or by crook, " Mr. Proul's agent told him, and Mr. Proulrepeated to his client. 

This first agent having thus come to grief, and having perhaps madehimself a suspected person in the eyes of the Medler office by hismanoeuvres, a second spy had been placed to keep close watch upon thehouse, and to follow any person who at all corresponded with thedetective idea of Mr. Nowell. It could be no more than an idea, unfortunately, since Gilbert had been able to give the accomplished Proulno description of the man he wanted to trace. Above all, the spy was totake special note of any lady who might be seen to enter or leave theoffice, and to this end he was furnished with a close description ofMarian. 

Gilbert called upon Mrs. Branston before carrying John Saltram out oftown; he fancied that her offer of the Maidenhead villa would be betteracknowledged personally than by a letter. He found the pretty littlewidow sorely disappointed by Mr. Saltram's refusal to occupy her house, and it was a little difficult to explain to her why they both preferredother quarters for the convalescent. 

"Why will he not accept the smallest favour from me?" Adela Branstonasked plaintively. "He ought to know that there is no _arrière pensée_ inany offer which I make him--that I have no wish except for his welfare. Why does he not trust me a little more?"

"He will do so in future, I think, Mrs. Branston, " Gilbert answeredgravely. "I fancy he has learned the folly and danger of all underhandpolicy, and that he will put more faith in his friends for the rest ofhis life. "

"And he is really much better, quite out of danger? Do the doctors saythat?"

"He is as much out of danger as a man can well be whose strength has allbeen wasted in a perilous illness. He has that to regain yet, and therecovery will be slow work. Of course in his condition a relapse would befatal; but there is no occasion to apprehend a relapse. "

"Thank heaven for that! And you will take care of him, Mr. Fenton, willyou not?"

"I will do my very best. He saved my life once; so you see that I owe hima life. "

The invalid was conveyed to Hampton on a bright February day, when therewas an agreeable glimpse of spring sunshine. He went down by road in ahired brougham, and the journey seemed a long one; but it was anunspeakable relief to John Saltram to see the suburban roads and greenfields after the long imprisonment of the Temple, --a relief that movedhim almost to tears in his extreme weakness. 

"Could you believe that a man would be so childish, Gilbert?" he saidapologetically. "It might have been a good thing for me to have died inthat dismal room, for heaven only knows what heavy sorrow lies before mein the future. Yet the eight of these common things touches me morekeenly than all the glory of the Jungfrau touched me ten years ago. Whata gay bright-looking world it is! And yet how many people are happy init? how many take the right road? I suppose there is a right road bywhich we all might travel, if we only knew how to choose it. "

He felt the physical weariness of the journey acutely, but uttered nocomplaint throughout the way; though Gilbert could see the pale facegrowing paler, the sunken cheeks more pinched of aspect, as they went on. To the last he pronounced himself delighted by that quiet progressthrough the familiar landscape; and then having reached his destination, had barely strength to totter to a comfortable chintz-covered sofa in thebright-looking parlour, where he fainted away. The professional nurse hadbeen dismissed before they left London, and Gilbert was now the invalid'sonly attendant. The woman had performed her office tolerably well, afterthe manner of her kind; but the presence of a sick nurse is not acheering influence, and John Saltram was infinitely relieved by herdisappearance. 

"How good you are to me, Gilbert!" he said, that first evening of hissojourn at Hampton, after he had recovered from his faint, and was lyingon the sofa sipping a cup of tea. "How good! and yet you are my friend nolonger; all friendship is at an end between us. Well, God knows I am ashelpless as that man who fell among thieves; I cannot choose but acceptyour bounty. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

AN ILL-OMENED WEDDING. 

After that promise wrung from her by such a cruel agony, that fatal bondmade between her and Stephen Whitelaw, Ellen Carley's life seemed totravel past her as if by some enchantment. Time lost its familiarsluggishness; the long industrious days, that had been so slow of old, flew by the bailiff's daughter like the shadows from a magic-lantern. Atthe first, after that desperate miserable day upon which the hatefulwords were uttered that were to bind her for life to a detested master, the girl had told herself that something must happen to prevent thecarrying out of this abhorrent bargain. Something would happen. She had avague faith that Providence would interfere somehow to save her. Dayafter day she looked into her father's face, thinking that from him, perhaps, might come some sign of wavering, some hint of possible release. Vain hope. The bailiff having exacted the sacrifice, pretended to thinkhis daughter's welfare secured by that very act. He did not hesitate tocongratulate her on her good fortune, and to protest, with an accustomedoath, that there was not a sensible woman in England who would not envyher so excellent a match. Once poor Ellen, always impetuous andplain-spoken, lost all patience with him, and asked how he dared to saysuch things. 

"You know that I hate this man, father!" she cried passionately; "andthat I hate myself for what I am going to do. You know that I havepromised to be his wife for your sake, for your sake only; and that if Icould have saved you from disgrace by giving you my life, I should havedone it gladly to escape this much greater sacrifice. Never speak to meabout Stephen Whitelaw again, father, unless you want to drive me mad. Let me forget what sin I am going to commit, if I can; let me go onblindfold. "

It was to be observed that from the hour, of her betrothal. Ellen Carleyas far as possible avoided her father's companionship. She worked morebusily than ever about the big old house, was never tired of polishingthe little-used furniture and dusting the tenantless bed-chambers; sheseemed, indeed, to be infected with Mrs. Tadman's passion for superhumancleanliness. To her dairy duties also she devoted much more time than ofold; anything to escape the parlour, where her father sat idle for aconsiderable portion of the day, smoking his pipe, and drinking rathermore than was good for him. Nor did Mr. Carley, for his part, appear todislike this tacit severance between his daughter and himself. As thefoolish young woman chose to accept good fortune in a perverse spirit, itwas well that they two should see as little of each other as possible. Every evening found Mr. Whitelaw a punctual visitor in the snug panelledparlour, and at such times the bailiff insisted upon his daughter'spresence; she was obliged to sit there night after night, stitchingmonotonously at some unknown calico garment--which might well from thestate of mind of the worker have been her winding-sheet; or darning oneof an inexhaustible basket of woollen stockings belonging to her father. It was her irksome duty to be there, ready to receive any awkwardcompliment of her silent lover's, ready to acquiesce meekly in his talkof their approaching wedding. But at all other times Mr. Carley was morethan content with her absence. 

At first the bailiff had made a feeble attempt to reconcile his daughterto her position by the common bribe of fine clothes. He had extorted asum of money from Stephen Whitelaw for this purpose, and had given thatsum, or a considerable part of it, to his daughter, bidding her expend itupon her wedding finery. The girl took the money, and spent a few poundsupon the furbishing-up of her wardrobe, which was by no means anextensive one; but the remaining ten-pound note she laid by in a secretplace, determined on no account to break in upon it. 

"The time may come when all my life will depend upon the possession of afew pounds, " she said to herself; "when I may have some chance of settingmyself free from that man. "

She had begun to contemplate such a possibility already, before herwedding-day. It was for her father's sake she was going to sell herliberty, to take upon herself a bondage most odious to her. The timemight come when her father would be beyond the reach of shame anddisgrace, when she might find some manner of escape from her slavery. 

In the meantime the days hurried on, and Providence offered her nopresent means of rescue. The day of doom came nearer and nearer; for thebailiff took part with his future son-in-law, and would hear of noreasons which Ellen could offer for delay. He was eager to squeeze thefarmer's well-filled purse a little tighter, and he fancied he might dothis when his daughter was Stephen Whitelaw's wife. So suitor and fatherwere alike pitiless, and the wedding was fixed for the 10th of March. There were no preparations to be made at Wyncomb Farmhouse. Mr. Whitelawdid not mean to waste so much as a five-pound note upon the embellishmentof those barely-furnished rooms in honour of his bright young bride;although Mrs. Tadman urged upon him the necessity of new muslin curtainshere, and new dimity there, a coat or so of paint and new whitewash insuch and such rooms, and other small revivals of the same character; notsorry to be able to remind him in this indirect manner that marriage wasan expensive thing. 

"A young woman like that will expect to see things bright and cheerfulabout her, " said Mrs. Tadman, in her most plausible tone, and rubbing herthin hands with an air of suppressed enjoyment. "If you were going tomarry a person of your own age, it would be different, of course; butyoung women have such extravagant notions. I could see Miss Carley didnot think much of the furniture when I took her over the house onnew-year's-day. She said the rooms looked gloomy, and that some of themgave her the horrors, and so on. If you don't have the place done up abit at first, you'll have to get it done at last, depend upon it; a youngwife like that will make the money spin, you may be sure. "

"Will she?" said Mr. Whitelaw, with a satisfied grin. "That's mylook-out. I don't think you've had very much chance of making my moneyspin, eh, Mrs. Tadman?"

The widow cast up her hands and eyes towards the ceiling of the parlourwhere they were sitting. 

"Goodness knows I've had precious little chance of doing that, StephenWhitelaw, " she replied. 

"I should reckon not; and my wife will have about as much. "

There was some cold comfort in this. Mrs. Tadman had once hoped that ifher cousin ever exalted any woman to the proud position of mistress ofWyncomb, she herself would be that favoured individual; and it was a hardthing to see a young person, who had nothing but a certain amount of goodlooks to recommend her, raised to that post of honour in her stead. Itwas some consolation, therefore, to discover that the interloper was toreign with very limited powers, and that none of the privileges orindulgences usually granted to youthful brides by elderly bridegroomswere to be hers. It was something, too, for Mrs. Tadman to be allowed toremain beneath the familiar shelter of that gloomy old house, and thisboon had been granted to her at Ellen's express request. 

"I suppose she's going to turn lazy as soon as she's married, or shewouldn't have wanted to keep you, " the farmer said in rather a sulkymanner, after he had given Mrs. Tadman his gracious permission to remainin his service. "But if she is, we must find some way of curing her ofthat. I don't want a fine lady about _my_ place. There's the dairy, now;we might do more in that way, I should think, and get more profit out ofbutter-making than we do by sending part of the milk up to London. Butterfetches a good price now-a-days from year's end to year's end, and Ellenis a rare hand at a dairy; I know that for certain. "

Thus did Mr. Whitelaw devote his pretty young wife to an endless prospectof butter-making. He had no intention that the alliance should be anunprofitable one, and he was already scheming how he might obtain someindirect kind of interest for that awful sum of two hundred poundsadvanced to William Carley. 

Sir David Forster had not come to make that threatened investigation ofthings at the Grange. Careless always in the management of his affairs, the receipt of a handsome sum of money from the bailiff had satisfiedhim, and he had suffered his suspicions to be lulled to rest for the timebeing, not caring to undertake the trouble of a journey to Hampshire, andan examination of dry business details. 

It was very lucky for Mr. Carley that his employer was so easy andindolent a master; for there were many small matters at the Grange whichwould have hardly borne inspection, and it would have been difficult forSir David to come there without making some discovery to his bailiff'sdisadvantage. The evil day had been warded off, however, by means ofStephen Whitelaw's money, and William Carley meant to act morecautiously, more honestly even, in future. He would keep clear ofrace-courses and gambling booths, he told himself, and of the kind of menwho had beguiled him into dishonourable dealing. 

"I have had an uncommon narrow squeak of it, " he muttered to himselfoccasionally, as he smoked a meditative pipe, "and have been as nearseeing the inside of Portland prison as ever a man was. But it'll be awarning to me in future. And yet who could have thought that things wouldhave gone against me as they did? There was Sir Philip Christopher's baycolt Pigskin, for instance; that brute was bound to win. "

February came to an end; and when March once began, there seemed no pauseor breathing-time for Ellen Carley till the 10th. And yet she had littlebusiness to occupy her during those bleak days of early spring. It wasthe horror of that rapid flight of time, which seemed independent of herown life in its hideous swiftness. Idle or busy, it was all the same. Thedays would not linger for her; the dreaded 10th was close at hand. 

Frank Randall was still in London, in that solicitor's office--a firm ofsome standing in the City--to which he had gone on leaving his father. Hehad written two or three times to Ellen since he left Hampshire, and shehad answered his letters secretly; but pleasant though it was to her tohear from him, she begged him not to write, as her father's anger wouldbe extreme if a letter should by any evil chance fall into his hands. Sowithin the last few months there had been no tidings of Ellen's absentlover, and the girl was glad that it was so. What could she have said tohim if she had been compelled to tell him of her engagement to StephenWhitelaw? What excuse could she have made for marrying a man about whomshe had been wont to express herself to Frank Randall in most unequivocalterms? Excuse there was none, since she could not betray her father. Itwas better, therefore, that young Randall should hear of her marriage inthe common course of things, and that he should think of her just asbadly as he pleased. This was only one more poisoned drop in a cup thatwas all bitterness. 

"He will believe that I was a hypocrite at heart always, " the unhappygirl said to herself, "and that I value Stephen Whitelaw's money morethan his true heart--that I can marry a man I despise and dislike for thesake of being rich. What can he think worse of me than that? and how canhe help thinking that? He knows that I have a good spirit of my own, andthat my father could not make me do anything against my will. He willnever believe that this marriage has been all my father's doing. "

The wedding morning came at last, bright and spring-like, with a sun thatshone as gaily as if it had been lighting the happiest union that wasever recorded in the hymeneal register. There were the first rareprimroses gleaming star-like amidst the early greenery of high grassybanks in solitary lanes about Crosber, and here and there the tender blueof a violet. It would have seemed a very fair morning upon which tobegin the first page in the mystic volume of a new life, if Ellen Carleyhad been going to marry a man she loved; but no hapless condemned wretchwho ever woke to see the sun shining upon the day of his execution couldhave been more profoundly wretched than the bailiff's daughter, as shedressed herself mechanically in her one smart silk gown, and stood in akind of waking trance before the quaint old-fashioned looking-glass whichreflected her pale hopeless face. She had no girlish companion to assistin that dismal toilet. Long ago there had been promises exchanged betweenEllen Carley and her chosen friend, the daughter of a miller who lived alittle way on the other side of Crosber, to the effect that whichever wasfirst to marry should call upon the other to perform the office ofbridesmaid; and Sarah Peters, the miller's daughter, was still single andeligible for the function. But there was to be no bridesmaid at thisblighted wedding. Ellen had pleaded urgently that things might bearranged as quietly as possible; and the master of Wyncomb, who hatedspending money, and who apprehended that the expenses of any festivitywould in all probability fall upon his own shoulders, was very wellpleased to assent to this request of his betrothed. 

"Quite right, Nell, " he said; "we don't want any foolish fuss, or a packof people making themselves drunk at our expense. You and your father cancome quietly to Crosber church, and Mrs. Tadman and me will meet youthere, and the thing's done. The marriage wouldn't be any the tighter ifwe had a hundred people looking on, and the Bishop of Winchester to readthe service. "

It was arranged in this manner, therefore; and on that pleasant springmorning William Carley and his daughter walked to the quiet village whereGilbert Fenton had discovered the secret of Marian's retreat. The faceunder the bride's little straw bonnet was deadly pale, and the featureshad a rigid look that was new to them. The bailiff glanced at hisdaughter in a furtive way every now and then, with an uneasy sense ofthis strange look in her face. Even in his brute nature there were somefaint twinges of compunction, now that the deed he had been so eager tocompass was well-nigh done--some vague consciousness that he had been ahard and cruel father. 

"And yet it's all for her own good, " he told himself, "quite as much asfor mine. Better to marry a rich man than a pauper any day; and to take adislike to a man's age or a man's looks is nothing but a girl's nonsense. The best husband is the one that can keep his wife best; and if I hadn'tforced on this business, she'd have taken up with lawyer Randall's son, who's no better than a beggar, and a pretty life she'd have had of itwith him. "

By such reasoning as this William Carley contrived to set his conscienceat rest during that silent walk along the rustic lane between the Grangeand Crosber church. It was not a conscience very difficult to appease. And as for his daughter's pallid looks, those of course were only naturalto the occasion. 

Mr. Whitelaw and Mrs. Tadman were at the church when the bailiff and hisdaughter arrived. The farmer had made a scarecrow of himself in a newsuit of clothes, which he had ordered in honour of this important event, after a great deal of vacillation, and more than one countermand to theMalsham tailor who made the garments. At the last he was not quite clearin his mind as to whether he wanted the clothes, and the outlay was aserious one. Mrs. Tadman had need to hold his every-day coat up to thelight to convince him that the collar was threadbare, and that thesleeves shone as if purposely polished by some ingenious process. 

"Marriage is an expensive thing, " she told him again, with a sigh; "andyoung girls expect to see a man dressed ever so smart on hiswedding-day. "

"I don't care for her expectations, " Mr. Whitelaw muttered, in reply tothis remark; "and if I don't want the clothes, I won't have 'em. Do youthink I could get over next Christmas with them as I've got?"

Mrs. Tadman said "No" in a most decisive manner. Perhaps she derived amalicious pleasure from the infliction of that tailor's bill upon hercousin Whitelaw. So the new suit had been finally ordered; and Stephenstood arrayed therein before the altar-rails in the gray old church atCrosber, a far more grotesque and outrageous figure to contemplate thanany knight templar, or bearded cavalier of the days of the first EnglishJames, whose effigies were to be seen in the chancel. Mrs. Tadman stood alittle way behind him, in a merino gown, and a new bonnet, extortedsomehow from the reluctant Stephen. She was full of smiles and cordialgreetings for the bride, who did not even see her. Neither did EllenCarley see the awkward figure of her bridegroom. A mist was before hereyes, as if there had been an atmosphere of summer blight or fog in thevillage church. She knelt, or rose, as her prayer-book taught her, andwent through the solemn service as placidly as if she had been a wondrouspiece of mechanism constructed to perform such movements; and then, likea creature in a dream, she found herself walking out of the churchpresently, with her hand on Stephen Whitelaw's arm. She had a faintconsciousness of some ceremony in the vestry, where it had taken Stephena long time to sign his name in the register, and where the clergyman hadcongratulated him upon his good fortune in having won for himself such apretty young wife; but it was all more or less like a dreadfuloppressive dream. Mr. Whitelaw's chaise-cart was waiting for them; andthey all four got in, and drove at once to Wyncomb; where there wasanother ponderous dinner, very much like the banquet of new-year's-day, and where the bailiff drank freely, after his wont, and grew somewhatuproarious towards tea-time, though Mr. Whitelaw's selections of port andsherry were not of a kind to tempt a connoisseur. 

There was to be no honeymoon trip. Stephen Whitelaw did not understandthe philosophy of running away from a comfortable home to spend money infurnished lodgings; and he had said as much, when the officious Tadmansuggested a run to Weymouth, or Bournemouth, or a fortnight in the Isleof Wight. To Ellen it was all the same where the rest of her life shouldbe spent. It could not be otherwise than wretched henceforward, and thescene of her misery mattered nothing. So she uttered no complaint becauseher husband brought her straight home to Wyncomb Farmhouse, and herwedded life began in that dreary dwelling-place. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A DOMESTIC MYSTERY. 

It was near the end of March, but still bleak cold weather. Ellen Carleyhad been married something less than a fortnight, and had come to lookupon the dismal old farm-house by the river with a more accustomed eyethan when Mrs. Tadman had taken her from room to room on a journey ofinspection. Not that the place seemed any less dreary and ugly to herto-day than it had seemed at the very first. Familiarity could not makeit pleasant. She hated the house and everything about and around it, asshe hated her husband, with a rooted aversion, not to be subdued by anyendeavour which she might make now and then--and she did honestly makesuch endeavour--to arrive at a more Christian-like frame of mind. 

Notwithstanding this deeply-seated instinctive dislike to all hersurroundings, she endured her fate quietly, and did her duty with apatient spirit which might fairly be accepted as an atonement for thoseinward rebellious feelings which she could not conquer. Having submittedto be the scapegoat of her father's sin, she bore her burden very calmly, and fulfilled the sacrifice without any outward mark of martyrdom. 

She went about the work of the farm-house with a resolute active air thatpuzzled Mrs. Tadman, who had fully expected the young wife would play thefine lady, and leave all the drudgery of the household to her. But itreally seemed as if Ellen liked hard work. She went from one task toanother with an indefatigable industry, an energy that never gave way. Only when the day's work in house and dairy was done did her depressionof spirits become visible. Then, indeed, when all was finished, and shesat down, neatly dressed for the afternoon, in the parlour with Mrs. Tadman, it was easy to see how utterly hopeless and miserable this youngwife was. The pale fixed face, the listless hands clasped loosely in herlap, every attitude of the drooping figure, betrayed the joyless spirit, the broken heart. At these times, when they were alone together, waitingStephen Whitelaw's coming home to tea, Mrs. Tadman's heart, not entirelyhardened by long years of self-seeking, yearned towards her kinsman'swife; and the secret animosity with which she had at first regarded herchanged to a silent pity, a compassion she would fain have expressed insome form or other, had she dared. 

But she could not venture to do this. There was something in the girl, aquiet air of pride and self-reliance, in spite of her too evidentsadness, which forbade any overt expression of sympathy; so Mrs. Tadmancould only show her friendly feelings in a very small way, by beingespecially active and brisk in assisting all the household labours of thenew mistress of Wyncomb, and by endeavouring to cheer her with such pettygossip as she was able to pick up. Ellen felt that the woman was kindlydisposed towards her, and she was not ungrateful; but her heart was quiteshut against sympathy, her sorrow was too profound to be lightened everso little by human friendship. It was a dull despair, a settledconviction that for her life could never have again a single charm, thather days must go on in their slow progress to the grave unlightened byone ray of sunshine, her burden carried to the end of the dreary journeyunrelieved by one hour of respite. It seemed very hard for one so young, not quite three-and-twenty yet, to turn her back upon every hope ofhappiness, to be obliged to say to herself, "For me the sun can nevershine again, the world I live in can never more seem beautiful, orbeautiful only in bitter contrast to my broken heart. " But Ellen toldherself that this fate was hers, and that she must needs face it with aresolute spirit. 

The household work employed her mind in some measure, and kept her, moreor less, from thinking; and it was for this reason she worked with suchunflinching industry, just as she had worked in the last month or two atthe Grange, trying to shut her eyes to that hateful future which lay soclose before her. Mr. Whitelaw had no reason to retract what he had saidin his pride of heart about Ellen Carley's proficiency in the dairy. Sheproved herself all that he had boasted, and the dairy flourished underthe new management. There was more butter, and butter of a superiorquality, sent to market than under the reign of Mrs. Tadman; and themaster of Wyncomb made haste to increase his stock of milch cows, inorder to make more money by this branch of his business. To have won forhimself a pretty young wife, who, instead of squandering his substance, would help him to grow richer, was indeed a triumph, upon which Mr. Whitelaw congratulated himself with many a suppressed chuckle as he wentabout his daily labours, or jogged slowly home from market in hischaise-cart. 

As to his wife's feelings towards himself, whether those were coldindifference or hidden dislike, that was an abstruse and remote questionwhich Mr. Whitelaw never took the trouble to ask himself. She was hiswife. He had won her, that was the grand point; whatever disinclinationshe might have felt for the alliance, whatever love she might havecherished for another, had been trampled down and subjugated, and he, Stephen Whitelaw, had obtained the desire of his heart. He had won her, against that penniless young jackanapes, lawyer Randall's son, who hadtreated him with marked contempt on more than one occasion when theyhappened to come across each other in Malsham Corn-exchange, which washeld in the great covered quadrangular courtyard of the chief inn atMalsham, and was a popular lounge for the inhabitants of that town. Hehad won her; her own sentiments upon the subject of this marriage were ofvery little consequence. He had never expected to be loved by his wife, his own ideas of that passion called love being of the vaguest; but hemeant to be obeyed by her. She had begun well, had taken her new dutiesupon herself in a manner that gladdened his sordid soul; and althoughthey had been married nearly a fortnight, she had given no hint of adesire to know the extent of his wealth, or where he kept any littlehoard of ready money that he might have by him in the house. Nor onmarket-day had she expressed any wish to go with him to Malsham to spendmoney on drapery; and he had an idea, sedulously cultivated by Mrs. Tadman, that young women were perpetually wanting to spend money atdrapers' shops. Altogether, that first fortnight of his married life hadbeen most satisfactory, and Mr. Whitelaw was inclined to regard matrimonyas a wise and profitable institution. 

The day's work was done, and Ellen was sitting with Mrs. Tadman in theevery-day parlour, waiting for the return of her lord and master fromMalsham. It was not a market-day, but Stephen Whitelaw had announced atdinner-time that he had an appointment at Malsham, and had set outimmediately after dinner in the chaise-cart, much to the wonderment ofMrs. Tadman, who was an inveterate gossip, and never easy until shearrived at the bottom of any small household mystery. She wondered not alittle also at Ellen's supreme indifference to her husband's proceedings. 

"I can't for the life of me think what's taken him to Malsham to-day, "she said, as she plied her rapid knitting-needles in the manufacture of agray-worsted stocking. "I haven't known him go to Malsham, except of amarket-day, not once in a twelvemonth. It must be a rare business to takehim there in the middle of the week; for he can't abide to leave the farmin working-hours, except when he's right down obliged to it. Nothing goeson the same when his back's turned, he says; there's always somethingwrong. And if it was an appointment with any one belonging to Malsham, why couldn't it have stood over till Saturday? It must be something outof the common that won't keep a couple of days. "

Mrs. Tadman went on with her knitting, gazing at Ellen with an expectantcountenance, waiting for her to make some suggestion. But the girl wasquite silent, and there was a blank expression in her eyes, which lookedout across the level stretch of grass between the house and the river, alook that told Mrs. Tadman very few of her words had been heard by hercompanion. It was quite disheartening to talk to such a person; but thewidow went on nevertheless, being so full of her subject that she mustneeds talk to some one, even if that some one were little better than astock or a stone. 

"There was a letter that came for Stephen before dinner to-day; he got itwhen he came in, but it was lying here for an hour first. Perhaps it wasthat as took him to Malsham; and yet that's strange, for it was a Londonletter--and it don't seem likely as any one could be coming down fromLondon to meet Steph at Malsham. I can't make top nor tail of it. "

Mrs. Tadman laid down her knitting, and gave the fire a vigorous stir. She wanted some vent for her vexation; for it was really too provoking tosee Ellen Whitelaw sitting staring out of the window like a lifelessstatue, and not taking the faintest interest in the mystery of herhusband's conduct. She stirred the fire, and then busied herself with thetea-table, giving a touch here and there where no re-arrangement waswanted, for the sake of doing something. 

The room looked comfortable enough in the cold light of the springafternoon. It was the most occupied room in the house, and the leastgloomy. The glow of a good fire brightened the scanty shabby furniture alittle, and the table, with its white cloth, homely flowered cups andsaucers, bright metal teapot, and substantial fare in the way of ham andhome-made bread, had a pleasant look enough in the eyes of any one comingin from a journey through the chill March atmosphere. Mr. Whitelaw'snotion of tea was a solid meal, which left him independent of thechances of supper, and yet open to do something in that way; in case anylight kickshaw, such as liver and bacon, a boiled sheep's head, or abeef-steak pie, should present itself to his notice. 

Ellen roused herself from her long reverie at last. There was the soundof wheels upon the cart-track across the wide open field in front of thehouse. 

"Here comes Mr. Whitelaw, " she said, looking out into the gathering dusk;"and there's some one with him. "

"Some one with him!" cried Mrs. Tadman. "Why, my goodness, who can thatbe?"

She ran to the window and peered eagerly out. The cart had driven up tothe door by this time, and Mr. Whitelaw and his companion were alighting. The stranger was rather a handsome man, Mrs. Tadman saw at the firstglance, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in dark-gray trousers, a shortpilot-coat, and a wide-awake hat; but with a certain style even in thisrough apparel which was not the style of agricultural Malsham, anunmistakable air that belongs to a dweller in great cities. 

"I never set eyes upon him before, " exclaimed Mrs. Tadman, aghast withwonder; for visitors at Wyncomb were of the rarest, and an unknownvisitor above all things marvellous. 

Mr. Whitelaw opened the house-door, which opened straight into a littlelobby between the two parlours. There was a larger door and a spaciousstone entrance-hall at one end of the house; but that door had not beenopened within the memory of man, and the hall was only used as astorehouse now-a-days. There was some little mumbling talk in the lobbybefore the two men came in, and then Mrs. Tadman's curiosity was relievedby a closer view of the stranger. 

Yes, he was certainly handsome, remarkably handsome even, for a man whoseyouth was past; but there was something in his face, a something sinisterand secret, as it were, which did not strike Mrs. Tadman favourably. Shecould not by any means have explained the nature of her sensations onlooking at him, but, as she said afterwards, she felt all in a momentthat he was there for no good. And yet he was very civil-spoken too, andaddressed both the ladies in a most conciliating tone, and with a kind offlorid politeness. 

Ellen looked at him, interested for the moment in spite of her apatheticindifference to all things. The advent of a stranger was something sorare as to awaken a faint interest in the mind most dead to impressions. She did not like his manner; there was something false and hollow in hisextreme politeness. And his face--what was it in his face that startledher with such a sudden sense of strangeness and yet of familiarity?

Had she ever seen him before? Yes; surely that was the impression whichsent such a sudden shook through her nerves, which startled her from herindifference into eager wonder and perplexity. Where had she seen himbefore? Where and when? Long ago, or only very lately? She could nottell. Yet it seemed to her that she had looked at eyes like those, notonce, but many times in her life. And yet the man was utterly strange toher. That she could have seen him before appeared impossible. It musthave been some one like him she had seen, then. Yes, that was it. It wasthe shadow of another face in his that had startled her with so strange afeeling, almost as if she had been looking upon some ghostly thing. Another face, like and yet unlike. 

But what face? whose face?

She could not answer that question, and her inability to solve the enigmatormented her all tea-time, as the stranger sat opposite to her, making apretence of eating heartily, in accordance with Mr. Whitelaw's hospitableinvitation, while that gentleman himself ploughed away with a steadypersistence that made awful havoc with the ham, and reduced the loaf in amanner suggestive of Jack the Giant-killer. 

The visitor presently ventured to remark that tea-drinking was not muchin his way, and that, if it were all the same to Mr. Whitelaw, he shouldprefer a glass of brandy-and-water; whereupon the brandy-bottle wasproduced from a cupboard by the fire-place, of which Stephen himself keptthe key, judiciously on his guard against a possible taste for ardentspirits developing itself in Mrs. Tadman. 

After this the stranger sat for some time, drinking coldbrandy-and-water, and staring moodily at the fire, without making thefaintest attempt at conversation, while Mr. Whitelaw finished his tea, and the table was cleared; and even after this, when the farmer had takenhis place upon the opposite side of the hearth, and seemed to be waitingfor his guest to begin business. 

He was not a lively stranger; he seemed, indeed, to have something on hismind, to be brooding upon some trouble or difficulty, as Mrs. Tadmanremarked to her kinsman's wife afterwards. Both the women watched him;Ellen always perplexed by that unknown likeness, which seemed sometimesto grow stronger, sometimes to fade away altogether, as she looked athim; Mrs. Tadman in a rabid state of curiosity, so profound was themystery of his silent presence. 

What was he there for? What could Stephen want with him? He was not oneof Stephen's sort, by any means; had no appearance of association withagricultural interests. And yet there he was, a silent inexplicablepresence, a mysterious figure with a moody brow, which seemed to growdarker as Mrs. Tadman watched him. 

At last, about an hour after the tea-table had been cleared, he rosesuddenly, with an abrupt gesture, and said, "Come, Whitelaw, if you mean to show me this house of yours, you may aswell show it to me at once. "

His voice had a harsh unpleasant sound as he said this. He stood with hisback to the women, staring at the fire, while Stephen Whitelaw lighted acandle in his slow dawdling way. 

"Be quick, man alive, " the stranger cried impatiently, turning sharplyround upon the farmer, who was trimming an incorrigible wick with a pairof blunted snuffers. "Remember, I've got to go back to Malsham; I haven'tall the night to waste. "

"I don't want to set my house afire, " Mr. Whitelaw answered sullenly;"though, perhaps, _you_ might like that. It might suit your book, yousee. "

The stranger gave a sudden shudder, and told the farmer with an angryoath to "drop that sort of insolence. "

"And now show the way, and look sharp about it, " he said in anauthoritative tone. 

They went out of the room in the next moment. Mrs. Tadman gazed afterthem, or rather at the door which had closed upon them, with a solemnawe-stricken stare. 

"I don't like the look of it, Ellen, " she said; "I don't at all like thelook of it. "

"What do you mean?" the girl asked indifferently. 

"I don't like the hold that man has got over Stephen, nor the way hespeaks to him--almost as if Steph was a dog. Did you hear him just now?And what does he want to see the house for, I should like to know? Whatcan this house matter to him, unless he was going to buy it? That's it, perhaps, Ellen. Stephen has been speculating, and has gone and ruinedhimself, and that strange man is going to buy Wyncomb. He gave me a kindof turn the minute I looked at him. And, depend upon it, he's come toturn us all out of house and home. "

Ellen gave a faint shudder. What if her father's wicked scheming were tocome to such an end as this! what if she had been sold into bondage, andthe master to whom she had been given had not even the wealth which hadbeen held before her as a bait in her misery! For herself she caredlittle whether she were rich or poor. It could make but a difference ofdetail in the fact of her unhappiness, whether she were mistress ofWyncomb or a homeless tramp upon the country roads. The workhouse withoutStephen Whitelaw must needs be infinitely preferable to Wyncomb Farm withhim. And for her father, it seemed only a natural and justifiable thingthat his guilt and his greed should be so punished. He had sold hisdaughter into life-long slavery for nothing but that one advance of twohundred pounds. He had saved himself from the penalty of his dishonesty, however, by that sacrifice; and would, no doubt, hold his daughter'smisery lightly enough, even if poverty were added to the wretchedness ofher position. 

The two women sat down on opposite sides of the hearth; Mrs. Tadman, tooanxious to go on with her accustomed knitting, only able to wring herhands in a feeble way, and groan every now and then, or from time to timeburst into some fragmentary speech. 

"And Stephen's just the man to have such a thing on his mind and keep itfrom everybody till the last moment, " she cried piteously. "And so manyspeculations as there are now-a-days to tempt a man to his ruin--railwaysand mines, and loans to Turks and Red Indians and such-like foreigners;and Steph might so easy be tempted by the hope of larger profits than hecan make by farming. "

"But it's no use torturing yourself like that with fears that may bequite groundless, " Ellen said at last, rousing herself a little in orderto put a stop to the wailing and lamentations of her companion. "There'sno use in anticipating trouble. There may be nothing in this businessafter all. Mr. Whitelaw may have a fancy for showing people his house. Hewanted me to see it, if you remember, that new-year's afternoon. "

"Yes; but that was different. He meant to marry you. Why should he wantto show the place to a stranger? I can't believe but what that strangeman is here for something, and something bad. I saw it in his face whenhe first came in. "

It was useless arguing the matter; Mrs. Tadman was evidently not to beshaken; so Ellen said no more; and they sat on in silence, each occupiedwith her own thoughts. 

Ellen's were not about Stephen Whitelaw's financial condition, but theywere very sad ones. She had received a letter from Frank Randall sinceher marriage; a most bitter letter, upbraiding her for her falsehood anddesertion, and accusing her of being actuated by mercenary motives in hermarriage with Stephen Whitelaw. 

"How often have I heard you express your detestation of that fellow!" theyoung man wrote indignantly. "How often have I heard you declare that noearthly persuasion should ever induce you to marry him! And yet before myback has been turned six months, I hear that you are his wife. Without aword of warning, without a line of explanation to soften the blow--ifanything could soften it--the news comes to me, from a stranger who knewnothing of my love for you. It is very hard, Ellen; all the harderbecause I had so fully trusted in your fidelity. "

"I will own that the prospect I had to offer you was a poor one;involving long delay before I could give you such a home as I wanted togive you; but O, Nelly, Nelly, I felt so sure that you would be true tome! And if you found yourself in any difficulty, worried beyond yourpower of resistance by your father--though I did not think you were thekind of girl to yield weakly to persuasion--a line from you would havebrought me to your side, ready to defend you from any persecution, andonly too proud to claim you for my wife, and carry you away from yourfather's unkindness. "

The letter went on for some time in the same upbraiding strain. Ellenshed many bitter tears over it in the quiet of her own room. It had beendelivered to her secretly by her old friend Sarah Peters, the miller'sdaughter, who had been the confidante of her love affairs; for even inhis indignation Mr. Randall had been prudent enough to consider that sucha missive, falling perchance into Stephen Whitelaw's hands, might workserious mischief. 

Cruel as the letter was, Ellen could not leave it quite unanswered; someword in her own defence she must needs write; but her reply was of thebriefest. 

"There are some things that can never be explained, " she wrote, "and mymarriage is one of those. No one could save me from it, you least of all. There was no help for me; and I believe, with all my heart, that, inacting as I did, I only did my duty. I had not the courage to write toyou beforehand to tell you what was going to be. I thought it was almostbetter you should hear it from a stranger. The more hardly you think ofme, the easier it will be for you to forget me. There is some comfort inthat. I daresay it will be very easy for you to forget. But if, in daysto come, when you are happily married to some one else, you can teachyourself to think more kindly of me, and to believe that in what I did Iacted for the best, you will be performing an act of charity towards apoor unhappy girl, who has very little left to hope for in this world. "

It was a hard thing for Ellen to think that, in the estimation of the manshe loved, she must for ever seem the basest and most mercenary ofwomankind; and yet how poor an excuse could she offer in the vaguepleading of her letter! She could not so much as hint at the truth; shecould not blacken her father's character. That Frank Randall shoulddespise her, only made her trial a little sharper, her daily burden alittle heavier, she told herself. 

With her mind full of these thoughts, she had very little sympathy tobestow upon Mrs. Tadman, whose fragmentary lamentations only worried her, like the murmurs of some troublesome not-to-be-pacified child; wherebythat doleful person, finding her soul growing heavier and heavier, forlack of counsel or consolation, could at last endure this state ofsuspense no longer in sheer inactivity, but was fain to bestir herselfsomehow, if even in the most useless manner. She got up from her seattherefore, went over to the door, and, softly opening it, peered out intothe darkness beyond. 

There was nothing, no glimmer of Stephen's candle, no sound of men'sfootsteps or of men's voices; the merest blankness, and no more. The twomen had been away from the parlour something more than half an hour bythis time. 

For about five minutes Mrs. Tadman stood at the open door, peering outand listening, and still without result. Then, with a shrill sudden soundthrough the long empty passages, there came a shriek, a prolongedpiercing cry of terror or of pain, which turned Mrs. Tadman's blood toice, and brought Ellen to her side, pale and breathless. 

"What was that?"

"What was that?"

Both uttered the same question simultaneously, looking at each otheraghast, and then both fled in the direction from which that shrill cryhad come. 

A woman's voice surely; no masculine cry ever sounded with such piercingtreble. 

They hurried off to discover the meaning of this startling sound, butwere neither of them very clear as to whence it had come. From the upperstory no doubt, but in that rambling habitation there was so much scopefor uncertainty. They ran together, up the staircase most used, to thecorridor from which the principal rooms opened. Before they could reachthe top of the stairs, they heard a scuffling hurrying sound of heavyfootsteps on the floor above them, and on the landing met Mr. Whitelawand his unknown friend; face to face. 

"What's the matter?" asked the farmer sharply, looking angrily at the twoscared faces. 

"That's just what we want to know, " his wife answered. "Who was it thatscreamed just now? Who's been hurt?"

"My friend stumbled against a step in the passage yonder, and knocked hisshin. He cried out a bit louder than he need have done, if that's whatyou mean, but not loud enough to cause all this fuss. Get downstairsagain, you two, and keep quiet. I've no patience with such nonsense;coming flying upstairs as if you'd both gone mad. "

"It was not your friend's voice we heard, " Ellen answered resolutely; "itwas a woman's cry. You must have heard it surely, Stephen Whitelaw. "

"I heard nothing but what I tell you, " the farmer muttered sulkily. "Getdownstairs, can't you?"

"Not till I know what's the matter, " his wife said, undismayed by hisanger. "Give me your light, and let me go and see. "

"You can go where you like, wench, and see what you can; and an uncommondeal wiser you'll be for your trouble. "

And yet, although Mr. Whitelaw gave his wife the candlestick with an airof profound indifference, there was an uneasy look in his countenancewhich she could plainly see, and which perplexed her not a little. 

"Come, Mrs. Tadman, " she said decisively, "we had better see into this. It was a woman's voice, and must have been one of the girls, I suppose. It may be nothing serious, after all, --these country girls scream out fora very little, --but we'd better get to the bottom of it. "

Mr. Whitelaw burst into a laugh--and he was a man whose laughter was asunpleasant as it was rare. 

"Ay, my wench, you'd best get to the bottom of it, " he said, "sinceyou're so uncommon clever. Me and my friend will go back to the parlour, and take a glass of grog. "

The gentleman whom Mr. Whitelaw honoured with his friendship had stood alittle way apart all this time, wiping his forehead with a big orangecoloured silk handkerchief. That blow upon his shin must have been rathera sharp one, if it had brought that cold sweat out upon his ashen face. 

"Yes, " he muttered; "come along, can't you? don't stand cawing here allnight;" and hurried downstairs before his host. 

It had been all the business of a couple of minutes. Ellen Whitelaw andMrs. Tadman went down to the ground floor by another staircase leadingdirectly to the kitchen. The room looked comfortable enough, and the twoservant-girls were sitting at a table near the fire. One was a strappingrosy-cheeked country girl, who did all the household work; the other anovergrown clumsy-looking girl, hired straight from the workhouse by Mr. Whitelaw, from economical motives; a stolid-looking girl, whose intellectwas of the lowest order; a mere zoophyte girl, one would say--somethingbetween the vegetable and animal creation. 

This one, whose name was Sarah Batts, was chiefly employed in thepoultry-yard and dairy. She had a broad brawny hand, which was useful forthe milking of cows, and showed some kind of intelligence in themanagement of young chickens and the treatment of refractory hens. 

Martha Holden, the house-servant, was busy making herself a cap as hermistress came into the kitchen, droning some Hampshire ballad by way ofaccompaniment to her work. Sarah Batts was seated in an attitude ofluxurious repose, with her arms folded, and her feet on the fender. 

"Was it either of you girls that screamed just now?" Ellen askedanxiously. 

"Screamed, ma'am! no, indeed, " Martha Holden answered, with an air ofperfect good faith. "What should we scream for? I've been sitting hereat my work for the last hour, as quiet as could be. "

"And, Sarah, --was it you, Sarah? For goodness' sake tell the truth. "

"Me, mum! lor no, mum. I was up with master showing him and the strangegentleman a light. "

"You were upstairs with your master? And did you hear nothing? A piercingshriek that rang through the house;--you must surely have heard it, bothof you. "

Martha shook her head resolutely. 

"Not me, mum; I didn't hear a sound. The kitchen-door was shut all thetime Sarah was away, and I was busy at work, and thinking of nothing butmy work. I wasn't upon the listen, as you may say. "

The kitchen was at the extreme end of the house, remote from thatdirection whence the unexplainable cry seemed to have come. 

"It is most extraordinary, " Ellen said gravely, perplexed beyond allmeasure. "But you, Sarah; if you were upstairs with your master, you mustsurely have heard that shriek; it seemed to come from upstairs. "

"Did master hear it?" asked the girl deliberately. 

"He says not. "

"Then how should I, mum? No, mum, I didn't hear nothink; I can take myBible oath of that. "

"I don't want any oaths; I only want to know the meaning of thisbusiness. There would have been no harm in your screaming. You might justas well speak the truth about it. "

"Lor, mum, but it warn't me, " answered Sarah Batts with an injured look. "Whatever could go to put it in your head as it was me?"

"It must have been one or other of you two girls. There's no other womanin the house; and as you were upstairs, it seems more likely to have beenyou. However, there's no use talking any more about it. Only we bothheard the scream, didn't we, Mrs. Tadman?"

"I should think we did, indeed, " responded the widow with a vehementshudder. "My flesh is all upon the creep at this very moment. I don'tthink I ever had such a turn in my life. "

They went back to the parlour, leaving the two servants still sitting bythe fire; Sarah Batts with that look of injured innocence fixed upon herwooden countenance, Martha Holden cheerfully employed in the constructionof her Sunday cap. In the parlour the two men were both standing by thetable, the stranger with his back to the women as they entered, StephenWhitelaw facing him. The former seemed to have been counting something, but stopped abruptly as the women came into the room. 

There was a little heap of bank-notes lying on the table. Stephensnatched them up hastily, and thrust them in a bundle into hiswaistcoat-pocket; while the stranger put a strap round a bulky redmorocco pocket-book with a more deliberate air, as of one who had nothingto hide from the world. 

That guilty furtive air of Stephen's, and, above all, that passage ofmoney between the two men, confirmed Mrs. Tadman in her notion thatWyncomb Farm was going to change hands. She resumed her seat by the firewith a groan, and accepted Ellen's offer of a glass of spirits-and-waterwith a doleful shake of her head. 

"Didn't I tell you so?" she whispered, as Mrs. Whitelaw handed her thecomforting beverage. 

The stranger was evidently on the point of departure. There was a soundof wheels on the gravel outside the parlour window--the familiar sound ofStephen Whitelaw's chaise-cart; and that gentleman was busy helping hisvisitor on with his great-coat. 

"I shall be late for the last train, " said the stranger, "unless your mandrives like the very devil. "

"He'll drive fast enough, I daresay, if you give him half-a-crown, " Mr. Whitelaw answered with a grin; "but don't let him go and do my horse anydamage, or you'll have to pay for it. "

"Of course. You'd like to get the price of a decent animal out of me forthat broken-kneed hard-mouthed brute of yours, " replied the stranger witha scornful laugh. "I think there never was such a money-grubbing, grinding, grasping beggar since the world began. However, you've seen thelast shilling you're ever likely to get out of me; so make the best ofit; and remember, wherever I may be, there are friends of mine in thiscountry who will keep a sharp look-out upon you, and let me know preciousquick if you don't stick to your part of our bargain like an honest man, or as nearly like one as nature will allow you to come. And nowgood-night, Mr. Whitelaw. --Ladies, your humble servant. "

He was gone before Ellen or Mrs. Tadman could reply to his partingsalutation, had they been disposed to do so. Mr. Whitelaw went out withhim, and gave some final directions to the stable-lad who was to drivethe chaise-cart, and presently came back to the parlour, lookingconsiderably relieved by his guest's departure. 

Mrs. Tadman rushed at once to the expression of her fears. 

"Stephen Whitelaw, " she exclaimed solemnly, "tell us the worst at once. It's no good keeping things back from us. That man has come here to turnus out of house and home. You've sold Wyncomb. "

"Sold Wyncomb! Have you gone crazy, you old fool?" cried Mr. Whitelaw, contemplating his kinswoman with a most evil expression of countenance. "What's put that stuff in your head?"

"Your own doings, Stephen, and that man's. What does he come here for, with his masterful ways, unless it's to turn us out of house and home?What did you show him the house for? Nigh upon an hour you were out ofthis room with him, if you were a minute. Why did money pass from him toyou? I saw you put it in your pocket--a bundle of bank-notes. "

"You're a prying old catemeran!" cried Mr. Whitelaw savagely, "and adrunken old fool into the bargain. --Why do you let her muddle herselfwith the gin-bottle like that, Ellen? You ought to have more respect formy property. You don't call that taking care of your husband's house. --Asfor you, mother Tadman, if you treat me to any more of this nonsense, youwill find yourself turned out of house and home a precious deal soonerthan you bargained for; but it won't be because of my selling Wyncomb. Sell Wyncomb, indeed! I've about as much thought of going up in aballoon, as of parting with a rood or a perch of my father's land. "

This was a very long speech for Mr. Whitelaw; and, having finished it, hesank into his chair, quite exhausted by the unusual effort, and refreshedhimself with copious libations of gin-and-water. 

"What was that man here for, then, Stephen? It's only natural I shouldwant to know that, " said Mrs. Tadman, abashed, but not struck dumb by herkinsman's reproof. 

"What's that to you? Business. Yes, there _has_ been money pass betweenus, and it's rather a profitable business for me. Perhaps it washorse-racing, perhaps it wasn't. That's about all you've any call toknow. I've made money by it, and not lost. And now, don't let me bebothered about it any more, if you and me are to keep friends. "

"I'm sure, Stephen, " Mrs. Tadman remonstrated in a feebly plaintive tone, "I've no wish to bother you; there's nothing farther from my thoughts;but it's only natural that I should be anxious about a place where I'velived so many years. Not but what I could get my living easy enoughelsewhere, as you must know, Stephen, being able to turn my hand toalmost anything. "

To this feeble protest Mr. Whitelaw vouchsafed no answer. He had lightedhis pipe by this time, and was smoking and staring at the fire with hisusual stolid air--meditative, it might be, or only ruminant, like one ofhis own cattle. 

But all through that night Mr. Whitelaw, who was not commonly a seer ofvisions or dreamer of dreams, had his slumbers disturbed by some unwontedperplexity of spirit. His wife lay broad awake, thinking of thatprolonged and piercing cry, which seemed to her, the more she meditatedupon it, in have been a cry of anguish or of terror, and could not failto notice this unusual disturbance of her husband's sleep. More than oncehe muttered to himself in a troubled manner; but his words, for the mostpart, were incoherent and disjointed--words of which that perplexedlistener could make nothing. 

Once she heard him say, "A bad job--dangerous business. "

CHAPTER XL. 

IN PURSUIT. 

John Saltram improved daily at Hampton Court. In spite of his fierceimpatience to get well, in order to engage in the search for Marian--animpatience which was in itself sufficient to militate against hiswell-being--he did make considerable progress on the road to recovery. Hewas still very weak, and it must take time to complete his restoration;but he was no longer the pale ghost of his former self that Gilbert hadbrought down to the quiet suburb. 

It would have been a cruel thing to leave him much alone at such a time, or it would have seemed very cruel to Gilbert Fenton, who had everpresent in his memory those old days in Egypt when this man had stood himin such good stead. He remembered the days of his own sickness, andcontrived to perform his business duties within the smallest timepossible, and so spend the rest of his life in the comfortablesitting-rooms looking out upon Bushy-park on the one side, and on theother upon the pretty high road before the Palace grounds. 

Nor was there any sign in the intercourse of those two that the bond offriendship between them was broken. There was, it is true, a somethingdeprecating in John Saltram's manner that had not been common to him ofold, and in Gilbert Fenton a deeper gravity than was quite natural; butthat was all. It was difficult to believe that any latent spirit ofanimosity could lurk in the mind of either. In sober truth, Gilbert, inhis heart of hearts, had forgiven his treacherous friend. Again and againhe had told himself that the wrong he had suffered was an unpardonableoffence, a thing not to be forgiven upon any ground whatever. But, lo, when he looked into his mind to discover the smouldering fires of thatburning anger which he had felt at first against the traitor, he couldfind nothing but the gray ashes of a long-expired flame. The wrong hadbeen suffered, and he loved his old friend still. Yes, there was that inhis heart for John Saltram which no ill-doing could blot out. 

So he tended the convalescent's couch with a quiet devotion that touchedthe sinner very deeply, and there was a peace between those two whichhad in it something almost sacred. In the mind of the one there was aremorseful sense of guilt, in the heart of the other a pitying tendernesstoo deep for words. 

One night, as they were together on opposite sides of the fire, JohnSaltram lying on a low sofa drawn close to the hearth, Gilbert seatedlazily in an easy-chair, the invalid broke out suddenly into a kind ofapology for his wrong-doing. 

The conversation had flagged between them after the tea-things had beenremoved by the brisk little serving-maid of the lodgings; Gilbert gazingmeditatively at the fire, John Saltram so quiet that his companion hadthought him asleep. 

"I said once that I would tell you all about that business, " he began atlast, in a sudden spasmodic way; "but, after all there is so little totell. There is no excuse for what I did; I know that better than you canknow it. A man in my position, who had a spark of generosity or honour, would have strangled his miserable passion in its birth, would have goneaway directly he discovered his folly, and never looked upon MarianNowell's face again. I did try to do that, Gilbert. You remember thatlast night we ever spent together at Lidford--what a feverishly-happynight it was; only a cottage-parlour with a girl's bright face shining inthe lamplight, and a man over head and ears in love, but a glimpse ofparadise to that man. I meant that it should be the last of my weakness, Gilbert. I had pledged myself to that by all the outspoken oathswherewith a man can bind himself to do his duty. And I did turn my backupon the scene of my temptation, as you know, heartily resolved never toapproach the edge of the pit again. I think if you had stayed in England, Gilbert, if you had been on the spot to defend your own rights, all wouldhave gone well, I should have kept the promise I had made for myself. "

"It was so much the more sacred because of my absence, John, " Gilbertsaid. 

"Perhaps. After all, I suppose it was only a question of opportunity. That particular devil who tempts men to their dishonour contrived thatthe business should be made fatally easy for me. You were away, and thecoast was clear, you know. I loved you, Gilbert; but there is a passionstronger than the love which a man feels for his dearest friend. I meantmost steadfastly to keep my faith with you; but you were away, and thatfellow Forster plagued me to come to him. I refused at first--yes, I heldout for a couple of months; but the fever was strong upon me--a restlessdemon not to be exorcised by hard work, or dissipation even, for I triedboth. And then before you were at the end of your journey, while you werestill a wanderer across the desolate sea, happy in the thought of yourdear love's fidelity, my courage gave way all at once, and I went downto Heatherly. And so I saw her, and saw that she loved me--all unworthyas I was; and from that hour I was a lost man; I thought of nothing butwinning her. "

"If you had only been true to me, even then, John; if you had written tome declaring the truth, and giving me fair warning that you were myrival, how much better it would have been! Think what a torture ofsuspense, what a world of wasted anger, you might have saved me. "

"Yes, it would have been the manlier course, no doubt, " the otheranswered; "but I could not bring myself to that. I could not face theidea of your justifiable wrath. I wanted to win my wife and keep myfriend. It was altogether a weak notion, that idea of secrecy, of course, and couldn't hold water for any time, as the result has shown; but Ithought you would get over your disappointment quickly--those wounds areapt to heal so speedily--and fall in love elsewhere; and then it wouldhave been easy for me to tell you the truth. So I persuaded my dear love, who was easily induced to do anything I wished, to consent to our secretbeing kept from you religiously for the time being, and to that end wewere married under a false name--not exactly a false name either. Youremember my asking you if you had ever heard the name of Holbrook beforeyour hunt after Marian's husband? You said no; yet I think you must haveseen the name in some of my old college books. I was christened JohnHolbrook. My grandmother was one of the Holbrooks of Horley-place, Sussex, people of some importance in their day, and our family wererather proud of the name. But I have dropped it ever since I was a lad. "

"No, I don't think I can ever have seen the name; I must surely haveremembered it, if I had seen it. "

"Perhaps so. Well, Gilbert, there is no more to be said. I loved her, selfishly, after the manner of mankind. I could not bring myself to giveher up, and pursued her with a passionate persistence which must plead_her_ excuse. If her uncle had lived, I doubt whether I should ever havesucceeded. But his death left the tender womanly heart weakened bysorrow; and so I won her, the dearest, truest wife that ever man wasblest withal. Yet, I confess to you, so wayward is my nature, that therehave been moments in which I repented my triumph--weak hours of doubt andforeboding, in which I fear that dear girl divined my thoughts. Since ourwretched separation I have fancied sometimes that a conviction of thiskind on her part is at the root of the business, that she has alienatedherself from me, believing--in plain words--that I was tired of her. "

"Such an idea as that would scarcely agree with Ellen Carley's account ofMarian's state of mind during that last day or two at the Grange. She waseagerly expecting your return, looking forward with delight to thepleasant surprise you were to experience when you heard of Jacob Nowell'swill. "

"Yes, the girl told me that. Great heavens, why did I not return a fewdays earlier! I was waiting for money, not caring to go backempty-handed; writing and working like a nigger. I dared not meet my poorgirl at her grandfather's, since in so doing I must risk an encounterwith you. "

After this they talked of Marian's disappearance for some time, goingover the same ground very often in their helplessness, and able, at last, to arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. If she were with her father, shewas with a bad, unscrupulous man. That was a fact which Gilbert Fenton nolonger pretended to deny. They sat talking till late, and parted for thenight in very different spirits. 

Gilbert had a good deal of hard work in the City on the following day; abatch of foreign correspondence too important to be entrusted to a clerk, and two or three rather particular interviews. All this occupied him upto so late an hour, that he was obliged to sleep in London that night, and to defer his return to Hampton till the next day's business was over. This time he got over his work by an early hour, and was able to catch atrain that left Waterloo at half-past five. He felt a little uneasy athaving been away from the convalescent so long though he knew that JohnSaltram was now strong enough to get on tolerably without him, and thatthe people of the house were careful and kindly, ready at any moment togive assistance if it were wanted. 

"Strange, " he thought to himself, as the train approached the quiet, river-side village--"strange that I should be so fond of the fellow, inspite of all; that I should care more for his society than that of anyman living. It is the mere force of habit, I suppose. After all theseyears of liking, the link between us is not to be broken, even by thedeepest wrong that one man can do another. "

The spring twilight was closing in as he crossed the bridge and walkedbriskly along an avenue of leafless trees at the side of the green. Theplace had a peaceful rustic look at this dusky hour. There were no tracesof that modern spoiler the speculative builder just hereabouts; and thequaint old houses near the barracks, where lights were twinkling feeblyhere and there, had a look of days that are gone, a touch of thatplaintive poetry which pervades all relics of the past. Gilbert felt thecharm of the hour; the air still and mild, the silence only broken by thecawing of palatial rooks; and whatever tenderness towards John Saltramthere was lurking in his breast seemed to grow upon him as he drew nearerto their lodgings; so that his mood was of the softest when he opened thelittle garden-gate and went in. 

"I will make no further pretence of enmity, " he said to himself; "I willnot keep up this farce of estrangement. We two will be friends once more. Life is not long enough for the rupture of such a friendship. "

There was no light shining in the parlour window, no pleasant home-glowstreaming out upon the night. The blank created by this unwonted darknesschilled him somehow, and there was a vague sense of dread in his mind ashe opened the door. There was no need to knock. The simple household wasuntroubled by the fear of burglariously-disposed intruders, and the doorwas rarely fastened until after dark. 

Gilbert went into the parlour; all was dark and silent in the two rooms, which communicated with folding doors, and made one fair-sized apartment. There were no preparations for dinner; he could see that in the deepeningdusk. The fire had been evidently neglected, and was at an expiringpoint. 

"John!" he called, stirring the fire with a vigorous hand, whereby hegave it the _coup-de-grace_, and the last glimmer sank to darkness. "John, what are you doing?"

He fancied the convalescent had fallen asleep upon the sofa in the innerroom; but when he went in search of him, he found nothing but emptiness. He rang the bell violently, and the brisk maid-servant came flying in. 

"Oh, dear, sir, you did give me and missus such a turn!" she said, gasping, with her hand on her heart, as if that organ had been seriouslyaffected. "We never heard you come in, and when the bell rung----"

"Is Mr. Saltram worse?" Gilbert asked, eagerly. 

"Worse, poor dear gentleman; no, sir, I should hope not, though he wellmay be, for there never was any one so imprudent, not of all the invalidsI've ever had to do with--and Hampton is a rare place for invalids. And Ifeel sure if you'd been here, sir, you wouldn't have let him do it. "

"Let him do what? Are you crazy, girl? What, in heaven's name, are youtalking of?"

"You wouldn't have let him start off to London post-haste, as he didyesterday afternoon, and scarcely able to stand alone, in a manner ofspeaking. "

"Gone to London! Do you mean to say that my friend Mr. Saltram went toLondon?"

"Yes, sir; yesterday afternoon between four and five. "

"What utter madness! And when did he come back?"

"Lor' bless you, sir, he ain't come back yet. He told missus as hiscoming back was quite uncertain, and she was not to worry herself abouthim. She did all she could, almost to going down on her knees, to hinderhim going; but it was no use. It was a matter of life and death as he wasgoing upon, he said, and that there was no power on earth could keep himback, not if he was ten times worse than he was. The strange gentlemanhadn't been in the house much above a quarter of an hour, when they wasboth off together in a fly to the station. "

"What strange gentleman?"

"A stout middle-aged man, sir, with gray whiskers, that came from London, and asked for you first, and then for Mr. Saltram; and those two hadn'tbeen together more than five minutes, when Mr. Saltram rang the bell in aviolent hurry, and told my missus he was going to town immediate, on mostparticular business, and would she pack him a carpet-bag with a couple ofshirts, and so on. And then she tried all she could to turn him fromgoing; but it was no good, as I was telling you, sir, just now. Go hewould, and go he did; looking quite flushed and bright-like when he wentout, so as you'd have scarcely known how ill he'd been. And he left a bitof a note for you on the chimbley-piece, sir. "

Gilbert found the note; a hurried scrawl upon half a sheet, of paper, twisted up hastily, and unsealed. 

"She is found, Gilbert, " wrote John Saltram. "Proul has traced the fatherto his lair at last, and my darling is with him. They are lodging at 14, Coleman-street, Tottenham-court-road. I am off this instant. Don't beangry with me, true and faithful friend; I could not rest an hour awayfrom her now that she is found. I have no plan of action, but leave allto the inspiration of the moment. You can follow me whenever you please. Marian must thank you for your goodness to me. Marian must persuade youto forgive my sin against you--Ever yours, J. S. "

Follow him! yes, of course. Gilbert had no other thought. And she wasfound at last, after all their suspense, their torturing anxiety. She wasfound; and whatever danger there might be in her association withPercival Nowell, she was safe so far, and would be speedily extricatedfrom the perilous alliance by her husband. It seemed at first so happy athing that Gilbert could scarcely realise it; and yet, throughout theweary interval of ignorance as to her fate, he had always declared hisbelief in her safety. Had he been really as confident as he had seemed, as the days had gone by, one after another, without bringing him anytidings of her? had there been no shapeless terror in his mind, no darkdread that when the knowledge came, it might be something worse thanignorance? Yes, now in the sudden fulness of his joy, he knew how much hehad feared, how very near he had been to despair. 

But John Saltram, what of him? Was it not at the hazard of his life thathe had gone upon this sudden journey, reckless and excited, in a fever ofhope and delight?

"Providence will surely be good to him, " Gilbert thought. 

"He bore the journey from town when he was much worse than he is now. Surely he will bear a somewhat rougher journey now, buoyed up by hope. "

The landlady came in presently, and insisted upon giving Mr. Fenton herown version of the story which he had just heard from her maid; and avery close and elaborate version it was, though not remarkable for anynew facts. He was fain to listen to it with a show of patience, however, and to consent to eat a mutton chop which the good woman insisted uponcooking for him, after his confession that he had eaten nothing sincebreakfast. He kept telling himself that there was no hurry; that he wasnot wanted in Coleman-street; that his presence there was a question ofhis own gratification and nothing else; but the fever in his mind was notto be set at rest go easily. There was a sense of hurry upon him that hecould not shake off, argue with himself as wisely as he would. 

He took a hasty meal, and started off to the railway station directlyafterwards, though there was no train to carry, him back to London fornearly an hour. 

It was weary work waiting at the little station, while the keen Marchwind blew sharply across the unsheltered platform on which Gilbert pacedto and fro in his restlessness; weary work waiting, with that sense ofhurry and anxiety upon him, not to be shaken off by any effort he couldmake to take a hopeful view of the future. He tried to think of those twowhom he loved best on earth, whose union he had taught himself, by amarvellous effort of unselfishness, to contemplate with serenity, triedto think of them in the supreme happiness of their restoration to eachother; but he could not bring his mind to the realisation of thispicture. After all those torments of doubt and perplexity which he hadundergone during the last three months, the simple fact of Marian'ssafety seemed too good a thing to be true. He was tortured by a vaguesense of the unreality of this relief that had come so suddenly to put anend to all perplexities. 

"I feel as if I were the victim of some hoax, some miserable delusion, "he said to himself. "Not till I see her, not till I clasp her by thehand, shall I believe that she is really given back to us. "

And in his eagerness to do this, to put an end to that slow torture ofunreasonable doubt which had come upon him since the reading of JohnSaltram's letter, the delay at the railway station was an almostintolerable ordeal; but the hour came to an end at last, the place awokefrom its blank stillness to a faint show of life and motion, a door ortwo banged, a countrified-looking young woman with a good many bundlesand a band-box came out of the waiting-room and arranged her possessionsin readiness for the coming train, a porter emerged lazily from someunknown corner and looked up the line--then, after another five minutesof blankness, there came a hoarse throbbing in the distance, a bell rang, and the up-train panted into the station. It was a slow train, unluckilyfor Gilbert's impatience, which stopped everywhere, and the journey toLondon took him over an hour. It was past nine when a hansom drove himinto Coleman-street, a dull unfrequented-looking thoroughfare betweenTottenham-court-road and Gower-street, overshadowed a little by theadjacent gloom of the University Hospital, and altogether a low-spiritedstreet. 

Gilbert looked up eagerly at the windows of Number 14, expecting to seelights shining, and some visible sign of rejoicing, even upon the housefront; but there was nothing. Either the shutters were shut, or there wasno light within, for the windows were blank and dark. It was a slightthing, but enough to intensify that shapeless foreboding against which hehad been struggling throughout his journey. 

"You must have come to the wrong house, " he said to the cabman as he gotout. 

"No, sir, this is 14. "

Yes, it was the right number. Gilbert read it on the door; and yet itcould scarcely be the right house; for tied to the door-handle was aplacard with "Apartments" engraved upon it, and this house would hardlybe large enough to accommodate other lodgers besides Mr. Nowell and hisdaughter. Yet there is no knowing the capabilities of a Londonlodging-house in an obscure quarter, and there might be some vacantgarret in the roof, or some dreary two-pair back, dignified by the nameof "apartments. " Gilbert gave a loud hurried knock. There was a delaywhich seemed to him interminable, then a hasty shuffling of slipshod feetupon the basement stairs, then the glimmer of a light through thekeyhole, the removal of a chain, and at last the opening of the door. Itwas opened by a young person with her hair dressed in the prevailingfashion, and an air of some gentility, which clashed a little with acertain slatternliness that pervaded her attire. She was rather a prettygirl, but had the faded London look of late hours, and precocious cares, instead of the fresh bloom and girlish brightness which should havebelonged to her. 

"Did you please to wish to see the apartments, sir?" she asked politely. 

"No; I want to see Mr. And Mrs. --the lady and gentleman who are lodginghere. "

He scarcely knew under what name he ought to ask for Marian. It seemedunnatural to him now to speak of her as Mrs. Holbrook. 

"The lady and gentleman, sir!" the girl exclaimed with a surprised air. "There's no one lodging here now. Mr. Nowell and his daughter leftyesterday morning. "

"Left yesterday morning?"

"Yes, sir. They went away to Liverpool; they are going to America--to NewYork. "

"Mr. Nowell and his daughter, Mrs. Holbrook?"

"Yes, sir, that was the lady's name. "

"It's impossible, " cried Gilbert; "utterly impossible that Mrs. Holbrookwould go to America! She has ties that would keep her in England; ahusband whom she would never abandon in that manner. There must be somemistake here. "

"O no, indeed, sir, there's no mistake. I saw all the luggage labelledwith my own eyes, and the direction was New York by steam-packet_Oronoco_; and Mrs. Holbrook had lots of dresses made, and all sorts ofthings. And as to her husband, sir, her father told me that he'd treatedher very badly, and that she never meant to go back to him again to bemade unhappy by him. She was going to New York to live with Mr. Nowellall the rest of her life. "

"There must have been some treachery, some underhand work, to bring thisabout. Did she go of her own free will?"

"O, dear me, yes, sir. Mr. Nowell was kindness itself to her, and she wasvery fond of him, and pleased to go to America, as far as I could makeout. "

"And she never seemed depressed or unhappy?"

"I never noticed her being so, sir. They were out a good deal, you see;for Mr. Nowell was a gay gentleman, very fond of pleasure, and he wouldhave Mrs. Holbrook always with him. They were away in Paris ever so long, in January and the beginning of February, but kept on the lodgings allthe same. They were very good lodgers. "

"Had they many visitors?"

"No, sir; scarcely any one except a gentleman who used to come sometimesof an evening, and sit drinking spirits-and-water with Mr. Nowell; he washis lawyer, I believe, but I never heard his name. "

"Did no one come here yesterday to inquire for Mrs. Holbrook towardsevening?"

"Yes, sir; there was a gentleman came in a cab. He looked very ill, aspale as death, and was in a dreadful way when he found they were gone. Heasked me a great many questions, the same as you've asked me, and I thinkI never saw any one so cut-up as he seemed. He didn't say much about thateither, but it was easy to see it in his face. He wanted to look at theapartments, to see whether he could find anything, an old letter orsuch-like, that might be a help to him in going after his friends, andmother took him upstairs. "

"Did he find anything?"

"No, sir; Mr. Nowell hadn't left so much as a scrap of paper about theplace. So the gentleman thanked mother, and went away in the same cab ashad brought him. "

"Do you know where he was going?"

"I fancy he was going to Liverpool after Mr. Nowell and his daughter. Heseemed all in a fever, like a person that's ready to do anythingdesperate. But I heard him tell the cabman Cavendish-square. "

"Cavendish-square! Yes, I can guess where he was going. But what could hewant there?" Gilbert said to himself, while the girl stared at himwonderingly, thinking that he, as well as the other gentleman, had gonedistraught on account of Mr. Nowell's daughter. 

"Thank you for answering my questions so patiently, and good-night, " saidGilbert, slipping some silver into her hand; for his quick eye hadobserved the faded condition of her finery, and a general air of povertyconspicuous in her aspect. "Stay, " he added, taking out his card-case;"if you should hear anything farther of these people, I should be muchobliged by your sending me word at that address. "

"I won't forget, sir; not that I think we're likely to hear any more ofthem, they being gone straight off to America. "

"Perhaps not. But if you do hear anything, let me know. "

He had dismissed his cab on alighting in Coleman-street, believing thathis journey was ended; but the walk to Cavendish-square was a short one, and he set out at a rapid pace. 

The check that had befallen him was a severe one. It seemed a deathblowto all hope, a dreary realization of that vague dread which had pursuedhim from the first. If Marian had indeed started for America, what newdifficulties must needs attend every effort to bring her back; since itwas clear that her father's interests were involved in keeping her underhis influence, and separating her entirely from her husband. The journeyto New York was no doubt intended to secure this state of things. InAmerica, in that vast country, with which this man was familiar with longresidence, how easy for him to hide her for ever from her friends! howvain would all inquiries, all researches be likely to prove!

At the ultimate moment, in the hour of hope and rejoicing, he was lost tothem irrevocably. 

"Yet criminals have been traced upon the other side of the Atlantic, where the police have been prompt to follow them, " Gilbert said tohimself, glancing for an instant at the more hopeful side of thequestion; "but not often where they've got anything like a start. DidJohn Saltram really mean to follow those two to Liverpool, I wonder?Such a journey would seem like madness, in his state; and yet what atriumph if he should have been in time to prevent their starting by the_Oronoco_!"

And then, after a pause, he asked himself, "What could he want with Mrs. Branston, at a time when every moment wasprecious? Money, perhaps. He could have had none with him. Yes, money, nodoubt; but I shall discover that from her presently, and may learnsomething of his plans into the bargain. "

Gilbert went into a stationer's shop and purchased a _Bradshaw_. Therewas a train leaving Euston station for Liverpool at a quarter to eleven. He might be in time for that, after seeing Mrs. Branston. That ladyhappened fortunately to be at home, and received Gilbert alone in herfavourite back drawing-room, where he found her ensconced in that snugretreat made by the six-leaved Japanese screen, which formed a kind oftemple on one side of the fire-place. There had been a final rupturebetween Adela and Mrs. Pallinson a few days before, and that matron, having shown her cards a little too plainly, had been routed by anunwonted display of spirit on the part of the pretty little widow. Shewas gone, carrying all her belongings with her, and leaving peace andliberty behind her. The flush of triumph was still upon Mrs. Branston;and this unexpected victory, brief and sudden in its occurrence, likemost great victories, was almost a consolation to her for thatdisappointment which had stricken her so heavily of late. 

Adela Branston welcomed her visitor very graciously; but Gilbert had notime to waste upon small talk, and after a hasty apology for his untimelyintrusion, dashed at once into the question he had come to ask. 

"John Saltram was with you yesterday evening, Mrs. Branston, " he said. "Pray tell me the purpose that brought him here, and anything you know ofhis plan of action after leaving you. "

"I can tell you very little about that. He was going upon a journey hetold me, that evening, immediately indeed; a most important journey; buthe did not tell me where he was going. "

"I think I can guess that, " said Gilbert. "Did he seem much agitated?"

"No; he was quite calm; but he had a resolute air, like a man who hassome great purpose to achieve. I thought him looking very white and weak, and told him that I was sure he was too ill to start upon a long journey, or any journey. I begged him not to go, if it were possible to avoidgoing, and used every argument I could think of to persuade him toabandon the idea of such a thing. But it was all no use. 'If I had only adozen hours to live, I must go, ' he said. "

"He came to ask you for money for his journey, did he not?"

"He did. I suppose to so close a friend as you are to him, there can beno breach of confidence in my admitting that. He came to borrow anyready-money I might happen to have in the house. Fortunately, I had ahundred and twenty pounds by me in hard cash. "

"And he took that?--he wanted as much as that?" asked Gilbert eagerly. 

"Yes, he said he was likely to require as much as that. "

"Then he must have thought of going to America. "

"To America! travel to America in his weak state of health?" cried Mrs. Branston, aghast. 

"Yes. It seems like madness, does it not? But there are circumstancesunder which a man may be excused for being almost mad. John Saltram hasgone in pursuit of some one very dear to him, some one who has beenseparated from him by treachery. "

"A woman?"

Adela Branston's fair face flushed crimson as she asked the question. Awoman? Yes, no doubt he was in pursuit of that woman whom he loved betterthan her. 

"I cannot stop to answer a single question now, my dear Mrs. Branston, "Gilbert said gently. "You shall know all by-and-by, and I am sure yourgenerous heart will forgive any wrong that has been done you in thisbusiness. Good night. I have to catch a train at a quarter to eleven; Iam going to Liverpool. "

"After Mr. Saltram?"

"Yes; I do not consider him in a fitting condition to travel alone. Ihope to be in time to prevent his doing anything rash. "

"But how will you find him?"

"I must make a round of the hotels till I discover his head-quarters. Good night. "

"Let me order my carriage to take you to the station. "

"A thousand thanks, but I shall be there before your carriage would beready. I can pick up a cab close by and shall have time to call at mylodgings for a carpet-bag. Once more, good night. "

It was still dark when Gilbert Fenton arrived at Liverpool. He threwhimself upon a sofa in the waiting-room, where he had an hour or so ofuncomfortable, unrefreshing sleep, and then roused himself and went outto begin his round of the hotels. 

A surly fly-driver of unknown age and prodigious deafness carried himfrom house to house; first to all the principal places of entertainment, aristocratic, family, and commercial; then to more obscure taverns andboarding-houses, until the sun was high and the commerce of Liverpool infull swing; and at all these places Gilbert questioned night-porters, and chief waiters, and head chamber-maids, until his brain grew dizzy bymere repetition of his questions; but no positive tidings could he obtainof John Saltram. There was a coffee-house near the quay where it seemedjust possible that he had slept; but even here the description was of thevaguest, and the person described might just as well have been John Smithas John Saltram. Gilbert dismissed the fly-man and his vehicle at last, thoroughly wearied out with that morning's work. 

He went to one of the hotels, took a hasty breakfast, and then hurriedoff to the offices belonging to the owners of the _Oronoco_. 

That vessel had started for New York at nine o'clock on the previousmorning, and John Saltram had gone with her. His name was the last on thelist of passengers; he had only taken his passage an hour before thesteamer left Liverpool, but there his name was in black and white. Thenames of Percival Nowell, and of Mrs. Holbrook, his daughter, were alsoin the list. The whole business was clear enough, and there was nothingmore that Gilbert could do. Had John Saltram been strong and well, hisfriend would have felt nothing but satisfaction in the thought that hewas going in the same vessel with Marian, and would without doubt bringher back in triumph. But the question of his health was a painful one tocontemplate. Could he, or could he not endure the strain that he had putupon himself within the last eight-and-forty hours? In desperate straitsmen can do desperate things--there was always that fact to be remembered;but still John Saltram might break down under the burden he had takenupon himself; and when Gilbert went back to London that afternoon he wassorely anxious about this feeble traveller. 

He found a letter from him at the lodgings in Wigmore-street; a hurriedletter written at Liverpool the night before John Saltram's departure. Hehad arrived there too late to get on board the _Oronoco_ that night, andhad ascertained that the vessel was to leave at nine next morning. 

"I shall take my passage in her in case of the worst, " he wrote; "and ifI cannot see Marian and persuade her to come on shore with me, I must gowith her to New York. Heaven knows what power her father may use againstme in the brief opportunity I shall have for seeing her before the vesselstarts; but he can't prevent my being their fellow-passenger, and onceafloat it shall go hard with me if I cannot make my dear girl hearreason. Do not be uneasy about my health, dear old friend; you see howwell I am keeping up under all this strain upon body and mind. You willsee me come back from America a new man, strong enough to prove mygratitude for your devotion, in some shape or other, I trust in God. "

CHAPTER XLI. 

OUTWARD BOUND. 

The bustle of departure was at its culminating point when John Saltramwent on board the _Oronoco_, captain and officers scudding hither andthither, giving orders and answering inquiries at every point, with asharp, short, decisive air, as of commanding powers in the last half-hourbefore a great battle; steward and his underlings ubiquitous; passengersroaming vaguely to and fro, in quest of nothing particular, and in astate of semi-distraction. 

In this scene of confusion there was no one to answer Mr. Saltram's eagerinquires about those travellers whom he had pursued to this point. He didcontrive, just about ten minutes before the vessel sailed, to capture theubiquitous steward by the button-hole, and to ask for tidings of Mr. Nowell, before that excited functionary could wrench himself away. 

"Mr. Nowell, sir; upon my word, sir, I can't say. Yes, there is agentleman of that name on board; state-rooms number 5 and 7; got adaughter with him--tall dark gentleman, with a moustache and beard. Yes, sir, he was on deck just now, on the bridge; but I don't see him, Isuppose he's gone below. Better look for him in the saloon, sir. "

The ten minutes were over before John Saltram had seen half the faces onboard the crowded vessel; but in his hurried wanderings to and fro, eagerto see that one face which he so ardently desired to behold once wore, hehad met nothing but strangers. There was no help for it: the vessel wouldsteam out seaward presently, and he must needs go with her. At the best, he had expected this. It was not likely that, even if he could haveobtained speech with his wife, she could have been prevailed uponimmediately to desert the father whose fortunes she had elected tofollow, and return to shore with the husband she had abandoned. Her mindmust have been poisoned, her judgment perverted, before she could haveleft him thus of her own free will; and it would need the light of calmreason to set things right again. No; John Saltram could scarcely hope tocarry her off by a _coup-de-main_, in the face of the artful schemer whohad evidently obtained so strong an influence over her. That she couldfor a moment contemplate this voyage to America with her father, wasenough to demonstrate the revolution that must have taken place in herfeelings towards her husband. 

"Slander and lies are very strong, " John Saltram said to himself; "but Ido not think, when my dear love and I are once face to face, any power onearth can prevail against me. She must be changed indeed, if it can; shemust be changed indeed, if anything but a lie can part us. "

He had come on board the _Oronoco_ prepared for the worst, and furnishedwith a slender outfit for the voyage, hurriedly purchased at a Liverpoolclothier's. He had plenty of money in his pocket--enough to pay for hisown and his wife's return passage; and the thought of this uselessjourney across the Atlantic troubled him very little. What did it matterwhere he was, if she were with him? The mental torture he had undergoneduring all this time, in which he had seemed in danger of losing heraltogether, had taught him how dear she was--how precious and perfect atreasure he had held so lightly. 

The vessel steamed put of the Mersey, and John Saltram, indifferent tothe last glimpse of his native land, was still roaming hither andthither, in quest of the familiar face he longed with such a passionateyearning to see; but up to this point he sought for his wife in vain. Mrs. Holbrook had evidently retired at once to her cabin. There wasnothing for him to do but to establish a channel of communication withher by means of the stewardess. 

He found this official with some trouble, and so desperately busy that itwas no easy matter to obtain speech with her, pursued as she was byforlorn and distracted female passengers, clamorously eager to know whereshe had put that "waterproof cloak, " or "Maud, " or "travelling-bag, " or"dressing-case. " He did at last contrive to enlist her services in hisbehalf, and extort some answer to his questions. 

"Yes, " she told him, "Mrs. Holbrook was on board--state-room number 7. She had gone to her room at once, but would appear at dinner-time, nodoubt, if she wasn't ill. "

John Saltram tore a blank leaf from his pocket-book, and wrote one hastyline:

 "I am here, Marian; let me see you for God's sake. 

 "JOHN HOLBROOK. "

"If you'll take that to the lady in number 7, I shall be exceedinglyobliged, " he said to the stewardess, slipping half-a-crown into herwilling hand at the same time. 

"Yes, sir, this very minute, sir. "

John Saltram sat down upon a bench outside the ladies' cabin, in a sortof antechamber between the steward's pantry and store-rooms, stronglyperfumed with the odour of grocery, and waited for Marian's coming. Hehad no shadow of doubt that she would come to him instantly, in defianceof any other guardian or counseller. Whatever lies might have been toldher--however she might have been taught to doubt him--he had a perfectfaith in the power of his immediate presence. They had but to meet faceto face, and all would be well. 

Indeed, there was need that things should be well for John Saltram veryspeedily. He had set nature at defiance so far, acting as if physicalweakness were unknown to him. There are periods in a man's life in whichnothing seems impossible to him; in which by the mere force of will hetriumphs over impossibility. But such conquests are apt to be of thebriefest. John Saltram felt that he must very soon break down. Theheavily throbbing heart, the aching limbs, the dizzy sight, and parchedthroat, told him how much this desperate chase had cost him. If he hadstrength enough to clasp his wife's hand, to give her loving greeting andtell her that he was true, it would be about as much as he could hope toachieve; and then he felt that he would be glad to crawl into any cornerof the vessel where he might find rest. 

The stewardess came back to him presently, with rather a discomfited air. 

"The lady says she is too ill to see any one, sir, " she told JohnSaltram; "but under any circumstances she must decline to see you. "

"She said that--my wife told you that?"

"Your wife, sir! Good gracious me, is the lady in number 7 your wife? Shecame on board with her father, and I understood they were only two inparty. "

"Yes; she came with her father. Her father's treachery has separated herfrom me; but a few words would explain everything, if I could only seeher. "

He thought it best to tell the woman the truth, strange as it might seemto her. Her sympathies were more likely to be enlisted in his favour ifshe knew the actual state of the case. 

"Did Mrs. Holbrook positively decline to see me?" he asked again, scarcely able to believe that Marian could have resisted even that briefappeal scrawled upon a scrap of paper. 

"She did indeed, sir, " answered the stewardess. "Nothing could be morepositive than her manner. I told her how anxious you seemed--for I couldsee it in your face, you see, sir, when you gave me the paper--and Ireally didn't like to bring you such a message; but it was no use. 'Idecline to see him, ' the lady said, 'and be sure you bring me no moremessages from this gentleman;' and with that, sir, she tore up the bit ofpaper, as cool as could be. But, dear me, sir, how ill you do look, to besure!"

"I have been very ill. I came from a sick-room to follow my wife. "

"Hadn't you better go and lie down a little, sir? You look as if youcould scarcely stand. Shall I fetch the steward for you?"

"No, thanks. I can find my way to my berth, I daresay. Yes, I suppose Ihad better go and lie down. I can do no more yet awhile. "

He could do no more, and had indeed barely strength to stagger to hissleeping-quarters, which he discovered at last with some difficulty. Herehe flung himself down, dressed as he was, and lay like a log, for hours, not sleeping, but powerless to move hand or foot, and with his brainracked by torturing thoughts. "As soon as I am able to stand again, Iwill see her father, and exact a reckoning from him, " he said to himselfagain and again, during those long dreary hours of prostration; but whenthe next day came, he was too weak to raise himself from his narrow bed, and on the next day after that he was no better. The steward was muchconcerned by his feeble condition, especially as it was no common case ofsea-sickness; for John Saltram had told him that he was never sea-sick. He brought the prostrate traveller soda-water and brandy, and tried totempt him to eat rich soups of a nutritious character; but the sick manwould take nothing except an occasional draught of soda-water. 

On the third day of the voyage the steward was very anxious to bring theship's surgeon to look at Mr. Saltram; but against this John Saltramresolutely set his face. 

"For pity's sake, don't bore me with any more doctors!" he criedfretfully. "I have had enough of that kind of thing. The man can donothing for me. I am knocked up with over exertion and excitement--that'sall; my strength will come back to me sooner or later if I lie quietlyhere. "

The steward gave way, for the time being, upon this appeal, and thesurgeon was not summoned; but Mr. Saltram's strength seemed very slow toreturn to him. He could not sleep; he could only lie there listening toall the noises of the ship, the perpetual creaking and rattling, andtramping of footsteps above his head, and tortured by his impatience tobe astir again. He would not stand upon punctilio this time, he toldhimself; he would go straight to the door of Marian's cabin, and standthere until she came out to him. Was she not his wife--his veryown--powerless to hold him at bay in this manner? His strength did notcome back to him; that wakeful prostration in which the brain was alwaysbusy, while the aching body lay still, did not appear to be a curativeprocess. In the course of that third night of the voyage John Saltram wasdelirious, much to the alarm of his fellow-passenger, the single sharerof his cabin, a nervous elderly gentleman, who objected to his illnessaltogether as an outrage upon himself, and was indignantly desirous toknow whether it was contagious. 

So the doctor was brought to the sick man early next morning whether hewould or not, and went through the usual investigations, and promised toadminister the usual sedatives, and assured the anxious passenger thatMr. Saltram's complaint was in nowise infectious. 

"He has evidently been suffering from serious illness lately, and hasbeen over-exerting himself, " said the doctor; "that seems very clear. Weshall contrive to bring him round in a few days, I daresay, though hecertainly has got into a very low state. "

The doctor said this rather gravely, on which the passenger again becamedisturbed of aspect. A death on board ship must needs be such anunpleasant business, and he really had not bargained for anything of thatkind. What was the use of paying first-class fare on board a first-classvessel, if one were subject to annoyance of this sort? In the steerage ofan overcrowded emigrant ship such a thing might be a matter of course--amere natural incident of the voyage--but on board the _Oronoco_ it wasmost unlooked for. 

"He's not going to die, is he?" asked the passenger, with an injured air. 

"O dear, no, I should hope not. I have no apprehension of that sort, "replied the surgeon promptly. 

He would no doubt have said the same thing up to within an hour or so ofthe patient's decease. 

"There is an extreme debility, that is all, " he went on quite cheerfully;"and if we can induce him to take plenty of nourishment, we shall get onvery well, I daresay. "

After this the nervous passenger was profoundly interested in the amountof refreshment consumed by the patient, and questioned the steward abouthim with a most sympathetic air. 

John Saltram, otherwise John Holbrook, was not destined to die upon thisoutward voyage. He was very eager to be well, or at least to be atliberty to move about again; and perhaps this impatient desire of hishelped in some measure to bring about his recovery. The will, physiologists tell us, has a great deal to do with these things. 

The voyage was a prosperous one. The good ship steamed gaily across theAtlantic through the bleak spring weather; and there was plenty of eatingand drinking, and joviality and flirtation on board her, while JohnSaltram lay upon his back, very helpless, languishing to be astir oncemore. 

During these long dreary days and nights he had contrived to send severalmessages to the lady in the state-cabin, feeble pencil scrawls, imploringher to come to him, telling her that he was very ill, at death's dooralmost, and desired nothing so much as to see her, if only for a moment. But the answer--by word of mouth of the steward or stewardess always--wasunfailingly to the same effect:--the lady in number 7 refused to hold anycommunication with the sick gentleman. 

"She's a hard one!" the steward remarked to the stewardess, when theytalked the matter over in a comfortable manner during the progress of asnug little supper in the steward's cabin, "she must be an out-and-outhard-hearted one to stand out against him like that, if he is herhusband, and I suppose he is. I told her to-day--when I took hismessage--how bad he was, and that it was a chance if he ever went ashorealive; but she was walking up and down deck with her father ten minutesafterwards, laughing and talking like anything. I suppose he's been a badlot, Mrs. Peterson, and deserves no better from her; but still it doesseem hard to see him lying there, and his wife so near him, and yetrefusing to go and see him. "

"I've no common patience with her, " said the stewardess with acrimony;"the cold-hearted creature!--flaunting about like that, with a sickhusband within a stone's throw of her. Suppose he is to blame, Mr. Martin; whatever his faults may have been, it isn't the time for a wifeto remember them. "

To this Mr. Martin responded dubiously, remarking that there were somecarryings on upon the part of husbands which it was difficult for a wifenot to remember. 

The good ship sped on, unhindered by adverse winds or foul weather, andwas within twenty-four hours of her destination when John Saltram was atlast able to crawl out of the cabin, where he had lain for some eight ornine days crippled and helpless. 

The first purpose which he set himself to accomplish was an interviewwith Marian's father. He wanted to grapple his enemy somehow--toascertain the nature of the game that was being played against him. Hehad kept himself very quiet for this purpose, wishing to take PercivalNowell by surprise; and on this last day but one of the voyage, when hewas able for the first time to rise from his berth, no one but thesteward and the surgeon knew that he intended so to rise. 

He had taken the steward in some measure into his confidence; and thatofficial, after helping him to dress, left him seated in the cabin, whilehe went to ascertain the whereabouts of Mr. Nowell. Mr. Martin, thesteward, came back after about five minutes. 

"He's in the saloon, sir, reading, quite alone. You couldn't have abetter opportunity of speaking to him. "

"That's a good fellow. Then I'll go at once. "

"You'd better take my arm, sir; you're as weak as a baby, and the shiplurches a good deal to-day. "

"I'm not very strong, certainly. I begin to think I never shall be strongagain. Do you know, Martin, I was once stroke in a university eight. Notmuch vigour in my biceps now, eh?"

It was only a few paces from one cabin to the other; but Mr. Saltramcould scarcely have gone so far without the steward's supporting arm. Hewas a feeble-looking figure, with a white wan face, as he tottered alongthe narrow passage between the tables, making his way to that end of thesaloon where Percival Nowell lounged luxuriously, with his legs stretchedat full length upon the sofa, and a book in his hand. 

"Mr. Nowell, I believe, " said the sick man, as the other looked up athim with consummate coolness. Whatever his feelings might be with regardto his daughter's husband, he had had ample time to prepare himself foran encounter with him. 

"Yes, my name is Nowell. But I have really not the honour to----"

"You do not know me, " answered John Saltram. "No, but it is time you didso. I am your daughter's husband, John Holbrook. "

"Indeed. I have heard that she has been persecuted by the messages ofsome person calling himself her husband. You are that person, I presume. "

"I have tried to persuade my wife to see me. Yes; and I mean to see herbefore this vessel arrives in port. "

"But if the lady in question refuses to have anything to say to you?"

"We shall soon put that to the test. I have been too ill to stir eversince I came on board, or you would have heard of me before this, Mr. Nowell. Now that I can move about once more, I shall find a way to assertmy claims, you may be sure. But in the first place, I want to know bywhat right you stole my wife away from her home--by what right youbrought her on this voyage?"

"Before I answer that question, Mr. --Mr. Holbrook, as you choose to callyourself, I'll ask you another. By what right do you call yourself mydaughter's husband? what evidence have you to produce to prove that youare not a bare-faced impostor? You don't carry your marriage-certificateabout with you, I daresay; and in the absence of some kind of documentaryevidence, what is to convince me that you are what you pretend to be--mydaughter's husband?"

"The evidence of your daughter's own senses. Place me face to face withher; she will not deny my identity. "

"But how, if my daughter declines to see you, as she does mostpositively? She has suffered enough at your hands, and is only too gladto be released from you. "

"She has suffered--she is glad to be released! Why, you most consummatescoundrel!" cried John Saltram, "there never was an unkind word spokenbetween my wife and me! She was the best, most devoted of women; andnothing but the vilest treachery could have separated us. I know not whatvillanous slander you have made her believe, or by what means you luredher away from me; but I know that a few words between us would let in thelight upon your plot. You had better make the best of a bad position, Mr. Nowell. As my wife's father, you know, you are pretty sure to escape. Whatever my inclination might be, my regard for her would make meindulgent to you. You'll find candour avail you best in this case, depend upon it. Your daughter has inherited a fortune, and you want toput your hand upon it altogether. It would be wiser to moderate yourdesires, and be content with a fair share of the inheritance. Yourdaughter is not the woman to treat you ungenerously, nor am I the man tocreate any hindrance to her generosity. "

"I can make no bargain with you, sir, " replied Mr. Nowell, with the samecool audacity of manner that had distinguished him throughout theinterview; "nor am I prepared to admit your claim to the position youassume. But if my daughter is your wife, she left you of her own freewill, under no coercion of mine; and she must return to you in the samemanner, or you must put the machinery of the law in force to compel her. And _that_, I flatter myself, in a free country like America, will berather a difficult business. "

It was hard for John Saltram to hear any man talk like this, and not beable to knock him down. But in his present condition Marian's husbandcould not have grappled a child, and he knew it. 

"You are an outrageous scoundrel!" he said between his set teeth, tortured by that most ardent desire to dash his clenched fist into Mr. Nowell's handsome dissolute-looking face. "You are a most consummatevillain, and you know it!"

"Hard words mean so little, " returned Mr. Nowell coolly, "and go for solittle. That kind of language before witnesses would be actionable; but, upon my word, it would be mere child's play on my part to notice it, especially to a man in your condition. You'd better claim your wife fromthe captain, and see what he will say to you. I have told him thatthere's some semi-lunatic on board, who pretends to be Mrs. Holbrook'shusband; so he'll be quite prepared to hear your statement. "

John Saltram left the saloon in silence. It was worse than uselesstalking to this man, who presumed upon his helpless state, and openlydefied him. His next effort must be to see Marian. 

This he found impossible, for the time being at any rate. The state-roomnumber 7 was an apartment a little bigger than a rabbit-hutch, openingout of a larger cabin, and in that cabin there reposed a ponderous matronwho had suffered from sea-sickness throughout the voyage, and who couldin no wise permit a masculine intruder to invade the scene of herretirement. 

The idea of any blockade of Marian's door was therefore futile. He mustneeds wait as patiently as he might, till she appeared of her own freewill. He could not have to wait very long; something less than a day anda night, the steward had told him, would bring them to the end of thevoyage. 

Mr. Saltram went on deck, still assisted by the friendly steward, andseated himself in a sheltered corner of the vessel, hoping that thesea-breeze might bring him back some remnant of his lost strength. Theship's surgeon had advised him to get a little fresh air as soon as hefelt himself able to bear it; so he sat in his obscure nook, veryhelpless and very feeble, meditating upon what he should do when thefinal moment came and he had to claim his wife. 

He had no idea of making his wrongs known to the captain, unless as alast desperate resource. He could not bring himself to make Marian thesubject of a vulgar squabble. No, it was to herself alone he wouldappeal; it was in the natural instinct of her own heart that he wouldtrust. 

Very long and weary seemed the remaining hours of that joyless voyage. Mr. Saltram was fain to go back to his cabin after an hour on deck, thereto lie and await the morrow. He had need to husband his strength for thecoming encounter. The steward told him in the evening that Mrs. Holbrookhad not dined in the saloon that day, as usual. She had kept her cabinclosely, and complained of illness. 

The morning dawned at last, after what had seemed an endless night toJohn Saltram, lying awake in his narrow berth--a bleak blusterousmorning, with the cold gray light staring in at the port-hole, like anunfriendly face. There was no promise in such a daybreak; it was onlylight, and nothing more. 

Mr. Saltram, having duly deliberated the matter during the long hours ofthat weary night, had decided that his wisest course was to lie _perdu_until the last moment, the very moment of landing, and then to comeboldly forward and make his claim. It was useless to waste his strengthin any futile endeavour to baffle so hardy a scoundrel as PercivalNowell. At the last, when Marian was leaving the ship, it would be timefor him to assert his right as her husband, and to defy the wretch whohad beguiled her away from him. 

Having once arrived at this decision, he was able to await the issue ofevents with some degree of tranquility. He had no doubt, even now, of hiswife's affection for him, no fear as to the ultimate triumph of her loveover all the lies and artifices of that scheming scoundrel, her father. 

It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when the steward came totell him that they were on the point of arriving at their destination. The wharf where they were to land was within sight. The man had promisedto give him due warning of this event, and John Saltram had thereforecontrived to keep himself quiet amidst all the feverish impatience andconfusion of mind prevailing, amongst the other passengers. He wasrewarded for his prudence; for when he rose to go on deck, he foundhimself stronger than he had felt yet. He went up the companion-ladder, took his place close to the spot at which the passengers must all leavethe vessel, and waited. 

New York was very near. The day had been cold and showery, but the sunwas shining now, and the whole scene looked bright and gay. Every oneseemed in high spirits, as if the new world they were about to touchcontained for them a certainty of Elysium. It was such a delicious reliefto arrive at the great lively Yankee city, after the tedium of aten-day's voyage, pleasant and easy as the transit had been. 

John Saltram looked eagerly among the faces of the crowd, but neitherPercival Nowell nor his daughter were to be seen amongst them. Presentlythe vessel touched the wharf, and the travellers began to move towardsthe gangway. He watched them, one by one, breathlessly. At the very last, Mr. Nowell stepped quickly forward, with a veiled figure on his arm. 

She was closely veiled, her face quite hidden by thick black lace, andshe was clinging with something of a frightened air to her companion'sarm. 

John Saltram sprang up from his post of observation, and confronted thetwo before they could leave the vessel. 

"Marian, " he said, in slow decided tone, "let go that man's arm. You willleave this vessel with me, and with no one else. "

"Stand out of the way, fellow, " cried Percival Nowell; "my daughter canhave nothing to say to you. "

"Marian, for God's sake, obey me! There is the vilest treachery in thisman's conduct. Let go his arm. My love, my darling, come with me!"

There was a passionate appeal in his tone, but it produced no answer. 

"Marian!" he cried, still interposing himself between these two and thepassage to the landing wharf. "Marian, I will have some answer!"

"You have had your answer, sir, " said Percival Nowell, trying to push himaside. "This lady does not know you. Do you want to make a scene, andrender yourself ridiculous to every one here? There are plenty of lunaticasylums in New York that will accommodate you, if you are determined tomake yourself eligible for them. "

"Marian!" repeated John Saltram, without vouchsafing the faintest noticeof this speech. "Marian, speak to me!"

And then, as there came no answer from that shrinking clinging figure, with a sudden spring forward, that brought him quite close to her, JohnSaltram tore the veil away from the hidden face. 

"This must be some impostor, " he said; "this is not my wife. "

He was right. The creature clinging to Percival Nowell's arm was a prettywoman enough, with rather red hair, and a common face. She was aboutMarian's height; and that was the only likeness between them. 

The spectators of this brief fracas crowded round the actors in it, seeing nothing but the insult offered to a lady, and highly indignantwith John Saltram; and amidst their murmurs Percival Nowell pushed hisway to the shore, with the woman still clinging to his arm. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

THE PLEASURES OF WYNCOMB. 

That shrill anguish-stricken cry which Ellen Whitelaw had heard on thenight of the stranger's visit to Wyncomb Farm haunted her afterwards witha wearisome persistence. She could not forget that wild unearthly sound;she could not help continually trying to find some solution for themystery, until her brain was tired with the perpetual effort. 

Ponder upon this matter as she might, she could find no reasonableexplanation of the enigma; and in spite of her common sense--a quality ofwhich she possessed a very fair share--she was fain to believe at lastthat this grim bare-looking old house was haunted, and that the agonisedshriek she and Mrs. Tadman had heard that night was only the ghostlysound of some cry wrung from a bleeding heart in days gone by, the echoof an anguish that had been in the far past. 

She even went so far as to ask her husband one day if he had ever heardthat the house was haunted, and whether there was any record of crime orwrong that had been done in it in the past. Mr. Whitelaw seemed scarcelyto relish the question; but after one of his meditative pauses laughedhis wife's inquiry to scorn, and told her that there were no ghosts atWyncomb except the ghosts of dead rats that had ravaged thegranaries--and certainly _they_ seemed to rise from their graves in spiteof poison and traps, cats and ferrets--and that, as to anything that hadbeen done in the house in days gone by, he had never heard tell that hisancestors had ever done anything but eat and drink and sleep, and savemoney from year's end to year's end; and a hard time they'd had of it topay their way and put something by, in the face of all the difficultiesthat surround the path of a farmer. 

If Ellen Whitelaw's life had been as the lives of happier women, full ofsmall daily cares and all-engrossing domestic interests, the memory ofthat unearthly scream would no doubt have faded out of her mind ere long, instead of remaining, as it did, a source of constant perplexity to her. But there was no interest, no single charm in her life. There was nothingin the world left for her to care for. The fertile flats around WyncombFarmhouse bounded her universe. Day by day she rose to perform the samemonotonous duties, sustained by no lofty aim, cheered by neitherfriendship nor affection; for she could not teach herself to feelanything warmer than toleration for her daily companion, Mrs. Tadman--only working laboriously because existence was more endurable toher when she was busy than when she was idle. It was scarcely strange, then, that she brooded upon the memory of that night when the namelessstranger had come to Wyncomb, and that she tried to put the fact of hiscoming and that other incident of the cry together, and to make somethingout of the two events by that means; but put them together as she might, she was no nearer any solution of the mystery. That her husband and thestranger could have failed to hear that piercing shriek seemed almostimpossible: yet both had denied hearing it. The story of the strangerhaving knocked his shin and cried out on doing so, appeared like a feebleattempt to account for that wild cry. Vain and hopeless were all herendeavours to arrive at any reasonable explanation, and her attempts toget anything like an opinion out of Mrs. Tadman were utterly useless. Mr. Whitelaw's cousin was still inclined to take a gloomy view of thestranger's visit, in spite of her kinsman's assurance that thetransaction between himself and the unknown was a profitable one. Horse-racing--if not parting with a farm--Mrs. Tadman opined was at thebottom of the business; and when did horse-racing ever fail to lead toruin sooner or later? It was only a question of time. Ellen sighed, remembering how her father had squandered his employer's money on therace-course, and how, for that folly of his, she had been doomed tobecome Stephen Whitelaw's wife. But there did not seem to her to beanything of the horsey element in her husband's composition. He was neveraway from home, except to attend to his business at market; and she hadnever seen him spelling over the sporting-papers, as her father had beenwont to do, night after night, with a perplexed brow and an anxious face, making calculations upon the margin of the print every now and then witha stump of lead pencil, and chewing the end of it meditatively in theintervals of his lection. 

Although Mrs. Whitelaw did not, like Mrs. Tadman, associate the idea ofthe stranger's visit with any apprehension of her husband's impendingruin, she could not deny that some kind of change had arisen in him sincethat event. He had always drunk a good deal, in his slow quiet manner, which impressed people unacquainted with his habits with a notion of hissobriety, even when he was steadily emptying the bottle before him; buthe drank more now, and sat longer over his drink, and there was an aspectof trouble and uneasiness about him at times which fairly puzzled hiswife. Of course the most natural solution for all this was the oneoffered by the dismally prophetic Tadman. Stephen Whitelaw had beenspeculating or gambling, and his affairs were in disorder. He was not aman to be affected by anything but the most sordid considerations, onewould suppose. Say that he had lost money, and there you had a key to thewhole. 

He got into a habit of sitting up at night, after the rest of thehousehold had gone to bed. He had done this more or less from the time ofhis marriage; and Mrs. Tadman had told Ellen that the habit was one whichhad arisen within the last few months. 

"He would always see to the fastenings of the house with his own eyes, "Mrs. Tadman said; "but up to last autumn he used to go upstairs with meand the servants. It's a new thing for him to sit up drinking his glassof grog in the parlour by himself. "

The new habit seemed to grow upon Mr. Whitelaw more rapidly after thatvisit of the stranger's. He took to sitting up till midnight--an awfulhour in a farm-house; and Ellen generally found the spirit-bottle emptyin the morning. Night after night, he went to bed soddened with drink. Once, when his kinswoman made some feeble remonstrance with him aboutthis change in his habits, he told her savagely to hold her tongue--hecould afford to drink as much as he pleased--he wasn't likely to comeupon _her_ to pay for what he took. As for his wife, she unhappily carednothing what he did. He could not become more obnoxious to her than hehad been from the first hour of her acquaintance with him, let him dowhat he would. 

Little by little, finding no other explanation possible, Mrs. Whitelawgrew to believe quite firmly in the supernatural nature of thatunforgotten cry. She remembered the unexplainable footstep which she hadheard in the padlocked room in the early dusk of that new-year's-day, when Mrs. Tadman and she explored the old house; and she associated thesetwo sounds in her mind as of a like ghostly character. From this timeforward she shrank with a nervous terror from that darksome passageleading to the padlocked door at the end of the house. She had never anyoccasion to go in this direction. The rooms in this wing were low, dark, and small, and had been unused for years. It was scarcely any wonder ifrats had congregated behind the worm-eaten wainscot, to scare nervouslisteners with their weird scratchings and scramblings. But no one couldconvince Ellen Whitelaw that the sounds she had heard on new-year's-daywere produced by anything so earthly as a rat. With that willingness tobelieve in a romantic impossibility, rather than in a commonplaceimprobability so natural to the human mind, she was more ready toconceive the existence of a ghost than that her own sense of hearingmight have been less powerful than her fancy. About the footsteps shewas quite as positive as she was about the scream; and in the lastinstance she had the evidence of Mrs. Tadman's senses to support her. 

She was surprised to find one day, when the household drudge, MarthaHolden, had been cleaning the passage and rooms in that deserted wing--atask very seldom performed--that the girl had the same aversion to thatpart of the house which she felt herself, but of which she had neverspoken in the presence of the servants. 

"If it wasn't for Mrs. Tadman driving and worrying after me all the timeI'm at work, I don't think I could stay there, mum, " Martha told hermistress. "It isn't often I like to be fidgetted and followed; butanything's better than being alone in that unked place. "

"It's rather dark and dreary, certainly, Martha, " Ellen answered with anadmirable assumption of indifference; "but, as we haven't any of us gotto live there, that doesn't much matter. "

"It isn't that, mum. I wouldn't mind the darkness and the dreariness--andI'm sure such a place for spiders I never did see in my life; there wasone as I took down with my broom to-day, and scrunched, as big as a smallcrab--but it's worse than, that: the place is haunted. "

"Who told you that?"

"Sarah Batts. "

"Sarah Batts! Why, how should she know anything about it? She hasn't beenhere so long as you; and she came straight from the workhouse. "

"I think master must have told her, mum. "

"Your master would never have said anything so foolish. I know that _he_doesn't believe in ghosts; and he keeps all his garden-seeds in thelocked room at the end of the passage; so he must go there sometimeshimself. "

"O yes, mum; I know that master goes there. I've seen him go that way atnight with a candle. "

"Well, you silly girl, he wouldn't use the room if he thought it washaunted, would he? There are plenty more empty rooms in the house. "

"I don't know about that, I'm sure, mum; but anyhow I know Sarah Battstold me that passage was haunted. 'Don't you never go there, Martha, ' shesays, 'unless you want to have your blood froze. I've heard things therethat have froze mine. ' And I never should go, mum, if it wasn't formoth--Mrs. Tadman's worrying and driving, about the place being cleanedonce in a way. And Sarah Batts is right, mum, however she may have got toknow it; for I have heard things. "

"What things?"

"Moaning and groaning like, as if it was some one in pain; but all verylow; and I never could make out where it came from. But as to the placebeing haunted, I've no more doubt about it than about my catechism. "

"But, Martha, you ought to know it's very silly and wicked to believe insuch things, " Ellen Whitelaw said, feeling it her duty to lecture thegirl a little, and yet half inclined to believe her. "The moanings andgroanings, as you call them, were only sounds made by the wind, Idaresay. "

"O dear no, mum, " Martha answered, shaking her head in a decided manner;"the wind never made such noises as _I_ heard. But I don't want to makeyou nervous, mum; only I'd sooner lose a month's wages than stay for anhour alone in the west wing. "

It was strange, certainly; a matter of no importance, perhaps, this idlebelief of a servant's, these sounds which harmed no one; and yet allthese circumstances worried and perplexed Ellen Whitelaw. Having solittle else to think of, she brooded upon them incessantly, and wasgradually getting into a low nervous way. If she complained, which shedid very rarely, there was no one to sympathise with her. Mrs. Tadman hadso many ailments of her own, such complicated maladies, suchdeeply-rooted disorders, that she could be scarcely expected to give muchattention to the trivial sufferings of another person. 

"Ah, my dear, " she would exclaim with a groan, if Ellen ventured tocomplain of a racking headache, "when you've lived as long as I have, andgone through what I've gone through, and have got such a liver as I'vegot, you'll know what bad health means. But at your age, and with yourconstitution, it's nothing more than fancy. "

And then Mrs. Tadman would branch off into a graphic description of herown maladies, to which Ellen was fain to listen patiently, wonderingvaguely as she listened whether the lapse of years would render her aswearisome a person as Mrs. Tadman. 

She had no sympathy from anyone. Her father came to Wyncomb Farm once aweek or so, and sat drinking and smoking with Mr. Whitelaw; but Ellennever saw him alone. He seemed carefully to avoid the chance of beingalone with her, guiltily conscious of his part in the contriving of hermarriage, and fearing to hear some complaint about her lot. He pretendedto take it for granted that her fate was entirely happy, congratulatedher frequently upon her prosperity, and reminded her continually that itwas a fine thing to be the sole mistress of the house she lived in, instead of a mere servant--as he himself was, and as she had been at theGrange--labouring for the profit of other people. 

Up to this time Mr. Carley had had some reason to be disappointed withthe result of his daughter's marriage, so far as his own prosperity wasaffected thereby. Not a sixpence beyond that one advance of the twohundred pounds had the bailiff been able to extort from his son-in-law. It was the price that Mr. Whitelaw had paid for his wife, and he meant topay no more. He told William Carley as much one day when the question ofmoney matters was pushed rather too far--told him in the plainestlanguage. 

This was hard; but that two hundred pounds had saved the bailiff fromimminent destruction. He was obliged to be satisfied with this advantage, and to bide his time. 

"I'll have it out of the mean hound sooner or later, " he muttered tohimself as he walked homewards, after a social evening with the master ofWyncomb. 

One evening Mr. Carley brought his daughter a letter. It was from GilbertFenton, who was quite unaware of Ellen's marriage, and had written to herat the Grange. This letter afforded her the only pleasure she had knownsince fate had united her to Stephen Whitelaw. It told her that MarianHolbrook was living, and in all probability safe--though by no means ingood hands. She had sailed for America with her father; but her husbandwas in hot pursuit of her, and her husband was faithful. 

"I have schooled myself to forgive him, " Gilbert went on to say, "for Iknow that he loves her--and that must needs condone my wrongs. I lookforward anxiously to their return from America, and hope for a happyreunion amongst us all--when your warm friendship shall not be forgotten. I am waiting impatiently for news from New York, and will write to youagain directly I hear anything definite. We have suffered the torments ofsuspense for a long weary time, but I trust and believe that the sky isclearing. "

This was not much, but it was more than enough to relieve Ellen Carley'smind of a heavy load. Her dear young lady, as she called Marian, was notdead--not lying at the bottom of that cruel river, at which Ellen hadoften looked with a shuddering horror, of late, thinking of what mightbe. She was safe, and would no doubt be happy. This was something. Amidthe wreck of her own fortunes, Ellen Whitelaw was unselfish enough torejoice in this. 

Her husband asked to see Mr. Fenton's letter, which he spelt over withhis usual deliberate air, and which seemed to interest him more thanEllen would have supposed likely--knowing as she did how deeply he hadresented Marian's encouragement of Frank Randall's courtship. 

"So she's gone to America with her father, has she?" he said, when he hadperused the document twice. "I shouldn't have thought anybody could havepersuaded her to leave that precious husband of hers. And she's gone offto America, and he after her! That's rather a queer start, ain't it, Nell?" Mrs. Whitelaw did not care to discuss the business with herhusband. There was something in his tone, a kind of veiled malice, whichmade her angry. 

"I don't suppose you care whether she's alive or dead, " she saidimpatiently; "so you needn't trouble yourself to talk about her. "

"Needn't I? O, she's too grand a person to be talked of by such as me, isshe? Never mind, Nell; don't be cross. And when Mrs. Holbrook comes backto England, you shall go and see her. "

"I will, " answered Ellen; "if I have to walk to London to do it. "

"O, but you sha'n't walk. You shall go by rail. I'll spare you the moneyfor that, for once in a way, though I'm not over fond of wasting money. "

Day by day Mr. Whitelaw's habits grew more secluded and morose. It is notto be supposed that he was troubled by those finer feelings which mighthave made the misery of a better man; but even in his dull nature theremay have been some dim sense that his marriage was a failure and mistake;that in having his own way in this matter he had in nowise secured hisown happiness. He could not complain of his wife's conduct in any onerespect. She was obedient to his will in all things, providing for hiscomfort with scrupulous regularity, industrious, indefatigable even. As ahousekeeper and partner of his fortunes, no man could have desired abetter wife. Yet dimly, in that sluggish soul, there was theconsciousness that he had married a woman who hated him, that he hadbought her with a price; and, being a man prone to think the worst of hisfellow-creatures, Mr. Whitelaw believed that, sooner or later, his wifemeant to have her revenge upon him somehow. She was waiting for his deathperhaps; calculating that, being so much her senior, and a hard-workingman, he would die soon enough to leave her a young widow. And then, ofcourse, she would marry Frank Randall; and all the money which he, Stephen, had amassed, by the sacrifice of every pleasure in life, wouldenrich that supercilious young coxcomb. 

It was a hard thing to think of, and Stephen pondered upon the expediencyof letting off Wyncomb Farm, and sinking all his savings in the purchaseof an annuity. He could not bring himself to contemplate selling thehouse and lands that had belonged to his race for so many generations. Heclung to the estate, not from any romantic reverence for the past, notfrom any sentimental associations connected with those who had gonebefore him, but from the mere force of habit, which rendered this grimugly old house and these flat shelterless fields dearer to him than allthe rest of the universe. He was a man to whom to part with anything wasagony; and if he loved anything in the world, he loved Wyncomb. Thepossession of the place had given him importance for twenty years past. He could not fancy himself unconnected with Wyncomb. His labours hadimproved the estate too; and he could not endure to think how some luckypurchaser might profit by his prudence and sagacity. There had been somefine old oaks on the land when he inherited it, all mercilesslystubbed-up at the beginning of his reign; there had been tall stragglinghedgerows, all of a tangle with blackberry bushes, ferns, and dog-roses, hazel and sloe trees, all done away with by his order. No, he could neverbring himself to sell Wyncomb. Nor was the purchase of an annuity atransaction which he was inclined to accomplish. It was a pleasing notioncertainly, that idea of concentrating all his hoarded money upon theremaining years of his life--retiring from the toils of agriculture, andgiving himself up for the rest of his days to an existence of luxuriousidleness. But, on the other hand, it would be a bitter thing to surrenderhis fondly-loved money for the poor return of an income, to deprivehimself of all opportunity of speculating and increasing his store. 

So the annuity scheme lay dormant in his brain, as it were, for the timebeing. It was something to have in reserve, and to carry out any day thathis wife gave him fair cause to doubt her fidelity. 

In the mean time he went on living his lonely sulky kind of life, drinking a great deal more than was good for him in his own churlishmanner, and laughing to scorn any attempt at remonstrance from his wifeor Mrs. Tadman. Some few times Ellen had endeavoured to awaken him to theevil consequences that must needs ensue from his intemperate habits, feeling that it would be a sin on her part to suffer him to go on withoutsome effort to check him; but her gently-spoken warnings had been worsethan useless. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

MR. WHITELAW MAKES AN END OF THE MYSTERY. 

Mrs. Whitelaw had been married about two months. It was bright Mayweather, bright but not yet warm; and whatever prettiness Wyncomb Farmwas capable of assuming had been put on with the fresh spring green ofthe fields and the young leaves of the poplars. There were even a fewhardy flowers in the vegetable-garden behind the house, humble perennialsplanted by dead and gone Whitelaws, which had bloomed year after year inspite of Stephen's utilitarian principles. It was a market-day, thehousehold work was finished, and Ellen was sitting with Mrs. Tadman inthe parlour, where those two spent so many weary hours of their lives, the tedium whereof was relieved only by woman's homely resource, needlework. Even if Mrs. Whitelaw had been fond of reading, and she onlycared moderately for that form of occupation, she could hardly have foundintellectual diversion of that kind at Wyncomb, where a family Bible, afew volumes of the _Annual Register_, which had belonged to somehalf-dozen different owners before they came from a stall in Malshammarket to the house of Whitelaw, a grim-looking old quarto upon domesticmedicine, and a cookery-book, formed the entire library. When the dutiesof the day were done, and the local weekly newspaper had been read--anintellectual refreshment which might be fairly exhausted in tenminutes--there remained nothing to beguile the hours but the perpetualstitch--stitch--stitch of an industriously-disposed sempstress; and thetwo women used to sit throughout the long afternoons with theirwork-baskets before them, talking a little now and then of the mostcommonplace matters, but for the greater part of their time silent. Sometimes, when the heavy burden of Mrs. Tadman's society, and theclicking of needles and snipping of scissors, grew almost unendurable, Ellen would run out of the house for a brief airing in the garden, andwalk briskly to and fro along the narrow pathway between the potatoes andcabbages, thinking of her dismal life, and of the old days at the Grangewhen she had been full of gaiety and hope. There was not perhaps muchoutward difference in the two lives. In her father's house she had workedas hard as she worked now; but she had been free in those days, and theunknown future all before her, with its chances of happiness. Now, shefelt like some captive who paces the narrow bounds of his prison-yard, without hope of release or respite, except in death. 

This particular spring day had begun brightly, the morning had been sunnyand even warm; but now, as the afternoon wore away, there were darkclouds, with a rising wind and a sharp gusty shower every now and then. Ellen took a solitary turn in the garden between the showers. It wasmarket-day; Stephen Whitelaw was not expected home till tea-time, and themeal was to be eaten at a later hour than usual. 

The rain increased as the time for the farmer's return drew nearer. Hehad gone out in the morning without his overcoat, Mrs. Tadman remembered, and was likely to get wet through on his way home, unless he should haveborrowed some extra covering at Malsham. His temper, which of late hadbeen generally at its worst, would hardly be improved by this annoyance. 

There was a very substantial meal waiting for him: a ponderous joint ofcold roast beef, a dish of ham and eggs preparing in the kitchen, with anagreeable frizzling sound, a pile of hot buttered cakes kept hot upon theoven top; but there was no fire in the parlour, and the room looked alittle cheerless in spite of the well-spread table. They had discontinuedfires for about a fortnight, at Mr. Whitelaw's command. He didn't want tobe ruined by his coal-merchant's bill if it was a chilly spring, he toldhis household; and at his own bidding the fire-place had been polishedand garnished for the summer. But this evening was colder than anyevening lately, by reason of that blusterous rising wind, which blew therain-drops against the window-panes with as sharp a rattle as if they hadbeen hailstones; and Mr. Whitelaw coming in presently, disconsolate anddripping, was by no means inclined to abide by his own decision about thefires. 

"Why the ---- haven't you got a fire here?" he demanded savagely. 

"It was your own wish, Stephen, " answered Mrs. Tadman. 

"My own fiddlesticks! Of course I didn't care to see my wood and coalsburning to waste when the sun was shining enough to melt any one. Butwhen a man comes home wet to the skin, he doesn't want to come into aroom like an ice-house. Call the girl, and tell her to light a blazingfire while I go and change my clothes. Let her bring plenty of wood, andput a couple of logs on top of the coals. I'm frozen to the very bonesdriving home in the rain. "

Mrs. Tadman gave a plaintive sigh as she departed to obey her kinsman. 

"That's just like Stephen, " she said; "if it was you or me that wanted afire, we might die of cold before we got leave to light one; but he nevergrudges anything for his own comfort!"

Martha came and lighted a fire under Mrs. Tadman's direction. That ladywas inclined to look somewhat uneasily upon the operation; for the gratehad been used constantly throughout a long winter, and the chimney hadnot been swept since last spring, whereby Mrs. Tadman was conscious of agreat accumulation of soot about the massive old brickwork and ponderousbeams that spanned the wide chimney. She had sent for the Malsham sweepsome weeks ago; but that necessary individual had not been able to comeon the particular day she wished, and the matter had been since thenneglected. She remembered this now with a guilty feeling, more especiallyas Stephen had demanded a blazing fire, with flaring pine-logs piledhalf-way up the chimney. He came back to the parlour presently, arrayedin an old suit of clothes which he kept for such occasions--an old greencoat with basket buttons, and a pair of plaid trousers of an explodedshape and pattern--and looking more like a pinched and pallid scarecrowthan a well-to-do farmer. Mrs. Tadman had only carried out his commandsin a modified degree, and he immediately ordered the servant to put acouple of logs on the fire, and then drew the table close up to thehearth, and sat down to his tea with some appearance of satisfaction. Hehad had rather a good day at market, he condescended to tell his wifeduring the progress of the meal; prices were rising, his old hay wasselling at a rate which promised well for the new crops, turnips were inbrisk demand, mangold enquired for--altogether Mr. Whitelaw confessedhimself very well satisfied with the aspect of affairs. 

After tea he spent his evening luxuriantly, sitting close to the fire, with his slippered feet upon the fender, and drinking hot rum-and-wateras a preventive of impending, or cure of incipient, cold. Therum-and-water being a novelty, something out of the usual order of hisdrink, appeared to have an enlivening effect upon him. He talked morethan usual, and even proposed a game at cribbage with Mrs. Tadman; acondescension which moved that matron to tears, reminding her, she said, of old times, when they had been so comfortable together, before he hadtaken to spend his evenings at the Grange. 

"Not that I mean any unkindness to you, Ellen, " the doleful Tadman addedapologetically, "for you've been a good friend to me, and if there's onemerit I can lay claim to, it's a grateful heart; but of course, when aman marries, he never is the same to his relations as when he was single. It isn't in human nature that he should be. "

Here Mrs. Tadman's amiable kinsman requested her to hold her jaw, and tobring the board if she was going to play, or to say as much if shewasn't. Urged by this gentle reminder, Mrs. Tadman immediately produced asomewhat dingy-looking pack of cards and a queer little old-fashionedcribbage-board. 

The game lasted for about an hour or so, at the end of which time thefarmer threw himself back in his chair with a yawn, and pronounced thathe had had enough of it. The old eight-day clock in the lobby struck tensoon after this, and the two women rose to retire, leaving Stephen to hisnight's libations, and not sorry to escape out of the room, which he hadconverted into a kind of oven or Turkish bath by means of the roaringfire he had insisted upon keeping up all the evening. He was left, therefore, with his bottle of rum about half emptied, to finish hisnight's entertainment after his own fashion. 

Mrs. Tadman ventured a mild warning about the fire when she wished himgood night; but as she did not dare to hint that there had been anyneglect in the chimney-sweeping, her counsel went for very little. Mr. Whitelaw threw on another pine-log directly the two women had left him, and addressed himself to the consumption of a fresh glass ofrum-and-water. 

"There's nothing like being on the safe side, " he muttered to himselfwith an air of profound wisdom. "I don't want to be laid up with therheumatics, if I can help it. "

He finished the contents of his glass, and went softly out of the room, carrying a candle with him. He was absent about ten minutes, and thencame back to resume his comfortable seat by the fire, and mixed himselfanother glass of grog with the air of a man who was likely to finish thebottle. 

While he sat drinking in his slow sensual way, his young wife sleptpeacefully enough in one of the rooms above him. Early rising andindustrious habits will bring sleep, even when the heart is hopeless andthe mind is weary. Mrs. Whitelaw slept a tranquil dreamless sleepto-night, while Mrs. Tadman snored with a healthy regularity in a room onthe opposite side of the passage. 

There was a faint glimmer of dawn in the sky, a cold wet dawn, when Ellenwas awakened suddenly by a sound that bewildered and alarmed her. It wasalmost like the report of a pistol, she thought, as she sprang out ofbed, pale and trembling. It was not a pistol shot, however, only ahandful of gravel thrown sharply against her window. 

"Stephen, " she cried, half awake and very much, frightened, "what wasthat?" But, to her surprise, she found that her husband was not in theroom. 

While she sat on the edge of her bed hurrying some of her clothes on, half mechanically, and wondering what that startling sound could havebeen, a sudden glow of red light shone in at her window, and at the samemoment her senses, which had been only half awakened before, told herthat there was an atmosphere of smoke in the room. 

She rushed to the door, forgetting that to open it was perhaps to admitdeath, and flung it open. Yes, the passage was full of smoke, and therewas a strange crackling sound below. 

There could be little doubt as to what had happened--the house was onfire. She remembered how repeatedly Mrs. Tadman had declared that Stephenwould inevitably set the place on fire some night or other, and howlittle weight she had attached to the dismal prophecy. But the matron'sfears had not been groundless, it seemed. The threatened calamity hadcome. 

"Stephen!" she cried, with all her might, and then flew to Mrs. Tadman'sdoor and knocked violently. She waited for no answer, but rushed on tothe room where the two women-servants slept together, and called to themloudly to get up for their lives, the house was on fire. 

There were still the men in the story above to be awakened, and the smokewas every moment growing thicker. She mounted a few steps of thestaircase, and called with all her strength. It was very near their timefor stirring. They must hear her, surely. Suddenly she remembered an olddisused alarm-bell which hung in the roof. She had seen the frayed ropebelonging to it hanging in an angle of the passage. She flew to this, andpulled it vigorously till a shrill peal rang out above; and once havingaccomplished this, she went on, reckless of her own safety, thinking onlyhow many there were to be saved in that house. 

All this time there was no sign of her husband, and a dull horror cameover her with the thought that he might be perishing miserably below. There could be no doubt that the fire came from downstairs. Thatcrackling noise had increased, and every now and then there came a soundlike the breaking of glass. The red glow shining in at the front windowsgrew deeper and brighter. The fire had begun in the parlour, of course, where they had left Stephen Whitelaw basking in the warmth of hisresinous pine-logs. 

Ellen was still ringing the bell, when she heard a man's footstep comingalong the passage towards her. It was not her husband, but one of thefarm-servants from the upper story, an honest broad-shouldered fellow, asstrong as Hercules. 

"Lord a mercy, mum, be that you?" he cried, as he recognised the whitehalf-dressed figure clinging to the bell-rope "let me get 'ee out o'this; the old place'll burn like so much tinder;" and before she couldobject, he had taken her up in his arms as easily as if she had been achild, and was carrying her towards the principal staircase. 

Here they were stopped. The flames and smoke were mounting from the lobbybelow; the man turned immediately, wasting no time by indecision, and ranto the stairs leading down to the kitchen. In this direction all wassafe. There was smoke, but in a very modified degree. 

"Robert, " Ellen cried eagerly, when they had reached the kitchen, whereall was quiet, "for God's sake, go and see what has become of yourmaster. We left him drinking in the parlour last night. I've called tohim again and again, but there's been no answer. "

"Don't you take on, mum; master's all right, I daresay. Here be the galsand Mrs. Tadman coming downstairs; they'll take care o' you, while I goand look arter him. You've no call to be frightened. If the fire shouldcome this way, you've only got to open yon door and get out into theyard. You're safe here. "

The women were all huddled together in the kitchen by this time, halfdressed, shivering, and frightened out of their wits. Ellen Whitelaw wasthe only one among them who displayed anything like calmness. 

The men were all astir. One had run across the fields to Malsham tosummon the fire-engine, another was gone to remove some animals stablednear the house. 

The noise of burning wood was rapidly increasing, the smoke came creepingunder the kitchen-door presently, and, five minutes after he had leftthem, the farm-servant came back to say that he could find no traces ofhis master. The parlor was in flames. If he had been surprised by thefire in his sleep, it must needs be all over with him. The man urged hismistress to get out of the house at once; the fire was gaining groundrapidly, and it was not likely that anything he or the other men could dowould stop its progress. 

The women left the kitchen immediately upon this warning, by a doorleading into the yard. It was broad daylight by this time; a chillysunless morning, and a high wind sweeping across the fields and fanningthe flames, which now licked the front wall of Wyncomb Farmhouse. Thetotal destruction of the place seemed inevitable, unless help fromMalsham came very quickly. The farm servants were running to and fro withbuckets of water from the yard, and flinging their contents in at theshattered windows of the front rooms; but this was a small means ofchecking the destruction. The house was old, built for the most part ofwood, and there seemed little hope for it. 

Ellen and the other women went round to the front of the house, and stoodthere, dismal figures in their scanty raiment, with woollen petticoatspinned across their shoulders, and disordered hair blown about theirfaces by the damp wind. They stood grouped together in utterhelplessness, looking at the work of ruin with a half-stupid air; almostlike the animals who had been hustled from one place of shelter toanother, and were evidently lost in wonder as to the cause of theirremoval. 

But presently, as the awful scene before them grew more familiar, theinstincts of self-interest arose in each breast. Mrs. Tadman piteouslybewailed the loss of her entire wardrobe, and some mysterious pocket-bookwhich she described plaintively as her "little all. " She dwelt dolefullyupon the merits of each particular article, most especially upon aFrench-merino dress she had bought for Stephen's wedding, which wouldhave lasted her a lifetime, and a Paisley shawl, the gift of her deceasedhusband, which had been in her possession twenty years, and had not somuch as a thin place in it. 

Nor was the disconsolate matron the only one who lamented her losses. Sarah Batts, with clasped hands and distracted aspect, wept for thedestruction of her "box. "

"There was money in it, " she cried, "money! Oh, don't you think the mencould get to my room and save it?"

"Money!" exclaimed Mrs. Tadman, sharply, aroused from the contemplationof her own woes by this avowal; "you must be cleverer than I took youfor, Sarah Batts, to be able to save money, and yet be always bedizenedwith some new bit of finery, as you've been. "

"It was give to me, " Sarah answered indignantly, "by them as had a rightto give it. "

"For no good, I should think, " replied Mrs. Tadman; "what should anybodygive you money for?"

"Never you mind; it was mine. O dear, O dear! if one of the men wouldonly get my box for me. "

She ran to intercept one of the farm-labourers, armed with his bucket, and tried to bribe him by the promise of five shillings as a reward forthe rescue of her treasures. But the man only threatened to heave thebucket of water at her if she got in his way; and Miss Batts was obligedto abandon this hope. 

The fire made rapid progress meanwhile, unchecked by that ineffectualsplashing of water. It had begun at the eastern end of the building, theend most remote from those disused rooms in the ivy-covered west wing;but the wind was blowing from the north-east, and the flames werespreading rapidly towards that western angle. There was little chancethat any part of the house could be saved. 

While Ellen Whitelaw was looking on at the work of ruin, with a sense ofutter helplessness, hearing the selfish lamentations of Mrs. Tadman andSarah Batts like voices in a dream, she was suddenly aroused from thisstate of torpor by a loud groan, which sounded from not very far off. Itcame from behind her, from the direction of the poplars. She flew to thespot, and on the ground beneath one of them she found a helpless figurelying prostrate, with an awful smoke-blackened face--a figure and facewhich for some moments she did not recognize as her husband's. 

She knew him at last, however, and knelt down beside him. He was groaningin an agonized manner, and had evidently been fearfully burnt before hemade his escape. 

"Stephen!" she cried. "O, thank God you are here! I thought you were shutup in that burning house. I called with all my might, and the mensearched for you. "

"It isn't much to be thankful for, " gasped the farmer. "I don't supposethere's an hour's life in me; I'm scorched from head to foot, and onearm's helpless. I woke up all of a sudden, and found the room in a blaze. The flames had burst out of the great beam that goes across thechimney-piece. The place was all on fire, so that I couldn't reach thedoor anyhow; and before I could get out of the window, I was burnt likethis. You'd have been burnt alive in your bed but for me. I threw up ahandful of gravel at your window. It must have woke you, didn't it?"

"Yes, yes, that was the sound that woke me; it seemed like a pistol goingoff. You saved my life, Stephen. It was very good of you to remember me. "

"Yes; there's men in my place who wouldn't have thought of anybody butthemselves. "

"Can I do anything to ease you, Stephen?" asked his wife. 

She had seated herself on the grass beside him, and had taken his head onher lap, supporting him gently. She was shocked to see the change thefire had made in his face, which was all blistered and distorted. 

"No, nothing; till they come to carry me away somewhere. I'm all oneburning pain. "

His eyes closed, and he seemed to sink into a kind of stupor. Ellencalled to one of the men. They might carry him to some place of sheltersurely, at once, where a doctor could be summoned, and something done forhis relief. There was a humble practitioner resident at Crosber, that isto say, about two miles from Wyncomb. One of the farm-servants might takea horse and gallop across the fields to fetch this man. 

Robert Dunn, the bailiff, heard her cries presently and came to her. Hewas very much shocked by his master's condition, and at once agreed tothe necessity of summoning a surgeon. He proposed that they should carryStephen Whitelaw to some stables, which lay at a safe distance from theburning house, and make up some kind of bed for him there. He ran back todispatch one of the men to Crosber, and returned immediately with anotherto remove his master. 

But when they tried to raise the injured man between them, he cried outto them to let him alone, they were murdering him. Let him lie where hewas; he would not be moved. So he was allowed to lie there, with his headon his wife's lap, and his tortured body covered by a coat, which one ofthe men brought him. His eyes closed again, and for some time he laywithout the slightest motion. 

The fire was gaining ground every instant, and there was yet no sign ofthe engine from Malsham; but Ellen Whitelaw scarcely heeded the work ofdestruction. She was thinking only of the helpless stricken creaturelying with his head upon her lap; thinking of him perhaps in this hour ofhis extremity with all the more compassion, because he had always beenobnoxious to her. She prayed for the rapid arrival of the surgeon, whomust surely be able to give some relief to her husband's sufferings, shethought. It seemed dreadful for him to be lying like this, with noattempt made to lessen his agony. After a long interval he lifted hisscorched eyelids slowly, and looked at her with a strange dim gaze. 

"The west wing, " he muttered; "is that burnt?"

"No, Stephen, not yet; but there's little hope they'll save any part ofthe house. "

"They must save that; the rest don't matter--I'm insured heavily; butthey must save the west wing. "

His wife concluded from this that he had kept some of his money in oneof those western rooms. The seed-room perhaps, that mysterious padlockedchamber, where she had heard the footstep. And yet she had heard him sayagain and again that he never kept an unnecessary shilling in the house, and that every pound he had was out at interest. But such falsehoods andcontradictions are common enough amongst men of miserly habits; andStephen Whitelaw would hardly be so anxious about those western roomsunless something of value were hidden away there. He closed his eyesagain, and lay groaning faintly for some time; then opened them suddenlywith a frightened look and asked, in the same tone, "The west wing--is the west wing afire yet?"

"The wind blows that way, Stephen, and the flames are spreading. I don'tthink they could save it--not if the engine was to come this minute. "

"But I tell you they must!" cried Stephen Whitelaw. "If they don't, it'llbe murder--cold-blooded murder. O, my God, I never thought there was muchharm in the business--and it paid me well--but it's weighed me down likea load of lead, and made me drink more to drown thought. But if it shouldcome to this--don't you understand? Don't sit staring at me like that. Ifthe fire gets to the west wing, it will be murder. There's some onethere--some one locked up--that won't be able to stir unless they get herout. "

"Some one locked up in the west wing! Are you mad, Stephen?"

"It's the truth. I wouldn't do it again--no, not for twice the money. Letthem get her out somehow. They can do it, if they look sharp. "

That unforgotten footstep and equally unforgotten scream flashed intoMrs. Whitelaw's mind with these words of her husband's. Some one shut upthere; yes, that was the solution of the mystery that had puzzled andtormented her so long. That cry of anguish was no supernatural echo ofpast suffering, but the despairing shriek of some victim of moderncruelty. A poor relation of Stephen's perhaps--a helpless, mindlesscreature, whose infirmities had been thus hidden from the world. Suchthings have been too cruelly common in our fair free country. 

Ellen laid her husband's head gently down upon the grass and sprang toher feet. 

"In which room?" she cried. But there was no answer. The man lay withclosed eyes--dying perhaps--but she could do nothing for him till medicalhelp came. The rescue of that unknown captive was a more urgent duty. 

She was running towards the burning house, when she heard a horsegalloping on the road leading from the gate. She stopped, hoping thatthis was the arrival of the doctor; but a familiar voice called to her, and in another minute her father had dismounted and was close at herside. 

"Thank God you're safe, lass!" he exclaimed, with some warmer touch ofpaternal feeling than he was accustomed to exhibit. "Our men saw the firewhen they were going to their work, and I came across directly. Where'sSteph?"

"Under the trees yonder, very much hurt; I'm afraid fatally. But there'snothing we can do for him till the doctor comes. There's someone in stillgreater danger, father. For God's sake, help us to save her--some oneshut up yonder, in a room at that end of the house. "

"Some one shut up! One of the servants, do you mean?"

"No, no, no. Some one who has been kept shut up there--hidden--ever solong. Stephen told me just now. O, father, for pity's sake, try to saveher!"

"Nonsense, lass. Your husband's brain must have been wandering. Whoshould be shut up there, and you live in the house and not know it? Whyshould Stephen hide any one in his house? What motive could he have forsuch a thing? It isn't possible. "

"I tell you, father, it is true. There was no mistaking Stephen's wordsjust now, and, besides that, I've heard noises that might have told me asmuch, only I thought the house was haunted. I tell you there is someone--some one who'll be burnt alive if we're not quick--and everymoment's precious. Won't you try to save her?"

"Of course I will. Only I don't want to risk my life for a fancy. Isthere a ladder anywhere?"

"Yes, yes. The men have ladders. "

"And where's this room where you say the woman is shut up?"

"At that corner of the house, " answered Ellen, pointing. 

"There's a door at the end of the passage, but no window looking thisway. There's only one, and that's over the wood-yard. "

"Then it would be easiest to get in that way?"

"No, no, father. The wood's all piled up above the window. It would takesuch a time to move it. "

"Never mind that. Anything's better than the risk of going into yonderhouse. Besides, the room's locked, you say. Have you got the key?"

"No; but I could get it from Stephen, I daresay. "

"We won't wait for you to try. We'll begin at the wood-yard. "

"Take Robert Dunn with you, father. He's a good brave fellow. "

"Yes, I'll take Dunn. "

The bailiff hurried away to the wood-yard, accompanied by Dunn andanother man carrying a tall ladder. The farm-servants had ceased fromtheir futile efforts at quenching the fire by this time. It was a labourtoo hopeless to continue. The flames had spread to the west wing. The ivywas already crackling, as the blaze crept over it. Happily that shut-uproom was at the extreme end of the building, the point to which theflames must come last. And here, just at the moment when the work ofdevastation was almost accomplished, came the Malsham fire-enginerattling along gaily through the dewy morning, and the Malsham amateurfire-brigade, a very juvenile corps as yet, eager to cover itself withlaurels, but more careful in the adjustment of its costume than was quiteconsistent with the desperate nature of its duty. Here came the brigade, in time to do something at any rate, and the engine soon began to playbriskly upon the western wing. 

Ellen Whitelaw was in the wood-yard, watching the work going on therewith intense anxiety. The removal of the wood pile seemed a slowbusiness, well as the three men performed their work, flinging down greatcrushing piles of wood one after another without a moment's pause. Theywere now joined by the Malsham fire-escape men, who had got wind of someone to be rescued from this part of the house, and were eager to exhibitthe capabilities of a new fire-escape, started with much hubbub andglorification, after an awful fire had ravaged Malsham High-street, andhalf-a-dozen lives had been wasted because the old fire-escape was out oforder and useless. 

"We don't want the fire-escape, " cried Mr. Carley as the tall machine waswheeled into the yard. "The room we want to get at isn't ten feet fromthe ground. You can give us a hand with this wood if you like. That's allwe want. "

The men clambered on to the wood-pile. It was getting visibly lower bythis time, and the top of the window was to be seen. Ellen watched withbreathless anxiety, forgetting that her husband might be dying under thepoplars. He was not alone there; she had sent Mrs. Tadman to watch him. 

Only a few minutes more and the window was cleared. A pale face could bedimly seen peering out through the dusty glass. William Carley tried toopen the lattice, but it was secured tightly within. One of the firemenleapt forward upon his failure, and shattered every pane of glass andevery inch of the leaden frame with a couple of blows from his axe, andthen the bailiff clambered into the room. 

He was hidden from those below about five minutes, and then emerged fromthe window, somehow or other, carrying a burden, and came strugglingacross the wood to the ladder by which he and the rest had mounted. Theburden which he carried was a woman's figure, with the face hidden by hislarge woollen neckerchief. Ellen gave a cry of horror. The woman mustsurely be dead, or why should he have taken such pains to cover her face?

He brought his burden down the ladder very carefully, and gave thelifeless figure into Ellen's arms. 

"Help me to carry her away yonder, while Robert gets the cart ready, " hesaid to his daughter; "she's fainted. " And then he added in a whisper, "For God's sake, don't let any one see her face! it's Mrs. Holbrook. "

CHAPTER XLIV. 

AFTER THE FIRE. 

Yes, it was Marian. She whom Gilbert Fenton had sought so long andpatiently, with doubt and anguish in his heart; she whose double JohnSaltram had followed across the Atlantic, had been within easy reach ofthem all the time, hidden away in that dreary old farm-house, theinnocent victim of Percival Nowell's treachery, and Stephen Whitelaw'sgreed of gain. The whole story was told by-and-by, when the master ofWyncomb Farm lay dying. 

William Carley and his daughter took her to the Grange as soon as thefarmer's spring cart was ready to convey her thither. It was all donevery quickly, and none of the farm-servants saw her face. Even if theyhad done so, it is more than doubtful that they would have recognisedher, so pale a shadow of her former self had she become during that longdreary imprisonment; the face wan and wasted, with a strange sharpenedlook about the features which was like the aspect of death; all thebrightness and colour vanished out of the soft brown hair; an ashenpallor upon her beauty, that made her seem like a creature risen from thegrave. 

They lifted her into the cart, still insensible, and seated her there, wrapped in an old horse-cloth, with her head resting on Mrs. Whitelaw'sshoulder; and so they drove slowly away. It was only when they had gonesome little distance from the farm, that the fresh morning air revivedher, and she opened her eyes and looked about her, wildly at first, andwith a faint shuddering sigh. 

Then, after a few moments, full consciousness came back to her, and asudden cry of rapture broke from the pale lips. "O God!" she exclaimed, "am I set free?"

"Yes, dear Mrs. Holbrook, you are free, never again to go back to thatcruel place. O, to think that you should be used so, and I so near!"

Marian lifted her head from Ellen's shoulder, and recognised her with asecond cry of delight. 

"Ellen, is it you? Then I am safe; I must be safe with you. "

"Safe! yes, dear. I would die sooner than any harm should come to youagain. Who could have brought this cruelty about? who could have shut youup in that room?"

"My father, " Marian answered with a shudder. "He wanted my money, Isuppose; and instead of killing me, he shut me up in that place. "

She said no more just then, being too weak to say much; and Ellen, whowas employed in soothing and comforting her, did not want her to talk. Itwas afterwards, when she had been established in her old rooms at theGrange, and had taken a little breakfast, that she told Ellen somethingmore about her captivity. 

"O, Ellen, if I were to tell you what I have suffered! But no, there areno words can tell that. It's not that they ill-used me. The girl whowaited on me brought me good food, and even tried to make me comfortablein her rough way; but to sit there day after day, Ellen, alone, with onlya dim light from the top of the window above the wood-stack; to sit therewondering about my husband, whether he was searching for me still, andwould ever find me, or whether, as was more likely, he had given me upfor dead. Think of me, Ellen, if you can, sitting there for weeks andmonths in my despair, trying to reckon the days sometimes by the aid ofsome old newspaper which the girl brought me now and then, at other timeslosing count of them altogether. "

"Dear Mrs. Holbrook, I can't understand it even yet. Tell me how it allcame about--how they ever lured you into that place. "

"It was easy enough, Ellen; I wasn't conscious when they took me there. The story is very short. You remember that day when you left the Grange, how happy I was, looking forward to my husband's return, and thinking ofthe good news I had to tell him. We were to be rich, and our lives freeand peaceful henceforward; and I had seen him suffer so much for the wantof money. It was the morning after you left when the post brought me aletter from my father--a letter with the Malsham post-mark. I had seenhim in town, as you know, and was scarcely surprised that he should writeto me. But I was surprised to find him so near me, and the contents ofthe letter were very perplexing. My father entreated me to meet him onthe river-side pathway, between Malsham station and this house. He hadbeen informed of my habits, he said, and that I was accustomed to walkthere. That was curious, when, so far as I knew, he had sever been nearthis place; but I hardly thought about the strangeness of it then. Hebegged me so earnestly to see him; it was a matter of life or death, hesaid. What could I do, Nelly? He was my father, and I felt that I owedhim some duty. I could not refuse to see him; and if he had some personalobjection to coming here, it seemed a small thing for me to take thetrouble to go and meet him. I could but hear what he had to say. "

"I wish to heaven I had been here!" exclaimed Ellen; "you shouldn't havegone alone, if I had known anything about it. "

"I think, if you had been here, I should have told you about the letter, for it puzzled me a good deal, and I knew how well I could trust you. Butyou were away; and my father's request was so urgent--the hour wasnamed--I could do nothing but accede to it. So I went, leaving no messagefor you or for my husband, feeling so sure of my return within an hour ortwo. "

"And you found your father waiting for you?"

"Yes, on the river-bank, within a short distance of Mr. Whitelaw's house. He began by congratulating me on the change in my prospects, --I was arich woman, he said. And then he went on to vilify my husband in suchhateful words, Ellen; telling me that I had married a notorious scoundreland profligate, and that he could produce ample evidence of what heaffirmed; and all this with a pretended pity for my weakness andignorance of the world. I laughed his shameful slanders to scorn, andtold him that I knew my husband too thoroughly to be alarmed even for amoment by such groundless charges. He still affected to compassionate meas the weakest and most credulous of women, and then came to a proposalwhich he said he had travelled to Hampshire on purpose to make to me. Itwas, that I should leave my husband, and place myself under hisprotection; that I should go to America with him when he returned there, and so preserve my fortune from the clutches of a villain. 'My fortune?'I said; 'yes, I see that it is _that_ alone you are thinking of. How canyou suppose me so blind as not to understand that? You had better becandid with me, and say frankly what you want. I have no doubt my husbandwill allow me to make any reasonable sacrifice in your favour. '"

"What did he say to that?"

"He laughed bitterly at my offer. 'Your husband!' he said 'I am notlikely to see the colour of my father's money, if you are to be governedby him. ' 'You do him a great wrong, ' I answered. 'I am sure that he willact generously, and I shall be governed by him. '"

"He was very angry, I suppose?"

"No doubt of it; but for some time he contrived to suppress allappearance of anger, and urged me to believe his statements about myhusband, and to accept his offer of a home and protection with him. Icannot tell you how plausible his words were--what an appearance ofaffection and interest in my welfare he put on. Then, finding me firm, hechanged his tone, and there were hidden threats mixed with hisentreaties. It would be a bad thing for me if I refused to go with him, he said; I would have cause to repent my folly for the rest of my life. He said a great deal, using every argument it is possible to imagine; andthere was always the same threatening under-tone. He could not move me inthe least, as you may fancy, Nell. I told him that nothing upon earthwould induce me to leave my husband, or to think ill of him. And in thismanner we walked up and down for nearly two hours, till I began to feelvery tired and faint. My father saw this, and when we came within sightof Wyncomb Farmhouse, proposed that I should go in and rest, and take aglass of milk or some kind of refreshment. I was surprised at thisproposal, and asked him if he knew the people of the house. He said yes, he knew something of Mr. Whitelaw; he had met him the night before in thecoffee-room of the inn at Malsham. "

"Then your father had slept at Malsham the night before?"

"Evidently. His letter to me had been posted at Malsham, you know. Iasked him how long he had been in this part of the country, and he ratherevaded the question. Not long, he said; and he had come down here only tosee me. At first I refused to go into Mr. Whitelaw's house, being onlyanxious to get home as quickly as possible. But my father seemed offendedby this. I wanted to get rid of him, he said, although this was likely tobe our last interview--the very last time in his life that he would eversee me, perhaps. I could not surely grudge him half an hour more of mycompany. I could scarcely go on refusing after this; and I really felt sotired and faint, that I doubted my capability of walking back to thishouse without resting. So I said yes, and we went into Wyncomb Farmhouse. The door was opened by a girl when my father knocked. There was no one athome, she told him; but we were quite welcome to sit down in the parlour, and she would bring me a glass of fresh milk and a slice ofbread-and-butter. 

"The house had a strange empty look, I thought. There was none of thelife or bustle one expects to see at a farm; all was silent as the grave. The gloom and quietness of the place chilled me somehow. There was a fireburning in the parlour, and my father made me sit down very close to it, and I think the heat increased that faintness which I had felt when Icame into the house. 

"Again and again he urged his first demand, seeming as if he would weardown all opposition by persistence. I was quite firm; but the effect ofall this argument was very wearisome, and I began to feel really ill. 

"I think I must have been on the point of fainting, when the door wasopened suddenly, and Mr. Whitelaw came in. In the next moment, while theroom was spinning round before my eyes, and that dreadful giddiness thatcomes before a dead faint was growing worse, my father snatched me up inhis arms, and threw a handkerchief over my face. I had just sense enoughto know that there was chloroform upon it, and that was all. When Iopened my eyes again, I was lying on a narrow bed, in a dimly-lightedroom, with a small fire burning in a rusty grate in one corner, and sometea-things, with a plate of cold meat, on a table near it. There was ascrap of paper on this table, with a few lines scrawled upon it inpencil, in my father's hand: 'You have had your choice, either to share aprosperous life with me, or to be shut up like a mad woman. You hadbetter make yourself as comfortable as you can, since you have no hope ofescape till it suits my purpose to have you set free. Good care will betaken of you. You must have been a fool to suppose that I would submit tothe injustice of J. N. 's will. '

"For a long time I sat like some stupid bewildered creature, going overthese words again and again, as if I had no power to understand them. Itwas very long before I could believe that my father meant to shut me upin that room for an indefinite time--for the rest of my life, perhaps. But, little by little, I came to believe this, and to feel nothing but ablank despair. O, Nelly, I dare not dwell upon that time! I suffered toomuch. God has been very merciful to me in sparing me my mind; for therewere times when I believe I was quite mad. I could pray sometimes, butnot always. I have spent whole days in prayer, almost as if I fanciedthat I could weary out my God with supplications. "

"And Stephen; did you see him?"

"Yes, now and then--once in several days, in a week perhaps. He used tocome, like the master of a madhouse visiting his patients, to see that Iwas comfortable, he said. At first I used to appeal to him to set mefree--kneeling at his feet, promising any sacrifice of my fortune for himor for my father, if they would release me. But it was no use. He was ashard as a rock; and at last I felt that it was useless, and used to seehim come and go with hopeless apathy. No, Ellen, there are no words candescribe what I suffered. I appealed to the girl who waited on me daily, but who came only once a-day, and always after dark. I might as well haveappealed to the four walls of my room; the girl was utterly stolid. Shebrought me everything I was likely to want from day to day, and gave meample means of replenishing my fire, and told me that I ought to makemyself comfortable. I had a much better life than any one in theworkhouse, she said; and I must be very wicked if I complained. I believeshe really thought I was a harmless madwoman, and that her master had aright to shut me up in that room. One night, after I had been there for atime that seemed like eternity, my father came----"

"What!" cried Ellen Whitelaw, "the stranger! I understand. That man wasyour father; he came to see you that night; and as he was leaving you, you gave that dreadful shriek we heard downstairs. O, if I had known thetruth--if I had only known!"

"_You_ heard me, Ellen? You were there?" Marian exclaimed, surprised. Shewas, as yet, entirely ignorant of Ellen's marriage, and had been too muchbewildered by the suddenness of her escape to wonder how the bailiff'sdaughter had happened to be so near at hand in that hour of deadly peril. 

"Yes, yes, dear Mrs. Holbrook; I was there, and I did not help you. Butnever mind that now; tell me the rest of your story; tell me how yourfather acted that night. "

"He was with me alone for about ten minutes; he came to give me a lastchance, he said. If I liked to leave my husband for ever, and go toAmerica with him, I might do so; but before he let me out of that place, he must have my solemn oath that I would make no attempt to see myhusband; that I would never again communicate with any one I had known upto that time; that I would begin a new life, with him, my father, for mysole protector. I had had some experience of the result of opposing him, he said, and he now expected to find me reasonable. 

"You can imagine my answer, Ellen. I would do anything, sacrificeanything, except my fidelity to my husband. Heaven knows I would havegiven twenty years of my life to escape from that dismal place, with themere chance of being able to get back to my husband; but I would not takea false oath; I could not perjure myself, as that man would have made meperjure myself, in order to win my release. I knelt at his feet and clungabout him, beseeching him with all the power I had to set me free; but hewas harder than iron. Just at the end, when he had the door open, and wasleaving me, telling me that I had lost my last chance, and would neversee him again, I clung about him with one wild desperate cry. He flung meback into the room violently, and shut the door in my face. I fanciedafterwards that that cry must have been heard, and that, if there hadbeen any creature in the house inclined to help me, there would have comean end to my sufferings. But the time passed, and there was no change;only the long dreary days, the wretched sleepless nights. "

This was all. There were details of her sufferings which Marian told herfaithful friend by-and-by, when her mind was calmer, and they had leisurefor tranquil talk; but the story was all told; and Marian lay down torest in the familiar room, unspeakably grateful to God for her rescue, and only eager that her husband should be informed of her safety. She hadnot yet been told that he had crossed the Atlantic in search of her, deluded by a false scent. Ellen feared to tell her this at first; and shehad taken it for granted that John Saltram was still in London. It waseasy to defer any explanation just yet, on account of Marian's weakness. The exertion of telling the brief story of her sufferings had left herprostrate; and she was fain to obey her friendly nurse. 

"We will talk about everything, and arrange everything, by-and-by, dearMrs. Holbrook, " Ellen said resolutely; "but for the present you _must_rest, and you must take everything that I bring you, and be very good. "

And with that she kissed and left her, to perform another and lessagreeable duty--the duty of attendance by her husband's sick-bed. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

MR. WHITELAW MAKES HIS WILL. 

They had carried Stephen Whitelaw to the Grange; and he lay a helplesscreature, beyond hope of recovery, in one of the roomy old-fashionedbed-chambers. 

The humble Crosber surgeon had done his best, and had done it skilfully, being a man of large experience amongst a lowly class of sufferers; andto the aid of the Crosber surgeon had come a more prosperous practitionerfrom Malsham, who had driven over in his own phaeton; but between themboth they could make nothing of Stephen Whitelaw. His race was run. Hehad been severely burnt; and if his actual injuries were not enough tokill him, there was little chance that he could survive the shock whichhis system had received. He might linger a little; might hold out longerthan they expected; but his life was a question of hours. 

The doomed man had seemed from the first to have a conviction of thetruth, and appeared in no manner surprised when, in answer to hisquestions, the Malsham doctor admitted that his case was fatal, andsuggested that, if he had anything to do in the adjustment of hisaffairs, he could scarcely do it too soon. At this Mr. Whitelaw groanedaloud. If he could in any manner have adjusted his affairs so as to takehis money with him, the suggestion might have seemed sensible enough;but, that being impracticable, it was the merest futility. He had nevermade a will; it cost him too much anguish to give away his money even onpaper. And now it was virtually necessary that he should do so, or else, perhaps, his wealth would, by some occult process, be seized upon by thecrown--a power which he had been accustomed to regard in the abstractwith an antagonistic feeling, as being the root of queen's taxes. Toleave all to his wife, with some slight pension to Mrs. Tadman, seemedthe most obvious course. He had married for love, and the wife of hischoice had been very dutiful and submissive. What more could he havedemanded from her? and why should he grudge her the inheritance of hiswealth? Well, he would not have grudged it to her, perhaps, since someone must have it, if it had not been for that aggravating conviction thatshe would marry again, and that the man she preferred to him would riotin the possession of his hardly-earned riches. She would marry FrankRandall; and between them they would mismanage, and ultimately ruin, thefarm. He remembered the cost of the manure he had put upon his fieldsthat year, and regretted that useless outlay. It was a hard thing to haveenriched his land only that others might profit by the produce. 

"And if I've laid down a yard of drain-pipes since last year, I've laiddown a dozen mile. There's not a bit of swampy ground or a patch of sourgrass on the farm, " he thought bitterly. 

He lay for some hours deliberating as to what he should do. Death was near, but not so very close to him just yet. He had time to think. No, come whatmight, he would not leave the bulk of his property to fall into the keepingof Frank Randall. 

He remembered that there were charitable institutions, to which a man, not wishing to enrich an ungrateful race, might bequeath his money, andobtain some credit for himself thereby, which no man could expect fromhis own relations. There was an infirmary at Malsham, rather a juvenileinstitution as yet, in aid whereof Mr. Whitelaw had often been plaguedfor subscriptions, reluctantly doling out half-a-guinea now and then, more often refusing to contribute anything. He had never thought of thisplace in his life before; but the image of it came into his mind now, ashe had seen it on market-days for the last four years--a bran newred-brick building in Malsham High-street. He thought how his name wouldlook, cut in large letters on a stone tablet on the face of that edifice. It would be something to get for his money; a very poor and paltrysomething, compared with the delight of possession, but just a littlebetter than nothing. 

He lay for some time pondering upon this, with that image of the stonetablet before his eyes, setting forth that the new wing of thisinstitution had been erected at the desire of the late Stephen Whitelaw, Esq. , of Wyncomb Farm, who had bequeathed a sum of money to the infirmaryfor that purpose, whereby two new wards had, in memory of that respectedbenefactor, been entitled the Whitelaw wards--or something to the likeeffect. He composed a great many versions of the inscription as he laythere, tolerably easy as to his bodily feelings, and chiefly anxiousconcerning the disposal of the money; but, being unaccustomed to the taskof composition, he found it more difficult than he could have supposed toset forth his own glory in a concise form of words. But the tablet wouldbe there, of course, the very centre and keystone of the building, as itwere; indeed, Mr. Whitelaw resolved to make his bequest contingent uponthe fulfilment of this desire. Later in the evening he told WilliamCarley that he had made up his mind about his will, and would be glad tosee Mr. Pivott, of Malsham, rival solicitor to Mr. Randall, of the sametown, as soon as that gentleman could be summoned to his bedside. 

The bailiff seemed surprised at this request. 

"Why, surely, Steph, you can't want a lawyer mixed up in the business!"he said. "Those sort of chaps only live by making work for one another. You know how to make your will well enough, old fellow, without anyattorney's aforesaids and hereinafters. Half a sheet of paper and acouple of sentences would do it, I should think; the fewer words thebetter. "

"I'd rather have Pivott, and do it in a regular manner, " Mr. Whitelawanswered quietly. "I remember, in a forgery case that was in the papersthe other day, how the judge said of the deceased testator, that, being alawyer, he was too wise to make his own will. Yes, I'd rather see Pivott, if you'll send for him, Carley. It's always best to be on the safe side. I don't want my money wasted in a chancery suit when I'm lying in mygrave. "

William Carley tried to argue the matter with his son-in-law; but theattempt was quite useless. Mr. Whitelaw had always been the mostobstinate of men--and lying on his bed, maimed and helpless, was no moreto be moved from his resolve than if he had been a Roman gladiator whohad just trained himself for an encounter with lions. So the bailiff wascompelled to obey him, unwillingly enough, and dispatched one of the mento Malsham in quest of Mr. Pivott the attorney. 

The practitioner came to the Grange as fast as his horse could carry him. Every one in Malsham knew by this time that Stephen Whitelaw was adoomed man; and Mr. Pivott felt that this was a matter of life and death. He was an eminently respectable man, plump and dapper, with a rosysmooth-shaven face, and an air of honesty that made the law seem quite apleasant thing. He was speedily seated by Mr. Whitelaw's bed, with a pairof candles and writing materials upon a little table before him, ready toobey his client's behests, and with the self-possessed aspect of a man towhom a last will and testament involving the disposal of a million or sowould have been only an every-day piece of practice. 

William Carley had shown himself very civil and obliging in providing forthe lawyer's comfort, and having done so, now took up his stand by thefire-place, evidently intending to remain as a spectator of the business. But an uneasy glance which the patient cast from time to time in thedirection of his father-in-law convinced Mr. Pivott that he wanted thatgentleman to be got rid of before business began. 

"I think, Mr. Carley, it would be as well for our poor friend and I to bealone, " he said in his most courteous accents. 

"Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed the bailiff contemptuously. "It isn't likelythat Stephen can have any secrets from his wife's father. I'm in nobody'sway, I'm sure, and I'm not going to put my spoke in the wheel, let himleave his money how he may. "

"Very likely not, my dear sir. Indeed, I am sure you would respect ourpoor friend's wishes, even if they were to take a form unpleasing toyourself, which is far from likely. But still it may be as well for Mr. Whitelaw and myself to be alone. In cases of this kind the patient is aptto be nervous, and the business is done more expeditiously if there is nothird party present. So, my dear Mr. Carley, if you have _no_objection----"

"Steph, " said the bailiff abruptly, "do _you_ want me out of the room?Say the word, if you do. "

The patient writhed, hesitated, and then replied with some confusion, --

"If it's all the same to you, William Carley, I think I'd sooner be alonewith Mr. Pivott. "

And here the polite attorney, having opened the door with his own hands, bowed the bailiff out; and, to his extreme mortification, William Carleyfound himself on the outside of his son-in-law's room, before he had timeto make any farther remonstrance. 

He went downstairs, and paced the wainscoted parlour in a very savageframe of mind. 

"There's some kind of devil's work hatching up there, " he muttered tohimself. "Why should he want me out of the room? He wouldn't, if he wasgoing to leave all his money to Ellen, as he ought to leave it. Who elseis there to get it? Not that old mother Tadman, surely. She's an artfulold harridan; and if my girl had not been a fool, she'd have got rid ofher out of hand when she married. Sure to goodness _she_ can never standbetween Stephen and his wife. And who else is there? No one that I knowof; no one. Stephen wouldn't have kept any secret all these years fromthe folks he's lived amongst. It isn't likely. He _must_ leave it all tohis wife, except a hundred or so, perhaps, to mother Tadman; and it wasnothing but his natural closeness that made him want me out of the way. "

And at this stage of his reflections, Mr. Carley opened a cupboard nearthe fire-place and brought therefrom a case-bottle, from the contents ofwhich he found farther solace. It was about half-an-hour after this thathe was summoned by a call from the lawyer, who was standing on the broadlanding-place at the top of the stairs with a candle in his hand, whenthe bailiff emerged from the parlour. 

"If you'll step up here, and bring one of your men with you, I shall beobliged, Mr. Carley, " the attorney said, looking over the banisters; "Iwant you to witness your son-in-law's will. " Mr. Carley's spirits rose alittle at this. He was not much versed in the ways of lawyers, and had anotion that Mr. Pivott would read the will to him, perhaps, before hesigned it. It flashed upon him presently that a legatee could not benefitby a will which he had witnessed. It was obvious, therefore, that Stephendid not mean him to have anything. Well, he had scarcely expectedanything. If his daughter inherited all, it would be pretty much the samething; she would act generously of course. 

He went into the kitchen, where the head man, who had been retained onthe premises to act as special messenger in this time of need, wassitting in the chimney-corner smoking a comfortable pipe after his walkto and from Malsham. 

"You're wanted upstairs a minute, Joe, " he said; and the two wentclumping up the wide old oaken staircase. 

The witnessing of the will was a very brief business. Mr. Pivott did notoffer to throw any light upon its contents, nor was the bailiff, sharpsighted as he might be, able to seize upon so much as one paragraphor line of the document during the process of attaching his signaturethereto. 

When the ceremony was concluded, Stephen Whitelaw sank back upon hispillow with an air of satisfaction. 

"I don't think I could have done any better, " he murmured. 

"It's a hard thing for a man of my age to leave everything behind him;but I don't see that I could have done better. "

"You have done that, my dear sir, which might afford comfort to anydeath-bed, " said the lawyer solemnly. 

He folded the will, and put it into his pocket. 

"Our friend desires me to take charge of this document, " he said toWilliam Carley. "You will have no reason to complain, on your daughter'saccount, when you become familiar with its contents. She has been fairlytreated--I may say very fairly treated. "

The bailiff did not much relish the tone of this assurance. Fairtreatment might mean very little. 

"I hope she has been well treated, " he answered in a surly manner. "She'sbeen a good wife to Stephen Whitelaw, and would continue so to be if hewas to live twenty years longer. When a pretty young woman marries a mantwice her age, she's a right to expect handsome treatment, Mr. Pivott. Itcan't be too handsome for justice, in my opinion. "

The solicitor gave a little gentle sigh. 

"As an interested party, Mr. Carley, " he said, "your opinion is not asvaluable as it might be under other circumstances. However, I don't thinkyour daughter will complain, and I am sure the world will applaud whatour poor friend has done--of his own accord, mind, Mr. Carley, wholly andsolely of his own spontaneous desire. It is a thing that I should onlyhave been too proud to suggest; but the responsibility of such asuggestion is one which I could never have taken upon myself. It wouldhave been out of my province, indeed. You will be kind enough to rememberthis by-and-by, my dear sir. "

The bailiff was puzzled, and showed Mr. Pivott to the door with a moodycountenance. 

"I thought there was some devil's work, " he muttered to himself, as hewatched the lawyer mount his stiff brown cob and ride away into thenight; "but what does it all mean? and what has Stephen Whitelaw donewith his money? We shall know that pretty soon, anyhow. He can't lastlong. "

CHAPTER XLVI. 

ELLEN REGAINS HER LIBERTY. 

Stephen Whitelaw lingered for two days and two nights, and at theexpiration of that time departed this life, making a very decent end ofit, and troubled by no thought that his existence had been an unworthyone. 

Before he died, he told his wife something of how he had been temptedinto the doing of that foul deed whereof Marian Saltram had been thevictim. Those two were alone together the day before he died, whenStephen, of his own free will, made the following statement:----

"It was Mrs. Holbrook's father, you see, " he said, in a plausible tone, "that put it to me, how he might want his daughter taken care of for atime--it might be a short time, or it might be rather a longish time, according to how circumstances should work out. We'd met once before atthe King's Arms at Malsham, where Mr. Nowell was staying, and where Iwent in of an evening, once in a way, after market; and he'd made prettyfree with me, and asked me a good many questions about myself, and toldme a good bit about himself, in a friendly way. He told me how hisdaughter had gone against him, and was likely to go against him, and howsome property that ought in common justice to have been left to him, hadbeen left to her. He was going to give her a fair chance, he said, if sheliked to leave her husband, who was a scheming scoundrel, and obey him. She might have a happy home with him, if she was reasonable. If not, heshould use his authority as a father. 

"He came to see me at Wyncomb next day--dropped in unawares like, whenmother Tadman was out of the way--not that I had asked him, you see. Heseemed to be quite taken with the place, and made me show him all overthe house; and then he took a glass of something, and sat and talked abit, and went away, without having said a word about his daughter. Butbefore he went he made me promise that I'd go and see him at the King'sArms that night. 

"Well, you see, Nell, as he seemed to have taken a fancy to me, as youmay say, and had told me he could put me up to making more of my money, and had altogether been uncommonly pleasant, I didn't care to say no, andI went. I was rather taken aback at the King's Arms when they showed meto a private room, because I'd met Mr. Nowell before in the Commercial;however, there he was, sitting in front of a blazing fire, and with acouple of decanters of wine upon the table. 

"He was very civil, couldn't have been more friendly, and we talked andtalked; he was always harping on his daughter; till at last he came outwith what he wanted. Would I give her house-room for a bit, just to keepher out of the way of her husband and such-like designing people, supposing she should turn obstinate and refuse to go abroad with him?'You've a rare old roomy place, ' he said. 'I saw some rooms upstairs atthe end of a long passage which don't seem to have been used for years. You might keep my lady in one of those; and that fine husband of herswould be as puzzled where to find her as if she was in the centre ofAfrica. It would be a very easy thing to do, ' he said; 'and it would beonly friendly in you to do it. '"

"O, Stephen!" cried his wife reproachfully, "how could you ever consentto such a wicked thing?"

"I don't know about the wickedness of it, " Mr. Whitelaw responded, withrather a sullen air; "a daughter is bound to obey her father, isn't she?and if she don't, I should think he had the power to do what he likedwith her. That's how I should look at it, if I was a father. It's allvery well to talk, you see, Nell, but you don't know the arguments such aman as that can bring to bear. I didn't want to do it; I was against itfrom the first. It was a dangerous business, and might bring me intotrouble. But that man bore down upon me to that extent that he made mepromise anything; and when I went home that night, it was with theunderstanding that I was to fit up a room--there was a double door to beput up to shut out sound, and a deal more--ready for Mrs. Holbrook, incase her father wanted to get her out of the way for a bit. "

"He promised to pay you, of course?" Ellen said, not quite able toconceal the contempt and aversion which this confession of her husband'sinspired. 

"Well, yes, a man doesn't put himself in jeopardy like that for nothing. He was to give me a certain sum of money down the first night that Mrs. Holbrook slept in my house; and another sum of money before he went toAmerica, and an annual sum for continuing to take care of her, if hewanted to keep her quiet permanently, as he might. Altogether it would bea very profitable business, he told me, and I ought to consider myselfuncommonly lucky to get such a chance. As to the kindness or unkindnessof the matter, it was better than shutting her up in a lunatic asylum, hesaid; and he might have to do that, if I refused to take her. She wasvery weak in her head, he said, and the doctors would throw no difficultyin his way, if he wanted to put her into a madhouse. "

"But you must have known that was a lie!" exclaimed Ellen indignantly. "You had seen and talked to her; you must have known that Mrs. Holbrookwas as sane as you or I. "

"I couldn't be supposed to know better than her own father, " answered Mr. Whitelaw, in an injured tone; "he had a right to know best. However, it'sno use arguing about it now. He had such a power over me that I couldn'tgo against him; so I gave in, and Mrs. Holbrook came to Wyncomb. She wasto be treated kindly and made comfortable, her father said; that wasagreed between us; and she has been treated kindly and made comfortable. I had to trust some one to wait upon her, and when Mr. Nowell saw the twogirls he chose Sarah Batts. 'That girl will do anything for money, ' hesaid; 'she's stupid, but she's wise enough to know her own interest, andshe'll hold her tongue. ' So I trusted Sarah Batts, and I had to pay herpretty stiffly to keep the secret; but she was a rare one to do the work, and she went about it as quiet as a mouse. Not even mother Tadman eversuspected her. "

"It was a wicked piece of business--wicked from first to last, " saidEllen. "I can't bear to hear about it. "

And then, remembering that the sinner was so near his end, and that thisvoluntary confession of his was in some manner a sign of repentance, shefelt some compunction, and spoke to him in a softer tone. 

"Still I'm grateful to you for telling me the truth at last, Stephen, "she said; "and, thank God, there's no harm done that need last for ever. Thank God that dear young lady did not lose her life, shut up a prisonerin that miserable room, as she might have done. "

"She had her victuals regular, " observed Mr. Whitelaw, "and the best. "

"Eating and drinking won't keep any one alive, if their heart'sbreaking, " said Ellen; "but, thank heaven, her sufferings have come to anend now, and I trust God will forgive your share in them, Stephen. "

And then, sitting by his bedside through the long hours of that night, she tried in very simple words to awaken him to a sense of his condition. It was not an easy business to let any glimmer of spiritual light in uponthe darkness of that sordid mind. There did arise perhaps in this lastextremity some dim sense of remorse in the breast of Mr. Whitelaw, somevague consciousness that in that one act of his life, and in the wholetenor of his life, he had not exactly shaped his conduct according tothat model which the parson had held up for his imitation in certainrather prosy sermons, indifferently heard, on the rare occasions of hisattendance at the parish church. But whatever terrors the world to comemight hold for him seemed very faint and shapeless, compared with thethings from which he was to be taken. He thought of his untimely death asa hardship, an injustice almost. When his wife entreated him to see thevicar of Crosber before he died, he refused at first, asking what goodthe vicar's talk could do him. 

"If he could keep me alive as long as till next July, to see how thoseturnips answer with the new dressing, I'd see him fast enough, " he saidpeevishly; "but he can't; and I don't want to hear his preaching. "

"But it would be a comfort to you, surely, Stephen, to have him talk toyou a little about the goodness and mercy of God. He won't tell you hardthings, I'm sure of that. "

"No, I suppose he'll try and make believe that death's uncommonpleasant, " answered Mr. Whitelaw with a bitter laugh; "as if it could bepleasant to any man to leave such a place as Wyncomb, after doing as muchfor the land, and spending as much labour and money upon it, as I havedone. It's like nurses telling children that a dose of physic's pleasant;they wouldn't like to have to take it themselves. "

And then by-and-by, when his last day had dawned, and he felt himselfgrowing weaker, Mr. Whitelaw expressed himself willing to comply with hiswife's request. 

"If it's any satisfaction to you, Nell, I'll see the parson, " he said. "His talk can't do me much harm, anyhow. " Whereupon the rector of Crosberand Hallibury was sent for, and came swiftly to perform his duty to thedying man. He was closeted with Mr. Whitelaw for some time, and did hisbest to awaken Christian feelings in the farmer's breast; but it wasdoubtful if his pious efforts resulted in much. The soul of StephenWhitelaw was in his barns and granaries, with his pigs and cattle. Hecould not so much as conceive the idea of a world in which there shouldbe no such thing as sale and profit. 

His end came quietly enough at last, and Ellen was free. Her time ofbondage had been very brief, yet she felt herself twenty years older thanshe had seemed before that interval of misery began. 

When the will was read by Mr. Pivott on the day of Stephen Whitelaw'sfuneral, it was found that the farmer had left his wife two hundred ayear, derivable from real estate. To Mrs. Rebecca Tadman, his cousin, hebequeathed an annuity of forty pounds, the said annuity to revert toEllen upon Mrs. Tadman's death should Ellen survive. The remainingportion of his real estate he bequeathed to one John James Harris, adistant cousin, who owned a farm in Wiltshire, with whom Stephen Whitelawhad spent some years of his boyhood, and from whom he had learned thescience of agriculture. It was less from any love the testator bore JohnJames Harris than from a morbid jealousy of his probable successor FrankRandall, that the Wiltshire farmer had been named as residuary legatee. If Stephen Whitelaw could have left his real estate to the Infirmary, hewould have so left it. His personal estate, consisting of diversinvestments in railway shares and other kinds of stock, all of a verysafe kind, was to be realized, and the entire proceeds devoted to theerection of an additional wing for the extension of Malsham Infirmary, and his gift was to be recorded on a stone tablet in a conspicuousposition on the front of that building. This, which was an absolutecondition attached to the bequest, had been set forth with greatminuteness by the lawyer, at the special desire of his client. 

Mr. Carley's expression of opinion after hearing this will read need notbe recorded here. It was forcible, to say the least of it; and Mr. Pivott, the Malsham solicitor, protested against such language as anoutrage upon the finer feelings of our nature. 

"Some degree of disappointment is perhaps excusable upon your part, mydear sir, " said the lawyer, who wished to keep the widow for his client, and had therefore no desire to offend her father; "but I am sure that inyour calmer moments you will admit that the work to which your son-in-lawhas devoted the bulk of his accumulations is a noble one. For ages tocome the sick and the suffering among our townsfolk will bless the nameof Whitelaw. There is a touching reflection for you, Mr. Carley! Andreally now, your amiable daughter, with an income of two hundred perannum--to say nothing of that reversion which must fall in to herby-and-by on Mrs. Tadman's decease--is left in a very fair position. Ishould not have consented to draw up that will, sir, if I had consideredit an unjust one. "

"Then there's a wide difference between your notion of justice and mine, "growled the bailiff; who thereupon relapsed into grim silence, feelingthat complaint was useless. He could no more alter the conditions of Mr. Whitelaw's will than he could bring Mr. Whitelaw back to life--and thatlast operation was one which he was by no means eager to perform. 

Ellen herself felt no disappointment; she fancied, indeed, that herhusband, whom she had never deceived by any pretence of affection, hadbehaved with sufficient generosity towards her. Two hundred a year seemeda large income to her. It would give her perfect independence, and thepower to help others, if need were. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

CLOSING SCENES. 

It was not until the day of her husband's funeral that Ellen Whitelawwrote to Mr. Fenton to tell him what had happened. She knew that herletter was likely to bring him post-haste to the Grange, and she wishedhis coming to be deferred until that last dismal day was over. Nor wasshe sorry that there should be some little pause--a brief interval ofignorance and tranquillity--in Marian's life before she heard of herhusband's useless voyage across the Atlantic. She was in sad need of restof mind and body, and even in those few days gained considerablestrength, by the aid of Mrs. Whitelaw's tender nursing. She had not lefther room during the time that death was in the darkened house, and it wasonly on the morning after the funeral that she came downstairs for thefirst time. Her appearance had improved wonderfully in that interval oflittle more than a week. Her eyes had lost their dim weary look, thedeathly pallor of her complexion had given place to a faint bloom. Butgrateful as she was for her own deliverance, she was full of anxietyabout her husband. Ellen Whitelaw's vague assurances that all would bewell, that he would soon be restored to her, were not enough to set hermind at ease. 

Ellen had not the courage to tell her the truth. It was better thatGilbert Fenton should do that, she thought. He who knew all thecircumstances of Mr. Holbrook's journey, and the probabilities as to hisreturn, would be so much better able to comfort and reassure his wife. 

"He will come to-day, I have no doubt, " Ellen said to herself on themorning after her husband's funeral. 

She told Marian how she had written to Mr. Fenton on the day before, inorder to avoid the agitation of a surprise, should he appear at theGrange without waiting to announce his coming. Nor was she mistaken as tothe probability of his speedy arrival. It was not long after noon whenthere came a loud peal of the bell that rang so rarely. Ellen ran herselfto the gate to admit the visitor. She had told him of her husband's deathin her last letter, and her widow's weeds were no surprise to him. He waspale, but very calm. 

"She is well?" he asked eagerly. 

"Yes, sir, she is as well as one could look for her to be, poor dear, after what she has gone through. But she is much changed since last yousaw her. You must prepare yourself for that, sir. And she is very anxiousabout her husband. I don't know how she'll take it, when she hears thathe has gone to America. "

"Yes, that is a bad business, Mrs. Whitelaw, " Gilbert answered gravely. "He was not in a fit state to travel, unfortunately. He was only justrecovering from a severe illness, and was as weak as a child. "

"O dear, O dear! But you won't tell Mrs. Holbrook that, sir?"

"I won't tell her more than I can help; of course I don't want to alarmher; but I am bound to tell her some portion of the truth. You did herhusband a great wrong, you see, Mrs. Whitelaw, when you suspected him ofsome share in this vile business. He has shown himself really devoted toher. I thank God that it has proved so. And now tell me more about thisaffair; your letter explains so little. "

"I will tell you all, sir. "

They walked in the garden for about a quarter of an hour before Gilbertwent into the house. Eager as he was to see Marian, he was still moreanxious to hear full particulars of that foul plot of which she had beenmade the victim. Ellen Whitelaw told him the story very plainly, makingno attempt to conceal her husband's guilty part in the business; and thestory being finished, she took him straight to the parlour where he hadseen Marian for the first time after her marriage. 

It was a warm bright day, and all three windows were open. Marian wassitting by one of them, with some scrap of work lying forgotten in herlap. She started up from her seat as Gilbert went into the room, andhastened forward to meet him. 

"How good of you to come!" she cried. "And you have brought me news of myhusband? I am sure of that. "

"Yes, dear Mrs. Holbrook--Mrs. Saltram; may I not call you by that namenow?--I know all; and have forgiven all. "

"Then you know how deeply he sinned against you, and how much he valuedyour friendship? He would never have played so false a part but for that. He could not bear to think of being estranged from you. "

"We are not estranged. I have tried to be angry with him; but there aresome old ties that a man cannot break. He has used me very ill, Marian;but he is still my friend. "

His voice broke a little as he uttered the old familiar name. Yes, shewas changed, cruelly changed, by that ordeal of six months' suffering. The brightness of her beauty had quite faded; but there was something inthe altered face that touched him more deeply than the old magic. She wasdearer to him, perhaps, in this hour than she had ever been yet. Dearerto him, and yet divided from him utterly, now that he professed himselfher husband's friend as well as her own. 

Friendship, brotherly affection, those chastened sentiments which he hadfancied had superseded all warmer feelings--where were they now? By thepassionate beating of his heart, by his eager longing to clasp that fadedform to his breast, he knew that he loved her as dearly as on the daywhen she promised to be his wife; that he must love her with the samemeasure till the end of his existence. 

"Thank God for that, " Marian said gently; "thank God that you are stillfriends. But why did he not come with you to-day? You have told him aboutme, I suppose?"

"Not yet, Marian; I have not been able to do that. Nor could he come withme to-day. He has left England--on a false scent. "

And then he told her, in a few words, the story of John Saltram's voyageto New York; making very light of the matter, and speaking cheerily ofhis early return. 

"He will come back at once, of course, when he finds how he has beendeceived, " Gilbert said. 

Marian was cruelly distressed by this disappointment. She tried to bearthe blow bravely, and listened with a gentle patience to Gilbert'sreassuring arguments; but it was a hard thing to bear. 

"He will be back soon, you say, " she said; "but soon is such a vagueword; and you have not told me when he went. "

Gilbert told her the date of John Saltram's departure. She beganimmediately to question him as to the usual length of the voyage, and tocalculate the time he had had for his going and return. Taking theaverage length of the voyage as ten days, and allowing ten days for delayin New York, a month would give ample time for the two journeys; and JohnSaltram had been away more than a month. 

Gilbert could see that Marian was quick to take alarm on discoveringthis. 

"My dear Mrs. Saltram, be reasonable, " he said gently. "Finding such acheat put upon him, your husband would naturally be anxious to bring yourfather to some kind of reckoning, to extort from him the real secret ofyour fate. He would no doubt stay in New York to do this; and we cannottell how difficult the business might prove, or how long it would occupyhim. "

"But if he had been detained like that, he would surely have written toyou, " said Marian; "and you have heard nothing from him since he leftEngland. "

"Unhappily nothing. But he is not the best correspondent in the world, you know. "

"Yes, yes, I know that. Yet, in such a case as this, he would surely havewritten, if he were well. " Her eyes met Gilbert's as she said this. Shestopped abruptly, dismayed by something in his face. 

"You are hiding some misfortune from me, " she cried; "I can see it inyour face. You have had bad news of him. "

"Upon my honour, no. He was not in very strong health when he leftEngland, that is all; and, like yourself, I am naturally anxious. "

He had not meant to admit even as much as this just yet; but having saidthis, he found himself compelled to say more. Marian questioned him soclosely, that she finally extorted from him the whole history of JohnSaltram's illness. After that it was quite in vain to attemptconsolation. She was very gentle, very patient, troubling him with novain wailings and lamentations; but he could see that her heart wasalmost broken. 

He left her at the end of a few hours to return to London, promising togo on to Liverpool next day, in order to be on the spot to await herhusband's return, and to send her the earliest possible tidings of it. 

"Your friendship for us has given you nothing but trouble and pain, " shesaid; "but if you will do this for me, I shall be grateful to you for therest of my life. "

There was no occasion for that journey to Liverpool. When he arrived inLondon that night, Gilbert Fenton found a letter waiting for him at hisWigmore-street lodgings--a letter with the New York post-mark, but _not_addressed in his friend's hand. He tore it open hurriedly, just a littlealarmed by this fact. 

His first feeling was one of relief. There were three separate sheets ofpaper in the envelope, and the first which he took up was in JohnSaltram's hand--a hurried eager letter, dated some weeks before. 

"My dear Gilbert, " he wrote, "I have been duped. This man Nowell is amost consummate scoundrel. The woman with him is not Marian, but somegirl whom he has picked up to represent her--his wife perhaps, orsomething worse. I was very ill on the passage out, and only discoveredthe trick at the last. Since then I have traced the scoundrel to hisquarters, and have had an interview with him--rather a stormy one, as youmay suppose. But the long and short of it is that he defies me. He tellsme that my wife is in England, and safe, but will admit no more. I haveconsulted a lawyer here, but it seems I can do nothing against him--ornothing that will not involve a more complicated and protracted businessthan I have time or patience for. I don't want this wretch to goscot-free. It is evident that he has hatched this plot in order to getpossession of his daughter's money, and I have little doubt the lawyerMedler is in it. But of course my first duty, as well as my most ardentdesire, is to find Marian; and for this purpose I shall come back toEngland by the first steamer that will convey me, leaving Mr. Nowell'spunishment to the chances of the future. My dear girl's property, as wellas herself, will be best protected by my presence in England. "

There was a pause here, and the next paragraph was dated two days after. 

"If I have strength to come, I shall return by the next steamer; but thefact is, my dear Gilbert, I am very ill--have been completely prostratesince writing the above--and a doctor here tells me I must not think ofthe voyage yet awhile. But I shan't allow his opinion to govern me. If Ican crawl to the steamer, which starts three days hence, I shall come. "

Then there was another break, and again the writer went on in a weak andmore straggling hand, without any date this time. 

"My dear Gil, it's nearly a week since I wrote the last lines, and I'vebeen in bed ever since. I'm afraid there's no hope for me; in plain words, I believe I'm dying. To you I leave the duty I am not allowed to perform. Marian is living, and in England. I believe that scoundrelly father of herstold me the truth when he declared that. You will not rest till you findher, I know; and you will protect her fortune from that wretch. God blessyou, faithful old friend! Heaven knows how I yearn for the sight of yourhonest face, lying here among strangers, to be buried in a foreign land. See that my wife pays Mrs. Branston the money I borrowed to come here; andtell her that I was grateful to her, and thought of her on my dying bed. To my wife I send no message. She knows that I loved her; but how dear shehas been to me in this bitter time of separation, she can never know. 

"You will find a bulky MS. At my chambers, in the bottom drawer on theright side of my desk. It is my Life of Swift--unfinished as my own life. If, after reading it, you should think it worth publishing, as afragment, with my name to it, I should wish you to arrange itspublication. I should be glad to leave my name upon something. "

In a stranger's hand, and upon another sheet of paper, Gilbert read theend of his friend's history. 

 "Sir, --I regret to inform you that your friend Mr. Saltram expired at eleven o'clock last night (Wednesday, May 2nd), after an illness of a fortnight's duration, throughout which I gave him my best attention as his medical adviser. He will be buried in the Cypress-hill Cemetery, on Long Island, at his own request; and he has left sufficient funds for the necessary expenses, and the payment of his hotel bill, as well as my own small claim against him. Any surplus which may be left I shall forward to you, when these payments have been made. I enclose a detailed account of the case for your satisfaction, and have the honour to be, sir, "Yours very obediently, "SILAS WARREN, M. D. 

 "113 Sixteenth-street, New York, "May 3, 186--. "

This was all. 

And Gilbert had to carry these tidings to Marian. For a time he wasalmost paralyzed by the blow. He had loved this man as a brother; if hehad ever doubted the strength of his attachment to John Saltram, he knewit now. But the worst of all was, that one bitter fact--Marian must betold, and by him. 

He went back to the Grange next day. Again and again upon that miserablejourney he acted over the scene which was to take place when he came tothe end of it--in spite of himself, as it were--going over the words hewas to say, while Marian's face rose before him like a picture. How washe to tell her? Would not the very fact of this desolation coming to herfrom his lips be sufficient to make him hateful to her in all the days tocome? More than once upon that journey he was tempted to turn back, andto leave his dismal news to be told in a letter. 

But when the fatal moment did at last arrive, the event in no mannerrealized the picture of his imagination. Time was not given to him tospeak those solemn preliminary words by which he had intended to preparethe victim for her deathblow. His presence there, and his presence alone, were all sufficient to prepare her for some calamity. 

"You have come back to me, and without him!" she exclaimed. "Tell me whathas happened; tell me at once. "

He had no time to defer the stroke. His face told her so much. In a fewmoments--before his broken words could shape themselves intocoherence--she knew all. 

There are some things that can never be forgotten. Never, to his dyingday, can Gilbert Fenton forget the quiet agony he had to witness then. 

She was very ill for a long time after that day--in danger of death. Allthat she had suffered during her confinement at Wyncomb seemed to fallupon her now with a double weight. Only the supreme devotion of those whocared for her could have carried her through that weary time; but the daydid at last come when the peril was pronounced a thing of the past, andthe feeble submissive patient might be carried away from the Grange--fromthe scene of her brief married life and of her bitter widowhood. 

She went with Ellen Whitelaw to Ventnor. It was late in August before shewas able to bear this journey; and in this mild refuge for invalids sheremained throughout the winter. 

Even during that trying time, when it seemed more than doubtful whethershe could live to profit by her grandfather's bequest, her interests hadbeen carefully watched by Gilbert Fenton. It was tolerably evident to hismind that Mr. Medler had been a tacit accomplice in Percival Nowell'sfraud; or, at any rate, that he had enabled the pretended Mrs. Holbrookto obtain a large sum of ready money with greater ease than she couldhave done had he, as executor, been scrupulously careful to obtain heridentification from some more trustworthy person than he knew PercivalNowell to be. 

Whether these suspicions of Gilbert's were correct, whether the lawyerhad been actually deceived, or had willingly lent himself to thefurtherance of Nowell's design, must remain, unascertained; as well asthe amount of profit which Mr. Medler may have secured to himself by thetransaction. The law held him liable for the whole of the moneys thuspaid over in fraud or error; but the law could do very little against aman whose sole earthly possessions appeared to be comprised by theworm-eaten desks and shabby chairs and tables in his dingy offices. Thepoor consolation remained of making an attempt to get him struck off "theRolls;" but when the City firm of solicitors in whose hands Gilbert hadplaced Mrs. Saltram's affairs suggested this. Marian herself entreatedthat the man might have the benefit of the doubt as to his complicitywith her father, and that no effort should be made to bring legal ruinupon him. 

"There has been enough misery caused by this money already, " she said. "Let the matter rest. I am richer than I care to be, as it is. "

Of course Mr. Medler was not allowed to retain his position as executor. The Court of Chancery was appealed to in the usual manner, and intervenedfor the future protection of Mrs. Saltram's interests. 

About Nowell's conduct there was, of course, no doubt; but after wastinga good deal of money and trouble in his pursuit, Gilbert was fain toabandon all hope of catching him in the wide regions of the new world. Itwas ascertained that the woman who had accompanied him in the _Orinoco_as his daughter was actually his wife--a girl whom he had met at some lowLondon dancing-rooms, and married within a fortnight of his introductionto her. It is possible that prudence as well as attachment may have hadsomething to do with this alliance. Mr. Nowell knew that, once united tohim in the bonds of holy matrimony, the accomplice of his fraud wouldhave no power to give evidence against him. The amount which he hadcontrived to secure to himself by this plot amounted in all to somethingunder four thousand pounds; and out of this it may fairly be supposedthat Mr. Medler claimed a considerable percentage. The only informationthat Gilbert Fenton could ever obtain from America was, of a shabbyswindler arrested in a gambling-house in one of the more remote westerncities, whose description corresponded pretty closely with that ofMarian's father. 

There comes a time for the healing of all griefs. The cruel wound closesat last, though the scar, and the bitter memory of the stroke, may remainfor ever. There came a time--some years after John Saltram's death--whenGilbert Fenton had his reward. And if the woman he won for his wife inthese latter days was not quite the fresh young beauty he had wooed underthe walnut-trees in Captain Sedgewick's garden, she was still infinitelymore beautiful than all other women in his eyes; she was still thedearest and best and brightest and purest of all earthly creatures forhim. In that happy time--that perfect summer and harvest of his life--allhis fondest dreams have been realized. He has the home he so oftenpictured, the children whose airy voices sounded in his dreams, the dearface always near him, and, sweeter than all, the knowledge that he isloved almost as he loves. The bitter apprenticeship has been served, andthe full reward has been granted. 

For Ellen Whitelaw too has come the period of compensation, and thefarmer's worst fears have been realized as to Frank Randall'sparticipation in that money he loved so well. The income grudgingly leftto his wife by Stephen has enabled Mr. Randall to begin business as asolicitor upon his own account, in a small town near London, with everyapparent prospect of success. Ellen's home is within easy reach of theriver-side villa occupied by Mr. And Mrs. Fenton; so she is able to seeher dear Marian as often as she likes; nor is there any guest at thevilla more welcome than this faithful friend. 

The half-written memoir of Jonathan Swift was published; and reviewers, who had no compunction in praising the dead, were quick to recognize thetouch of a master hand, the trenchant style of a powerful thinker. Forthe public the book is of no great value; it is merely a curiosity ofliterature; but it is the only monument of his own rugged genius whichbears the name of John Saltram. 

Poor little Mrs. Branston has not sacrificed all the joys of life to themanes of her faithless lover. She is now the happy wife of a dashingnaval officer, and gives pleasant parties which bring life and light intothe great house in Cavendish-square; parties to which Theobald Pallinsoncomes, and where he shines as a small feeble star when greater lights areabsent--singing his last little song, or reciting his last little poem, for the delight of some small coterie of single ladies not in the firstbloom of youth; but parties from which Mrs. Pallinson keeps aloof in astern spirit of condemnation, informing her chosen familiars that she wasnever more cruelly deceived than in that misguided ungrateful youngwoman, Adela Branston.