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 FENTON'S QUEST
 
 LONDON: 
 KOBSON AND SONS, FRINTERSj PANCEAS ROAD, N.W
 
 FENTON'S QUEST 
 
 % gflbtl 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET" 
 
 ETC. ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER 
 
 WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW 
 
 1871 
 
 [All rights reserved}
 
 823 
 
 M 46»44 
 
 v- 1 ° 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 J^ i. The common Fever 
 
 
 I 
 
 ~Z? ii. Marian's Story 
 ^Q g hi. Accepted 
 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 57 
 
 3 iv. John Saltram 
 O — v. Halcyon Days 
 
 
 
 
 70 
 95 
 
 vi. Sentence of Exile 
 
 
 
 
 . 117 
 
 vii. ' Good-bye' . 
 
 
 
 
 137 
 
 vm. Missing 
 
 
 
 
 148 
 
 ix. John Saltram's Advice 
 
 
 
 
 170 
 
 x. Jacob Xowell 
 
 
 
 
 . 184 
 
 xi. The Marriage at Wygrove 
 
 
 
 ■ i97 
 
 XII. A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR 
 
 
 
 220 
 
 xin. Mrs. Pallinson has Views 
 
 
 
 • 2 33 
 
 xiv. Father and Son . 
 
 
 
 • 251 
 
 xv. On the Track 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 . 266 

 
 FENTOFS QUEST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 
 
 A warm summer evening, with a sultry haze 
 brooding over the level landscape, and a Sabbath 
 stillness upon all things in the village of Lidford, 
 Midlandshire. In the remoter corners of the old 
 gothic church the shadows are beginning to gather 
 as the sermon draws near its close ; but in the 
 centre aisle and about the pulpit there is broad 
 daylight still shining-in from the wide western 
 window, across the lower half of which there are 
 tall figures of the Evangelists in old stained glass. 
 There are no choristers at Lidford, and the 
 evening service is conducted in rather a drowsy 
 way ; but there is a solemn air of repose about 
 the gray old church that should be conducive to 
 
 VOL. I. b
 
 fenton's quest. 
 
 tranquil thoughts and pious meditations. Simple 
 and earnest have been the words of the sermon, 
 simple and earnest seem the countenances of the 
 congregation looking reverently upwards at the 
 face of their pastor ; and one might fancy, con- 
 templating that grand old church, so much too 
 spacious for the needs of the little flock gathered 
 there to-night, that Lidford was a forgotten, half- 
 deserted corner of this earth, in which a man, 
 tired of the press and turmoil of the world, might 
 find an almost monastic solitude and calm. 
 
 So thought a gentleman in the Squire's pew — 
 a good-looking man of about thirty, who was fin- 
 ishing his first Sunday at Lidford by devout at- 
 tendance at evening service. He had been think- 
 ing a good deal about this quiet country life 
 during the service, wondering whether it was not 
 the best life a man could live, after all, and 
 thinking it all the sweeter because of his own 
 experience, which had lain chiefly in cities. 
 
 He was a certain Mr. Gilbert Fen ton, an 
 Australian merchant, and was on a visit to his 
 sister, who had married the principal land-owner 
 in Lidford, Martin Lister — a man whose father 
 had been called ' the Squire.' The lady sat oppo-
 
 THE COMMON FEYER. 3 
 
 site her brother in the wide old family pew to- 
 night — a handsome-looking matron, with a little 
 rosy-cheeked damsel sitting by her side — a damsel 
 with flowing auburn hair, tiny hat and feather, 
 and bright scarlet stockings, looking very much 
 as if she had walked out of a picture by Mr. Mil- 
 lais. 
 
 The congregation stood up to sing a hymn 
 when the sermon was ended, and Gilbert Fenton 
 turned his face towards the opposite line of pews, 
 in one of which, very near him, there was a girl, 
 at whom Mrs. Lister had caught her brother look- 
 ing very often during the service just concluded. 
 
 It was a face that a man could scarcely look 
 upon once without finding his glances wandering 
 back to it afterwards ; not quite a perfect face, 
 but a very bright and winning one. Large gray 
 eyes, with a wonderful light in them, under dark 
 lashes and darker brows ; a complexion that had 
 a dusky pallor, a delicate semi-transparent olive- 
 tint that one seldom sees out of a Spanish picture; 
 a sweet rosy mouth, and a piquant little nose of 
 no particular order, made up the catalogue of this 
 young lady's charms. But in a face worth look- 
 ing at there is always something that cannot be
 
 4 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 put into words ; and the brightest and best attri- 
 butes of this face 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 Fen ton thought so to-night, 
 as he saw it in the full radiance of the western 
 sunlight, the lips parted as the girl sang, the clear 
 gray eyes looking upward. 
 
 She was not alone : a portly genial - looking 
 old man stood by her side, and accompanied her 
 to the church-porch when the hymn was over. 
 Here they both lingered a moment to shake hands 
 with Mrs. Lister, very much to Gilbert Fenton's 
 satisfaction. They walked along the churchyard- 
 path together, and Gilbert gave his sister's arm a 
 little tug, which meant, ' Introduce me.' 
 
 * My brother Mr. Fenton, Captain Sedgewick, 
 Miss No well.' 
 
 The Captain shook hands with Gilbert. ' De- 
 lighted to know you, Mr. Fenton ; delighted to 
 know any one belonging to Mrs. Lister. You are 
 going to stop down here for some time, I hope.' 
 
 ' I fear not for very long, Captain Sedgewick. 
 I am a business man, you see, and can't afford to 
 take a long holiday from the City.'
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. O 
 
 Mrs. Lister laughed. ' My brother is utterly 
 devoted to commercial pursuits,' she said; 'I 
 think he believes every hour wasted that he 
 speuds out of his counting-house.' 
 
 1 And yet I was thinking in church this even- 
 ing that a man's life might be happier in such a 
 place as this, drifting away in a kind of dreamy 
 idleness, than the greatest successes possible to 
 commerce could ever make it.' 
 
 ' You would very soon be tired of your dreamy 
 idleness,' answered his sister, ' and sigh for your 
 office and your club.' 
 
 1 The country suits old people, who have played 
 their part in life, and made an end of it,' said the 
 Captain. * It suits my little girl here very well, 
 too,' he added, with a fond glance at his com- 
 panion ; ' she has her birds and her flowers, and 
 her books and music ; and I don't think she ever 
 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 Captain Sedgewick and Miss 
 No well wished Mrs. Lister and her brother good-
 
 6 fenton's quest. 
 
 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 
 heart in that direction.' 
 
 ' There is no fear of that. A man may admire 
 a girl's face without being in 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 think you ought to 
 have both when you marry.' 
 
 1 Thanks for the implied compliment ; but I 
 do not fancy that an Australian merchant can ex- 
 pect to secure a wife of very exalted position ; 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 a foolish match.' 
 
 ' Of course not. I think it very doubtful
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 7 
 
 whether I shall ever marry at all. I am just 
 the kind of man to go down to my grave a 
 bachelor.' 
 
 I Why so, Gilbert ?' 
 
 ' "Well, I can hardly tell you, my dear. Per- 
 haps I am rather difficult to please — just a little 
 stony-hearted and invulnerable. I know that 
 since I was a boy, and got over my schoolboy 
 love-affairs, I have never seen the woman who 
 could touch my heart. I have met plenty of 
 pretty women, and plenty 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 so much at first sight as the 
 face of your friend Miss No well.' 
 
 I I am very sorry for that.' 
 < But why, Belle ?' 
 
 * Because the girl is a nobody — less than no- 
 body. There is an unpleasant kind of mystery 
 about her birth.' 
 
 ' How is that ? Her uncle, Captain Sedge- 
 wick, seems to be a gentleman.' 
 
 1 Captain Sedgewick is very well, but he is not 
 her uncle ; he adopted her when she was a very 
 little girl.'
 
 8 fenton's quest. 
 
 '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 ahout the subject. When we first 
 came to know them, he told us that Marian was 
 only his adopted niece ; and he has never told us 
 any more than that.' 
 
 ' She is the daughter of some friend, I sup- 
 pose. They seem very much attached to each 
 other.' 
 
 ' Yes, she is very fond of him, and he of her. 
 She is an amiable girl; I have 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 had absorbed every word of 
 the foregoing conversation. * I should like uncle 
 Gil to love Marian just as I love her. She is the 
 dearest girl in the world. When we had a juve- 
 nile party last winter, it was Marian who dressed 
 the Christmas-tree — every bit ; and she played 
 the piano for us all the evening, didn't she, 
 mamma ?' 
 
 ' She is very good-natured, Lucy ; but you
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. \) 
 
 mustn't talk nonsense ; and you ought not to 
 listen when your uncle and I are talking. It is 
 very rude.' 
 
 1 But I can't help hearing you, manima.' 
 They were at home by this time, within the 
 grounds of a handsome red-brick house of the 
 early Georgian era, which had been the property 
 of the Listers ever since it was built. "Without, 
 the gardens were a picture of neatness and order ; 
 within, everything was solid and comfortable : 
 the furniture of a somewhat ponderous and ex- 
 ploded fashion, but handsome withal, and bright- 
 ened here and there by some concession to mo- 
 dern notions of elegance or ease — a dainty little 
 table for books, a luxurious arm-chair, and so on. 
 Martin Lister was a gentleman chiefly distin- 
 guished by good-nature, hospitable instincts, and 
 an enthusiastic devotion to agriculture. There 
 were very few things in common between him and 
 his brother-in-law the Australian merchant, but 
 they got on very well together for a short time. 
 Gilbert Fenton pretended to be profoundly in- 
 terested in the thrilling question of drainage, 
 deep or superficial, and seemed to enter unre- 
 servedly into every discussion of the latest inven-
 
 10 fenton's quest. 
 
 tion or improvement in agricultural machinery ; 
 and in the mean time he really liked the repose 
 of the country, and appreciated the varying charms 
 of landscape and atmosphere with a fervour unfelt 
 by the man who had been born and reared amidst 
 those pastoral scenes. 
 
 The two men smoked their cigars together in 
 a quietly companionable spirit, strolling about 
 the gardens and farm, dropping -out a sentence 
 now and then, and anon falling into a lazy reverie, 
 each pondering upon his own affairs — Gilbert 
 meditating transactions with foreign houses, risky 
 bargains with traders of doubtful solvency, or 
 hazardous investments in stocks, as the case 
 might be ; the gentleman farmer ruminating 
 upon the chances of a good harvest, or the pro- 
 bable value of his Scotch short-horns. 
 
 Mr. Lister had preferred lounging about the 
 farm with a cigar in his mouth to attendance at 
 church upon this particular Sunday evening. He 
 had finished his customary round of inspection by 
 this time, and was sitting by one of the open 
 windows of the drawing-room, with his body in 
 one luxurious chair, and his legs extended upon 
 another, deep in the study of the Gardener's
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 11 
 
 Chronicle, which he flung aside upon the appear- 
 ance of his family. 
 
 'Well, Toddlekins,' he cried to the little girl, 
 1 1 hope you were very attentive to the sermon ; 
 listened for two, and made up for your lazy dad. 
 That's a vicarious kind of devotion that ought 
 to be permitted occasionally to a hard-working 
 fellow like me. — I'm glad you've come back to 
 give us some tea, Belle. Don't go upstairs ; let 
 Susan carry up your bonnet and shawl. It's, 
 nearly nine o'clock. Toddlekins wants her tea 
 before she goes to bed.' 
 
 'Lucy has had her tea in the nursery,' said 
 Mrs. Lister, as she took her seat before the cups 
 and saucers. 
 
 ' But she will have some more with papa,' 
 replied Martin, who had an amiable knack of 
 spoiling his children. There were only two — this 
 bright fair-haired Lucy, aged nine, and a sturdy 
 boy of seven. 
 
 They sipped their tea, and talked a little about 
 who had been at church and who had not been, 
 and the room was filled with that atmosphere of 
 dulness which seems to prevail in such households 
 upon a summer Sunday evening ; a kind of palp-
 
 12 fenton's quest. 
 
 able emptiness which sets a man speculating 
 how many years he may have to live, and how 
 many such Sundays he may have to spend. He 
 is apt to end by wondering a little whether life is 
 really worth the trouble it costs, when almost the 
 best thing that can come of it 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 new moon was shining faintly in the 
 clear evening sky ; and here and there a solitary 
 star shone with a tremulous brightness. The 
 shadows of the trees made spots of solemn dark- 
 ness on the wide lawn before the windows, and 
 a warm faint sweetness came from the crowded 
 flower-beds, where all the flowers in this light 
 were of one grayish silvery hue. 
 
 ■ It's almost too warm an evening for the 
 house,' said Gilbert ; ' I think I'll take a stroll.' 
 
 ' I'd come with you, old fellow, but I've been 
 all round the farm, and I'm dead-beat,' said good- 
 natured Martin Lister. 
 
 ' Thanks, Martin ; I wouldn't think of dis- 
 turbing you. You look the picture of comfort in
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 13 
 
 that easy-chair. I shall only stay long enough 
 to finish a cigar.' 
 
 He walked slowly across the lawn — a noble 
 stretch of level greensward with dark spreading 
 cedars and fine old beeches scattered about it ; he 
 walked slowly towards the gates, lighting his cigal- 
 as he went, and thinking. He was thinking of 
 his past life, and of his future. What was it to 
 be ? A dull hackneyed course of money -making, 
 chequered only by the dreary vicissitudes of trade, 
 and brightened only by such selfish pleasures as 
 constitute the recreations of a business man — an 
 occasional dinner at Blackwall or Pdchmond, a 
 week's shooting in the autumn, a little easy- 
 going hunting in the winter, a hurried scamper 
 over some of the beaten continental roads, or a 
 fortnight at a German spa ? These had been his 
 pleasures hitherto, and he had found life pleasant 
 enough. Perhaps he had been too busy to ques- 
 tion the pleasantness of these things. It was 
 only now that he found himself away from the 
 familiar arena of his daily life, with neither em- 
 ployment nor distraction, that he was able to look 
 back upon his career deliberately, and ask him- 
 self whether it was one that he ' could go on liv-
 
 14 fenton's quest. 
 
 ing without weariness for the remainder of his 
 days. 
 
 He had been at this time a little more than 
 seven years in business. He had been bred-up 
 with no expectation of ever having to take his 
 place in the counting-house, had been educated 
 at Eton and Oxford, and had been taught to an- 
 ticipate a handsome fortune from his father. All 
 these expectations had been disappointed by Mr. 
 Fenton's sudden death at a period of great com- 
 mercial disturbance. The business was found in 
 a state of entanglement that was very near insol- 
 vency ; and wise friends told Gilbert Fenton that 
 the only hope of coming well out of these per- 
 plexities lay with himself. The business was too 
 good to be sacrificed, and the business was all his 
 father had left behind him, with the exception 
 of a houseful of handsome furniture, two or three 
 carriages, and a couple of pairs of horses, which 
 were sold by auction within a few weeks of the 
 funeral. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton took upon himself the manage- 
 ment of the business. He had a clear compre- 
 hensive intellect, which adapted itself very easily 
 to commerce. He put his shoulder to the wheel
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 15 
 
 with a will, and worked for the first three years of 
 his business career as it is not given to many 
 men to work in the course of their lives. By that 
 time the ship had been steered clear of all rocks 
 and quicksands, and rode the commercial waters 
 gallantly. Gilbert was not a rich man, but was 
 in a fair way to become a rich man ; and the name 
 of Fenton stood as high as in the palmiest days 
 of his father's career. 
 
 His sister had fortunately married Martin 
 Lister some years before her father's death, and 
 had received her dowry at the time of her mar- 
 riage. Gilbert had only himself to work for. At 
 first he had worked for the sake of his dead fa- 
 ther's honour and repute ; later he fell into a 
 groove, like other men, and worked for the love 
 of money-making — not with any sordid love of 
 money, but with that natural desire to accumu- 
 late which grows out of a business career. 
 
 To-night he was in an unusually thoughtful 
 humour, and inclined to weigh things in the bal- 
 ance with a doubtfulness as to their value which 
 was new to him. The complete idleness and 
 emptiness of his life in the country had made him 
 meditative. Was it worth living, that monoton-
 
 16 fenton's quest. 
 
 ous business life of his ? Would not the time soon 
 come in which its dreariness would oppress 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 
 commercial career? — and the pleasures that had 
 been fresh enough within the last few years were 
 rapidly growing stale. He knew the German spas, 
 the pine-groves where the band played, the gam- 
 bling-saloons and their company, by heart, though 
 he had never stayed more than a fortnight at any 
 one of them. He had exhausted Brittany and 
 the South of France in those rapid scampers ; 
 skimmed the cream of their novelty, at any rate. 
 He did not care very much for field-sports, and 
 hunted and shot in a jog-trot safe kind of way, 
 with a view to the benefit of his healtb, which 
 savoured of old bachelorhood. And as for the 
 rest of his pleasures — the social rubber at his 
 club, the Blackwall or Richmond dinners — it 
 seemed only custom that made them agree- 
 able. 
 
 1 If I had gone to the Bar, as I intended to do 
 before my father's death, I should have had an
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 17 
 
 object in life,' he thought, as he puffed slowly at 
 his cigar ; ' but a commercial man has nothing to 
 hope for in the way of fame — nothing to work for 
 except money. I have a good mind to sell the 
 business, 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 a foolish one, and that his 
 friends would laugh at him for his folly. 
 
 He was beyond the grounds of Lidford House 
 by this time, sauntering onward in the fair sum- 
 mer night ; not indifferent to the calm loveliness 
 of the scene around him, only conscious that there 
 was some void within himself which these things 
 could not fill. He walked along the road by which 
 he and his sister had come back from church, and 
 turned into the lane at the end of which Captain 
 Sedgewick had bidden them good-night. He had 
 been down this lane before to-night, and knew 
 that it was one of the prettiest walks about Lid- 
 ford ; so there was scarcely anything strange in 
 the 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 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 fenton's quest. 
 
 hedges fall of dog-roses and honeysuckle, led 
 towards a river — a fair winding stream, which was 
 one of the glories of Lidford. A little before 
 one came to the river, the lane opened upon a 
 green, where there was a mill, and a miller's cot- 
 tage, a rustic inn, and two or three other houses 
 of more genteel pretensions. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton wondered which of these was 
 the habitation of Captain Sedgewick, concluding 
 that the half-pay officer and his niece must needs 
 live in one of them. He reconnoitred them as 
 he went by the low garden-fences, over which he 
 could see the pretty lawns and flower-beds, with 
 clusters of evergreens here and there, and a 
 wealth of roses and seringa. One of them, the 
 prettiest and most secluded, was also the small- 
 est; a low white-walled cottage, with casement 
 windows above, and old-fashioned bow-windows 
 below, and a porch overgrown with roses. The 
 house lay back a little way from the green ; and 
 there was a tiny brook running beside the holly 
 hedge that bounded the garden, spanned by a 
 little rustic bridge before the gate. 
 
 Pausing just beside this bridge, Mr. Fenton 
 heard the joyous barking of a dog, and caught a
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 19 
 
 brief glimpse of a light muslin dress flitting across 
 the little lawn at one side of the cottage. While 
 he was wondering about the owner of this dress, 
 the noisy dog came rushing towards the gate, and 
 in the next moment a girlish figure appeared in 
 the winding path that went in and out among the 
 flower-beds. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton knew that tall slim figure very 
 well. He had guessed rightly, and this low 
 white-walled cottage was really Captain Sedge- 
 wick's. It seemed to him as if a kind of instinct 
 had brought him to that precise spot. 
 
 Miss Nowell came to the gate, and stood there 
 looking out, with a Skye terrier in her arms. 
 Gilbert drew back a little, and flung his cigar 
 into the brook. She had not seen him yet. Her 
 looks were wandering far away across the green, 
 as if in search of some one. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton stood quite still watching her. 
 She looked even prettier without her bonnet than 
 she had looked in the church, he thought : the 
 rich dark-brown hair gathered in a great knot at 
 the back of the graceful head ; the perfect throat 
 circled by a broad black ribbon, from which there 
 hung an old-fashioned gold cross ; the youthful
 
 20 fenton's quest. 
 
 figure set-off by the girlish muslin dress, so be- 
 coming in its utter simplicity. 
 
 He could not stand there for ever looking at 
 her, pleasant as it might be to him to contem- 
 plate the lovely face ; so he made a little move- 
 ment at last, and came a few steps nearer to the 
 gate. 
 
 1 Good-evening once more, Miss Nowell,' he 
 said. 
 
 She looked up at him, surprised by his sud- 
 den appearance, but in no manner embarrassed. 
 
 ' Good-evening, Mr. Fenton. I did not see 
 you till this moment. I was looking for my 
 uncle. He has gone out for a little stroll while 
 he smokes his 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 of evening. I left the Listers yawning over 
 their tea-cups, and came out for a ramble. The 
 aspect of the lane at which we parted company 
 this evening tempted me down this way. What 
 a pretty house you have ! Do you know, I guessed 
 that it was yours before I saw you.'
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 21 
 
 1 Indeed ! You must have quite a talent for 
 guessing.' 
 
 I Not in a general way ; but there is a fitness 
 in things. Yes, I felt sure that this was your 
 house.' 
 
 I I am glad you like it,' she answered simply. 
 1 Uncle George and I are very fond of it. But it 
 must seem a poor little place to you after Lidford 
 House.' 
 
 1 Lidford House is spacious, and comfortable, 
 and commonplace. One could hardly associate 
 the faintest touch of romance with such a place. 
 But about this one might fancy anything. Ah, 
 here is your uncle, I see.' 
 
 Captain Sedgewick came towards them, sur- 
 prised at seeing Mr. Fenton, with whom he shook 
 hands again very cordially, and who repeated his 
 story about 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 he exhibited no dis- 
 inclination to linger in the cottage drawing-room, 
 though it was only about a fourth of the size of 
 that at Lidford House. It looked a very pretty 
 room in the lamplight, with quaint old-fashioned
 
 22 fenton's quest. 
 
 furniture, the freshest and most delicate chintz 
 hangings and coverings of chairs and sofas, and 
 some valuable old china here and there. 
 
 Captain Sedgewick had plenty to say for him- 
 self, and was pleased to find an intelligent stranger 
 to converse with. His health had failed him long 
 ago, and he had turned his back upon the world 
 of action for ever; but he was as cheerful and 
 hopeful as if his existence had been the gayest 
 possible to man. 
 
 Of course they talked a little of military mat- 
 ters, the changes that had come about in the 
 service — none of them changes for the better, ac- 
 cording to the Captain, who was a little behind 
 the times in his way of looking at these things. 
 
 He ordered in a bottle of claret for his guest, 
 and Gilbert Fenton found himself seated by the 
 open bow-window looking out at the dusky lawn 
 and drinking his wine, as much at home as if he 
 had been a visitor at the Captain's for the last 
 ten years. Marian No well sat on the other side 
 of the room, with the lamplight shining on her 
 dark-brown hair, and with that much-to-be-envied 
 Skye terrier on her lap. Gilbert glanced across 
 at her every now and then while he was talking
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 23 
 
 with her uncle ; and by and by she came over to the 
 window and stood behind the Captain's chair, with 
 her clasped hands resting upon his shoulder. 
 
 Gilbert contrived to engage her in the conver- 
 sation presently. He found her quite able to dis- 
 cuss the airy topics which he started — the last 
 new volume of poems, the picture of the year, and 
 so on. There was nothing awkward or provincial 
 in her manner ; and if she did not say anything 
 particularly brilliant, there was good sense in all 
 her remarks, and she had a bright animated way 
 of speaking that was very charming. 
 
 She had lived a life of peculiar seclusion, 
 rarely going be}*ond the village of Lidford, and 
 had contrived to find perfect happiness in that 
 simple existence. The Captain told Mr. Fenton 
 this in the course of their talk. 
 
 ' I have not been able to afford so much as a 
 visit to London for my darling,' he said ; ' but I 
 do not know that she is any the worse for her 
 ignorance of the great world. The grand point is 
 that she should be happy, and I thank God that 
 she has been happy hitherto.' 
 
 'I should be very ungrateful if I were not, 
 uncle George,' the girl said in a half whisper.
 
 24 fenton's quest. 
 
 Captain Sedgewick gave a thoughtful sigh, and 
 was silent for a little while after this ; and then 
 the talk went on again until the clock upon the 
 chimney-piece struck the half-hour after ten, and 
 Gilbert Fen ton rose to say good-night. ' I have 
 stayed a most unconscionable time, I fear,' he 
 said ; ' but I had really no idea it was so late.' 
 
 'Pray, don't hurry away,' replied the Captain. 
 * You ought to help me to finish that bottle. 
 Marian and I are not the earliest people in Lid- 
 ford.' 
 
 Gilbert would have had no objection to loiter 
 away another half-hour in the bow-window, talk- 
 ing politics with the Captain, or light literature 
 with Miss Nowell, but he knew that his prolonged 
 absence must have already caused some amount 
 of wonder at Lidford House ; so he held firmly to 
 his good-night, shook hands with his new friends, 
 holding Marian Nowell's soft slender hand in his 
 for the first time, and wondering at the strange 
 magic of her touch, and then went out into the 
 dreamy atmosphere of the summer night a changed 
 creature. 
 
 * Is this love at first sight ?' he asked himself, 
 as he walked homeward along the rustic lane,
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 25 
 
 where dog-roses and the starry flowers of the wild 
 convolvulus gleamed whitely in the uncertain 
 light. ' Is it ? I should have heen the last of 
 men to helieve such a thing possible yesterday ; 
 and yet to-night I feel as if that girl were des- 
 tined to be the ruling influence of my future life. 
 Why is it ? Because she is lovely ? Surely not. 
 Surely I am not so weak a fool as to be caught by 
 a beautiful face ! And yet what else do I know 
 of her? Absolutely nothing. She may be the 
 shallowest of living creatures — the most selfish, 
 the falsest, the basest. No ; I do not believe she 
 could ever be false or unworthy. There is some- 
 thing noble in her face — something more than 
 mere beauty. Heaven knows, I have seen enough 
 of that in my time. I could scarcely be so child- 
 ish as to be bewitched by a pair of gray eyes and 
 a rosy mouth; there must be something more. 
 And, after all, this is most likely a passing fancy, 
 born out of the utter idleness and dulness of this 
 place. I shall go back to London in a week or 
 two, and forget Marian Nowell. Marian Nowell !' 
 He repeated the name with unspeakable ten- 
 derness in his tone — a deeper feeling than would 
 have seemed natural to a passing fancy. It was
 
 26 fenton's quest. 
 
 more like a symptom of sickening for life's great 
 fever. 
 
 It was close upon eleven when lie made his 
 appearance in his sister's drawing-room, where 
 Martin Lister was enjoying a comfortable nap, 
 while his wife stifled her yawns over a mild theo- 
 logical treatise. 
 
 He had to listen to a good deal of wonderment 
 about the length of his absence, and was fain to 
 confess to an accidental encounter with Captain 
 Sedgewick, which had necessitated his going into 
 the cottage. 
 
 1 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 doubt- 
 fully. ' What fools you men are,' she said, ' about 
 a pretty face !' 
 
 ' Including Martin, Belle, when he fell in love 
 with your fair self ?' 
 
 ' Martin did not stare me out of countenance 
 in church, sir. But you have almost kept us 
 waiting for prayers.' 
 
 The servants came filing in. Martin Lister
 
 THE COMMON FEVER. 27 
 
 woke with a start, and Gilbert Fenton knelt down 
 among his sister's household to make his evening 
 orisons. But his thoughts were not easily to be 
 fixed that night. They wandered very wide of 
 that simple family prayer, and made themselves 
 into a vision of the future, in which he saw his 
 life changed and brightened by the companionship 
 of a fair young wife.
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 MARIAN S STORY. 
 
 The days passed, and there was no more dulness 
 or emptiness for Gilbert Fenton in his life at Lid- 
 ford. He went every day to the white-walled cot- 
 tage on the green. It was easy enough to find 
 some fresh excuse for each visit — a book or a 
 piece of music which he had recommended to 
 Miss Nowell, and had procured from London for 
 her, or something of an equally frivolous charac- 
 ter. The Captain was always cordial, always 
 pleased to see him. His visits were generally 
 made in the evening ; and it was his delight to 
 linger over the pretty little round table by the 
 bow -window drinking tea dispensed by Marian. 
 The bright homelike room, the lovely face turned 
 so trustingly to his ; these were the things which 
 made that fair vision of the future that haunted 
 him so often now. He fancied himself the mas- 
 ter of some pretty villa in the suburbs — at Kings-
 
 MARIAN S STORY. 29 
 
 ton or Twickenham, perhaps — "with a garden slop- 
 ing down to the water's edge, a lawn on which 
 he and his wife and some chosen friend might sit 
 after dinner in the long summer evenings, sip- 
 ping their claret or their tea, as the case might 
 be, and watching the last rosy glow of the sunset 
 fade and die upon the river. He fancied himself 
 with this girl for his wife, and the delight of go- 
 ing hack from the dull dryasdust labours of his 
 city life to a home in which she would bid him 
 welcome. He behaved with a due amount of 
 caution, and did not give the young lady any rea- 
 son to suspect the state of the case yet awhile. 
 Marian was perfectly devoid of coquetry, and had 
 no idea that this gentleman's constant presence at 
 the cottage could have any reference to herself. 
 He liked her uncle ; what more natural than that 
 he should like that gallant soldier, whom Marian 
 adored as the first of mankind ? And it was out 
 of his liking for the Captain that he came so 
 often. 
 
 The Captain, however, had not been slow to 
 discover the real state of affairs, and the discovery 
 had given him unqualified satisfaction. For a 
 long time his quiet contentment in this pleasant,
 
 30 penton's quest. 
 
 simple, easy-going life had been clouded by anx- 
 ious thoughts about Marian's future. His death 
 — should that event happen before she married 
 — must needs leave her utterly destitute. The 
 little property from which his income was derived 
 was not within his power to bequeath. It would 
 pass, upon his death, to one of his nephews. 
 The furniture of the cottage might realise a few 
 hundreds, which would most likely be, for the 
 greater part, absorbed by the debts of the year 
 and the expenses of his funeral. Altogether the 
 outlook was a dreary one, and the Captain had 
 suffered many a sharp pang in brooding over it. 
 Lovely and attractive as Marian was, the chances 
 of an advantageous marriage were not many for 
 her in such a place as Lidford. It was natural, 
 therefore, that Captain Sedgewick should welcome 
 the advent of such a man as Gilbert Fenton — a 
 man of good position and ample means ; a thor- 
 oughly unaffected and agreeable fellow into the 
 bargain, and quite handsome enough to win any 
 woman's heart, the Captain thought. He watched 
 the two young people together, after the notion of 
 this thing came into his mind, and about the 
 sentiments of one of them he felt no shadow of
 
 maeian's story. 31 
 
 doubt. He was not quite so clear about the feel- 
 ings of the other. There was a perfect frankness 
 and ease about Marian that seemed scarcely com- 
 patible with the growth of that tender passion 
 which generally reveals itself by a certain amount 
 of reserve, and is more eloquent in silence than in 
 speech. Marian seemed always pleased to see 
 Gilbert, always interested in his society ; but she 
 did not seem more than this, and the Captain 
 was sorely perplexed. 
 
 There was a dinner-party at Lidford House 
 during the second week of Gilbert's acquaintance 
 with these new friends, and Captain Sedgewick 
 and his adopted niece were invited. 
 
 1 They are pleasant people to have at a dinner- 
 party,' Mrs. Lister said, when she discussed the 
 invitation with her husband and brother ; 'so I 
 suppose they may as well come, — though I don't 
 want to encourage your folly, Gilbert.' 
 
 1 My folly, as you are kind enough to call 
 it, is not dependent on your encouragement, 
 Belle.' 
 
 ■ Then it is really a serious case, I suppose,' 
 said Martin. 
 
 'I really admire Miss Xowell — more than I
 
 32 fenton's quest. 
 
 ever admired any one before, if that 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 country gentlemen with 
 their wives and daughters, a son or two more or 
 less dashing and sportsmanlike in style, the rec- 
 tor and his wife, Captain Sedgewick and Miss 
 Nowell. Gilbert had to take one of the portly 
 matrons in to dinner, and found himself placed at 
 some distance from Miss Nowell during the re- 
 past ; but he was able to make up for this after- 
 wards, when he slipped out of the dining-room 
 some time before the rest of the gentlemen, and 
 found Marian seated at the piano playing a dreamy 
 reverie of 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 fondly down at the 
 graceful head, and the white hands gliding gently 
 over the keys. He did not disturb her by much 
 talk ; it was quite enough happiness for him to 
 stand there watching her as she played. Later,
 
 marlln'b story. 33 
 
 when a couple of whist-tables had been established 
 and the brilliantly-lighted room had grown hot, 
 these two sat together at one of the open windows, 
 looking out at the moonlit lawn; one of them 
 supremely happy, and yet with a kind of undefined 
 sense that this supreme happiness was a dangerous 
 thing — a thing that it would be wise to pluck out 
 of his heart and have done with. 
 
 ' My holiday is very nearly over, Miss Xowell,' 
 Gilbert Fenton said by and by. ' I shall have to 
 go back to London and the old commercial life, 
 the letter-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 resume your 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 dis- 
 tinct from all other places.' 
 
 She looked up at him, wondering a little at 
 
 VOL. I. d
 
 34 fenton's quest. 
 
 his earnest tone, and their eyes met — his full 
 of tenderness, hers only shy and surprised. It 
 was not then that the words he had to speak 
 could be spoken, and he let the conversation drift 
 into a general discussion of the merits of town or 
 country life. But he was determined that the 
 words should be spoken very soon. 
 
 He went to the cottage next day, between 
 three and four upon a drowsy summer afternoon, 
 and was so fortunate as to find Marian sitting 
 under one of the walnut-trees at the end of the 
 garden reading a novel, with her faithful Skye 
 terrier in attendance. He seated himself on a 
 low garden-chair by her side, and took the book 
 gently from her hand. 
 
 ' I have come to spoil your afternoon's amuse- 
 ment,' he said. ' I have not many days more to 
 spend in Lidford, you know, and I want to make 
 the most of a short time.' 
 
 ' The book is not particularly interesting,' 
 Miss Nowell answered, laughing. Til go and 
 tell my uncle you are here. He is taking an 
 afternoon nap ; but I know he'll be pleased to see 
 you.' 
 
 ' Don't tell him just yet,' said Mr. Fenton,
 
 marian's story. 35 
 
 detaining her. ' I have something to say to you 
 this afternoon, — something that it is wiser to say 
 at once, perhaps, though I haYe "been willing 
 enough to put off the hour of saying it, as a man 
 may well be when all his future life depends upon 
 the issue of a few words. I think you must know 
 what I mean, Miss Newell. Marian, I think you 
 can guess what is coming. I told you last night 
 how sweet Lidford had been to me.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, with a bright inquiring- 
 look in her eyes. ' But what haYe I to do with 
 that ?' 
 
 1 EYerything. It is you who haYe made the 
 little country Yillage my paradise. Marian, tell 
 me that it has not been a fool's paradise ! My 
 darling, I loYe you with all my heart and soul, 
 with an honest man's first and only loYe. Pro- 
 mise that you will be my wife.' 
 
 He took the hand that lay loosely on her lap, 
 and pressed it in both his own. She withdrew it 
 gently, and sat looking at him with a face that 
 had grown suddenly pale. 
 
 'You do not know what you are asking,' she 
 said ; ' you cannot know. Captain Sedgewick is 
 not my uncle. He does not eYen know who my
 
 36 fenton's quest. 
 
 parents were. 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 dar- 
 ling, 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 you from the hour I first 
 saw you in Lidford church. I was a doomed man 
 from that moment, Marian. my dearest, trust 
 me, and it shall go hard if I do not make your 
 future life a happy one. Granted that I am ten 
 years — more than ten years — your senior, that is 
 a difference on the right side. I have fought the 
 battle of life, and have conquered, and am strong 
 enough to protect and shelter the woman I love. 
 Come, Marian, I am waiting for a word of hope.' 
 
 ' And do you really love me ?' she asked won- 
 deringly. 'It seems so strange after 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, 
 1 and I am proud — I have reason to be proud — of
 
 Marian's story. 37 
 
 your preference. But I have known you such a 
 short time. I am afraid to give you any pro- 
 mise.' 
 
 I Afraid of me, or of yourself, Marian ?' 
 ' Of myself.' 
 
 < In what way ?' 
 
 I I am only a foolish frivolous girl. You offer 
 me so much more than I deserve in offering me 
 your love like this. I scarcely know if I have a 
 heart to give to any one. I know that I have 
 never loved anybody except my one friend and 
 protector, my dear adopted uncle.' 
 
 1 But you do not say that you cannot love me, 
 Marian. Perhaps I have spoken too soon, after 
 all. It seems to me that I have known you for a 
 lifetime ; but that is only a lover's fancy. I seem 
 almost a stranger to you, 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 know how patient I can 
 be.' 
 
 He began to talk of indifferent subjects after 
 this, a little depressed and disheartened by the 
 course the interview had taken. He felt that he
 
 38 fenton's quest. 
 
 had been too precipitate. What was there in a 
 fortnight's intimacy to justify such a step, except 
 to himself, with whom time had been measured by 
 a different standard since he had known Marian 
 Nowell ? He w r as angry with his own eagerness, 
 which had brought upon him this semi-defeat. 
 
 Happily Miss Nowell had not told him that 
 his case was hopeless, had not forbidden him to 
 approach the subject again; nor had she exhibited 
 any involuntary sign of aversion to him. Sur- 
 prise had appeared the chief sentiment caused by 
 his revelation. Surprise was natural to such girl- 
 ish inexperience; and after surprise had passed 
 away, more tender feelings might arise, a latent 
 tenderness unsuspected hitherto. 
 
 ' I think a woman can scarcely help returning 
 a man's love, if he is only as thoroughly in earnest 
 as I am,' Gilbert Fenton said to himself, as he 
 sat under the walnut-trees trying to talk plea- 
 santly, and to ignore the serious conversation 
 which had preceded that careless talk. 
 
 He saw the Captain alone .next day, and told 
 him what had happened. George Sedgew T ick lis- 
 tened to him with profound attention and a grave 
 anxious face.
 
 Marian's story. 39 
 
 ' She didn't reject you ?' he said, when Gilbert 
 had finished his story. 
 
 1 Not in plain words. But there was not much 
 to indicate hope. And yet I cling to the fancy 
 that she will come to love me in the end. To 
 think otherwise would be utter misery to me. I 
 cannot tell you how dearly I love her, and how 
 weak I am about this business. It seems con- 
 temptible for a man to talk about a broken heart; 
 but I shall carry an empty one to my grave unless 
 I win Marian Xowell for my wife.' 
 
 'You shall win her!' cried the Captain ener- 
 getically. ' You are a noble fellow, sir, and will 
 make her an excellent husband. She will not be 
 so foolish as to reject such a disinterested affec- 
 tion. Besides,' he added, hesitating a little, 'I 
 have a very shrewd notion that all this apparent 
 indifference is only shyness on my little girl's part, 
 and that she loves you.' 
 
 ' You believe that!' cried Gilbert eagerly. 
 
 1 It is only guesswork on my part, of course. 
 I am an old bachelor, you see, and have had very 
 little experience as to the signs and tokens of 
 the tender passion. But I will sound my little 
 girl by and by. She will be more ready to con-
 
 40 fenton's quest. 
 
 fess the truth to her old uncle than she would to 
 you, 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,' Gilbert answered gloomily. 'But I 
 daresay you are right, and that it would have been 
 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 
 my dear child married to a good man. I have had 
 many dreary thoughts about her 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 the wealth of the Koths- 
 childs, 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 not really 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 some unworthiness in 
 herself, that could make any change in my esti- 
 mation of her.'
 
 mabian's stoey. 41 
 
 ' Unworthiness in herself ! You need never 
 fear that. But I must tell you Marian's story 
 before this business goes any farther. Will you 
 come and smoke your cigar with me to-night ? 
 She is going to drink tea at a neighbour's, and we 
 shall be alone. They are all fond of her, poor child.' 
 
 ' I shall be very happy to come. And in the 
 mean time, you will try and ascertain the real 
 state of her feelings without distressing her in 
 any way ; and you will tell me the truth with all 
 frankness, even if it is to be a deathblow to all 
 my hopes?' 
 
 1 Even if it should be that. But I do not fear 
 such a melancholy result. I think Marian is 
 sensible enough to know the value of an honest 
 man's heart.' 
 
 Gilbert quitted the Captain in a more hopeful 
 spirit than that in which he had gone to the 
 cottage that day. It was only reasonable that 
 this man should be the best judge of his niece's 
 feelings. 
 
 Left alone, George Sedgewick paced the room 
 in a meditative mood, with his hands thrust deep 
 into his trousers-pockets, and his gray head bent 
 thoughtfully.
 
 42 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' She must like him,' he muttered to himself. 
 ' Why should not she like him ? — good-looking, 
 generous, clever, prosperous, well-connected, and 
 over head and ears in love with her. Such a 
 marriage is the very thing I have been praying 
 for. And without such a marriage, what would 
 be her fate when I am gone ? A drudge and 
 dependent in some middle-class family perhaps — 
 tyrannised over and tormented by a brood of 
 vulgar children.' 
 
 Marian came in at the open window while he 
 was still pacing to and fro with a disturbed coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 'My dear uncle, what is the matter?' she 
 asked, going up to him and laying a caressing 
 hand upon his shoulder. * I know you never 
 walk about like that unless you are worried by 
 something.' 
 
 'I am not worried to-day, my love; only a 
 little perplexed,' answered the Captain, detaining 
 the caressing little hand, and planting himself 
 face to 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 !'
 
 mabian's btoby. 43 
 
 ' Yes, ray dear. Haven't you something plea- 
 sant to tell your old uncle — something that a girl 
 generally likes telling ? You had a visitor yester- 
 day afternoon while I was asleep.' 
 
 1 Mr. Fenton.' 
 
 ' Mr, Fenton. He has been here with me 
 just now ; and I know that he asked you to be 
 his wife.' 
 
 ' He did, uncle George.' 
 
 1 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 
 to have 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. I like him very well, 
 you know, and think him clever and agreeable, 
 and all that kind of thing.' 
 
 1 That will soon grow into a warmer feeling, 
 Marian; at least, I trust in God that it will do so.' 
 
 1 Why, dear uncle ?' 
 
 ' Because I have set my heart upon this mar- 
 riage. Marian, my love, I have never ventured
 
 44 fenton's quest. 
 
 to speak to you about your future — the days that 
 must come when I am dead and gone; and you 
 can never know how many anxious hours I have 
 spent thinking of it. Such a marriage as this 
 would secure you happiness and prosperity in the 
 years to come.' 
 
 She clung about him fondly, telling him she 
 cared little what might become of her life when 
 he should be lost to her. That grief must needs 
 be the crowning sorrow of her existence ; and it 
 would matter nothing 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 
 affection is not to be thrown away rashly. You 
 have known Mr. Fenton a very short time ; and 
 perhaps it is only natural you should think of him 
 with comparative indifference.' 
 
 ' I did not say I was indifferent to him, uncle 
 George ; only that I do not love him as he seems 
 to love me. It would be a kind of sin to accept 
 so much and to give so little.' 
 
 ' The love will come, Marian ; I am sure that 
 it will come.'
 
 45 
 
 She shook her head playfully. 
 
 ' What a darling match-making uncle it is !' 
 she said, and then kissed him and ran away. 
 
 She thought of Gilbert F-;nton a good deal 
 during the rest of that day ; thought that it was 
 a pleasant thing to he loved so truly, and hoped 
 that she might always have him for her friend. 
 When she went out to drink tea in the evening 
 his image went with her ; and she found herself 
 making involuntary comparisons between a speci- 
 men of provincial youth whom she encountered at 
 her friend's house and Mr. Fenton, very much to 
 the advantage of the Australian merchant. 
 
 While Marian Xowell was away at this little 
 social gathering, Captain Sedgewick and Gilbert 
 Fenton sat under the walnut-trees smoking their 
 cigars, 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,' began the Captain, ■ I went 
 down to Brighton, a place I had been fond of in 
 my young days, to recruit. It was in the early 
 spring, quite out of the fashionable season, and 
 the town was very empty. My lodgings were in 
 a dull street at the extreme east, leading awa\
 
 46 fenton's quest. 
 
 from the sea, but within sight and sound of it. 
 The solitude and quiet of the place suited me; 
 and I used to walk up and down the cliff in the 
 dusk of evening enjoying the perfect loneliness of 
 the scene. The house I lived in was a comfortable 
 one, kept by an elderly widow who was a pattern 
 of neatness and propriety. There were no chil- 
 dren ; for some time no other lodgers ; and the 
 place was as quiet as the grave. All this suited 
 me very well. I wanted rest, and I was getting it. 
 
 ' I had been at Brighton about a month, when 
 the drawing-room floor over my 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 not a noisy child 
 by any means ; and when I did happen to hear 
 her voice, it had a very pleasant sound to me. 
 The lady was an invalid, and was a good deal of 
 trouble, my landlady took occasion to tell me, as 
 she had no maid of her own. Her name was 
 Nowell. 
 
 ' Soon after this I encountered her on the cliff 
 one afternoon with her little 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
 
 maeian's story. 47 
 
 between me and the mother. She was a fragile 
 delicate-looking woman, who had once been very 
 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 at the utmost. 
 She told me that the little girl was her only child, 
 and that her husband was away from England, 
 but that she expected his return before long. 
 
 ' After this we met almost every afternoon ; 
 and I began to look out for these meetings, and 
 our quiet talk upon the solitary cliff, as the plea- 
 santest part of my day. There was a winning 
 grace about this Mrs. Xowell's manner that I had 
 never seen in any other woman ; and I grew to be 
 more interested in her than I cared to confess to 
 myself. It matters little 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 hints of the landlady, who 
 had contrived to question Mrs. Xowell's doctor, 
 to inspire me with the dread that she might 
 never recover. I thought of her a great deal, and 
 watched the fading light in her eyes, and listened 
 to the weakening tones of her voice, with a sense 
 of trouble that seemed utterly disproportionate to
 
 48 fenton's quest. 
 
 the occasion. I will not say that I loved her; 
 neither the fact that she was another man's wife, 
 nor the fact that she 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 been before, or has ever been 
 since. It was the one sentimental episode of my 
 life, and a very brief one. 
 
 ' The weeks went by, and her husband did 
 not come. I think the trouble and anxiety caused 
 by his delay did a good deal towards hastening 
 the inevitable end ; but she bore her grief very 
 quietly, and never uttered a complaint of him in 
 my hearing. She paid her way regularly enough 
 for a considerable time, and then all at once broke 
 down, and confessed to the landlady that she had 
 not a shilling more in the world. The woman 
 was a hard creature, and told her that if that was 
 the case, she must find some other lodgings, and 
 immediately. I heard this, not from Mrs. Nowell, 
 but from the landlady, who seemed to consider 
 her conduct thoroughly justified by the highest 
 code of morals. She was a lone unprotected wo- 
 man, and how was she to pay her rent and taxes if 
 her best floor was occupied by a non-paying tenant ?
 
 mapjax's story. 49 
 
 ' I was by no means a rich man ; but I could 
 not endure to think of that helpless dying creature 
 thrust out into the streets ; and I told my land- 
 lady that I would be answerable for Mrs. Xowell's 
 rent, and for the daily expenses incurred on her 
 behalf. Mr. Nowell would in all probability appear 
 in good time to relieve me from the responsibility, 
 but in the mean while that poor soul upstairs was 
 not to be distressed. I begged 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 to an end. Mild as 
 the weather was by this time, Mrs. Nowell's doc- 
 tor had forbidden her going out any longer. I 
 knew that she had no maid to send out with the 
 child, so I sent the servant up to ask her if she 
 would trust the little one for a daily walk with me. 
 This she was very pleased to do, and Marian be- 
 came my dear little companion every afternoon. 
 She had taken to me, as the phrase goes, from 
 the very first. She was the gentlest, most en- 
 gaging child I had ever met with — a little grave 
 for her years, and tenderly thoughtful of others. 
 
 ' One evening Mrs. Nowell sent for me. j 
 went up to the drawing-room immediately, and 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 fenton's quest. 
 
 found her sitting in an easy-chair propped up by 
 pillows, 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, 
 as she called it, from the landlady, and that she 
 had sent for me to thank me. 
 
 "lean give you nothing but thanks and bless- 
 ings," she said, " for I am the most helpless crea- 
 ture in this world. I suppose my husband will 
 come here before I die, and will relieve you from 
 the risk you have taken for me ; but he can never 
 repay you for your goodness." 
 
 ' I told her to give herself no trouble on my ac- 
 count ; but I could not help saying, that I thought 
 her husband had behaved shamefully in not com- 
 ing to England to her long ere this. 
 
 " He knows that you are ill, I suppose?" I said. 
 
 " yes, he knows that. I was ill when he 
 sent me home. We had been travelling about 
 the Continent almost ever since our marriage. 
 He married me against his father's will, and lost 
 all chance of a great fortune by doing so. I did 
 not know how much he sacrificed at the time, or 
 I should never have consented to his losing so 
 much for my sake. I think the knowledge of
 
 maeian's story. 51 
 
 what lie had lost came between us very soon. I 
 know that his love for me has grown weaker as 
 the years went by, and that I have been little 
 better than a burden to him. I could never tell 
 you how lonely my life has been in those great 
 foreign cities, where there seems such perpetual 
 gaiety and pleasure. I think I must have died of 
 the solitude and dulness — the long dreary sum- 
 mer evenings, the dismal winter days — if it had 
 not been for my darling child. She has been all 
 the world to me. And, 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 a selfish 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 my busi- 
 ness to watch over her career as well as I can." 
 
 1 The poor soul clasped my hand, and pressed 
 her feverish lips to it in a transport of gratitude. 
 "What a brute a man must have been who could 
 neglect such a woman ! 
 
 1 After this I went up to her room every even- 
 ing, and read to her a little, and cheered her as 
 well as I could : but I believe her heart was 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF
 
 52 fenton's quest. 
 
 broken. The end came very suddenly at last. I 
 had intended to question her about her husband's 
 family ; but the subject was a difficult one to 
 approach, and I had put it off from day to day, 
 hoping that she might rally a little, and would 
 be in a better condition to discuss business mat- 
 ters. 
 
 ' She never did rally. I was with her when 
 she died, and her last act was to draw her child 
 towards her with her feeble arms and lay my 
 hand upon the little one's head, looking up at me 
 with sorrowful pleading eyes. She was quite 
 speechless then, but I knew what the look meant, 
 and answered it. 
 
 " To the end of my life, my dear," I said, "I 
 shall love and cherish her — to the end of my 
 life." 
 
 ' After this the child fell asleep in my arms as 
 I sat by the bedside sharing the long melancholy 
 watch with the landlady, who behaved very well 
 at this sorrowful time. We sat in the quiet room 
 all night, the little one wrapped in a shawl and 
 nestled upon my breast. In the early summer 
 morning Lucy Nowell died, very peacefully ; and 
 I carried Marian down to the sofa in the parlour,
 
 mariax's stoey. 53 
 
 and laid her there still asleep. She cried pite- 
 ously for her mother when she awoke, and I had 
 to tell her that which it is so hard to tell a 
 child. 
 
 ' I wrote to Mr. Xowell at an address in Brus- 
 sels which I found at the top of his last letter to 
 his wife. Xo answer came. I wrote again, after 
 a little while, with the same result ; and, in the 
 mean time, the child had grown fonder of me and 
 dearer to me every day. I had hired a nursemaid 
 for her, and had taken an upper room for her 
 nursery ; but she spent the greater part of her 
 life with me, and I bes:an to fancy that Pro- 
 vidence intended I should keep her with me for 
 the rest of her days. She told me, in her inno- 
 cent childish way, that papa had never loved her 
 as her mamma did. He had been always out of 
 doors till very, very late at night. She had crept 
 from her little bed sometimes when it was morn- 
 ing, quite light, and had found mamma in the 
 sitting-room, with no fire, and the candles all 
 burnt out, waiting for papa to come home. 
 
 1 I put an advertisement, addressed to Mr. 
 Percival Xowell, in the Times and in Galignani, 
 for I felt that the child's future might depend
 
 54 fenton's quest. 
 
 upon her father's acknowledgment of her in the 
 present; but no reply came to these advertise- 
 ments, and I settled in my own mind that this 
 No well was a scoundrel, who had deliberately de- 
 serted his wife and child. 
 
 ' The possessions of the poor creature who was 
 gone were of no great value. There were some 
 rather handsome clothes and a small collection of 
 jewelry — some of it modern, the rest curious and 
 old-fashioned. These latter articles I kept religi- 
 ously, believing them to be family relics. The 
 clothes and the modern trinkets I caused to be 
 sold, and the small sum 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, and then left Brighton with the 
 child and nurse. I was born not twenty miles 
 from this place, and I had a fancy for ending my 
 days in my native county; so I came down to 
 this part of the world, and looked about me a 
 little, living in farmhouse lodgings here and there, 
 until I found this cottage to let one day, and 
 decided upon settling at Lidford. And now you 
 know the whole story of Marian's adoption, Mr. 
 Fenton. How happy we have been together, or
 
 marian's story. 55 
 
 what she has been to nie since that time, I could 
 never tell you.' 
 
 1 The story does you credit, sir ; and I honour 
 you for your goodness,' said Gilbert Fenton. 
 
 ' Goodness, pshaw !' cried the Captain impetu- 
 ously ; ' it has been a mere matter of self-in- 
 dulgence on my part. The child made herself 
 necessary to me from the very first. I was a 
 solitary man, a confirmed bachelor, with every 
 prospect of becoming a hard selfish old fogey. 
 Marian Xowell has been the sunshine of my life !' 
 
 ' You never made any farther discoveries about 
 Mr. Xowell?' 
 
 'Never. I have sometimes thought, that I 
 ought to have made some stronger efforts 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 to believe her husband's father must 
 have been a rich man. He might have softened 
 towards his grandchild, in spite of his disapproval 
 of the marriage. I sometimes think that I ought 
 to have sought out the grandfather. But, you 
 see, it would have been uncommonly difficult to
 
 56 fenton's quest. 
 
 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 would have set his face 
 against the child. Marian Nowell will have no 
 need to supplicate for protection from an indif- 
 ferent father or a hard-hearted grandfather, 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 to become this young 
 man's wife, and he had a notion that a simple in- 
 experienced girl could scarcely help responding to 
 the hopes of such a lover. To his mind Gilbert 
 Fenton seemed eminently adapted to win a wo- 
 man's heart. He forgot the fatality that belongs 
 to these things, and that a man may have every 
 good gift, and yet just miss the magic power to 
 touch one woman's heart.
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 ACCEPTED. 
 
 Mb. Penton lingered another week at Lidford, 
 with imminent peril to the safe conduct of affairs 
 at his offices in Great St. Helens. He could not 
 tear himself away just yet. He felt that he must 
 have some more definite understanding of his 
 position before he went back to London ; and in 
 the mean time he pondered with a dangerous 
 delight upon that sunny vision of a suburban 
 villa to which Marian should welcome him when 
 his day's work was done. 
 
 He went every day to the cottage, and he bore 
 himself in no manner like a rejected lover. He 
 was indeed very hopeful as to the issue of his 
 wooing. He knew that Marian Xowell's heart 
 was free, that there was no rival image to be 
 displaced before his own could reign there, and 
 he thought that it must go hard with him if he 
 did not win her love.
 
 58 fenton's quest. 
 
 So Marian saw him every day, and had to lis- 
 ten to the Captain's praises of him pretty fre- 
 quently during his absence. Aud Captain Sedge- 
 wick's talk about Gilbert Fenton generally closed 
 with a regretful sigh, the meaning of which had 
 grown very clear to Marian. 
 
 She thought about her uncle's words and looks 
 and sighs a good deal in the quiet of her own 
 room. What was there she would not do for the 
 love of that dearest and noblest of men ? Marry 
 a man she disliked? No, that was a sin from 
 which the girl's pure mind would have recoiled 
 instinctively. But she did like Gilbert Fenton — 
 loved him perhaps — though she had never con- 
 fessed as much to herself. 
 
 This calm friendship might really be love after 
 all; not quite such love as she had read of in 
 novels and poems, where the passion was always 
 rendered desperate by the opposing influence of 
 adverse circumstances and unkind kindred; but 
 a tranquil sentiment, a dull, slow, smouldering 
 fire, that needed only some sudden wind of jeal- 
 ousy or misfortune to fan it into a flame. 
 
 She knew that his society was pleasant to her, 
 that she would miss him very much when he left
 
 ACCEPTED. 59 
 
 Lidford ; and when she tried to fancy him recon- 
 ciled to her rejection of him. and returning to 
 London to transfer his affections to some other 
 woman, the thought was very obnoxious to her. 
 He had not flattered her, he had been in no way 
 slavish in his attentions to her ; but he had sur- 
 rounded her with a kind of atmosphere of love 
 and admiration, the charm of which no girl thus 
 beloved for the first time in her life could be quite 
 proof against. 
 
 Thus the story ended, as romances so begun 
 generally do end. There came a summer twi- 
 light, when Gilbert Fenton found himself once 
 more upon the dewy lawn under the walnut-trees 
 alone with Marian Nowell. He repeated his ap- 
 peal in warmer, fonder tones than before, and 
 with a kind of implied certainty that the answer 
 must be a favourable one. It was something like 
 taking the fortress by storm. He had his arm 
 round her slim waist, his lips upon her brow, 
 before she had time to consider what her answer 
 ought to be. 
 
 ' My darling, I cannot live without you!' he 
 said, in a low passionate voice. ' Tell me that you 
 love me.'
 
 60 fenton's quest. 
 
 She disengaged herself gently from his em- 
 brace, and stood a little way from him, with shy 
 downcast eyelids. 
 
 'I think I do,' she said slowly. 
 
 ' That is quite enough, Marian !' cried Gilbert 
 joyously. 'I knew you were destined to be my 
 wife!' 
 
 He drew her hand through his arm and took 
 her back to the house, where the Captain was 
 sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window, 
 with a reading-lamp on the little table by his side, 
 and the Times newspaper in his hand. 
 
 ' Your niece has brought you a nephew, sir/ 
 said Gilbert. 
 
 The Captain threw aside his paper, and 
 stretched out both his hands to the 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 ? 
 My little girl is wise enough to know the value of 
 a good man's love.' 
 
 'I am very grateful, uncle George,' faltered 
 Marian, taking shelter behind the Captain's chair; 
 ' only I don't feel that I am worthy of so much 
 thought.'
 
 ACCEPTED. 61 
 
 1 Nonsense, child ; not worthy ! You are the 
 best girl in Christendom, and will make the 
 brightest and truest wife that ever made a man's 
 home dear to him.' 
 
 The evening went on very happily after that : 
 Marian at the piano, playing plaintive dreamy 
 melodies with a tender expressive touch ; Gilbert 
 sitting close at hand, watching the face he loved 
 so dearly — an evening in paradise, as it seemed 
 to Mr. Fenton. He went homewards in the moon- 
 light a little before eleven o'clock, thinking of his 
 new happiness — such perfect happiness, without a 
 cloud. The bright suburban villa was no longer 
 an airy castle, perhaps never to be realised; it 
 was a delightful certainty. He began to speculate 
 as to the number of months that must needs pass 
 before he could make Marian his wife. There 
 was no reason for delay. He was well-off, his 
 own master, and it was only her will that could 
 hinder the speedy realisation of that sweet domes- 
 tic dream which had haunted him lately. 
 
 He told his sister what had happened next 
 morning, when Martin Lister had left the break- 
 fast-table to hold audience with his farm - bailiff, 
 and those two were together alone. He was a
 
 62 fenton's quest. 
 
 little tired of having his visits to 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 his wife. 
 
 ' Well, Gilbert,' exclaimed the matron, after 
 receiving his tidings with tightly-closed lips and 
 a generally antagonistic demeanour, ' I can only 
 say, that if you must marry at all — and I am sure 
 I thought you had quite settled down as a bache- 
 lor, with your excellent lodgings in Wigmore- 
 street, and every possible comfort in life — I think 
 you might have chosen much better than this. 
 Of course I don't want to be rude or unpleasant ; 
 but I cannot help saying, that I consider any man 
 a fool who allows himself to be captivated by a 
 pretty face.' 
 
 ' 1 have found a great deal more than a pretty 
 face to admire in Marian Nowell.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Can you name any other advantages 
 which she possesses ?' 
 
 'Amiability, good sense, and a pure and re- 
 fined nature.' 
 
 • ' What warrant have you for all those things ? 
 Mind, Gilbert, I like the girl well enough; I 
 have nothing to say against her; but I cannot
 
 ACCEPTED. 63 
 
 help thinking 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 the consequences of living in 
 such a place as Lidford. You talk about position, 
 as if I were a prince of the blood-royal, whose 
 marriage would be 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 ; ' but to 
 marry a girl about whose relations nobody knows 
 anything ! I suppose even you have not been told 
 who her father and mother were.' 
 
 1 1 know quite enough about them. Captain 
 Sedgewick has been candour itself upon the sub- 
 ject.' 
 
 ' And are the father and mother both dead ?' 
 
 ' Miss Xowell's mother has been dead many 
 years.' 
 
 < And her father ?' 
 
 ' Captain Sedgewick does not know whether he 
 is dead or living.'
 
 64 fenton's quest. 
 
 'Ah !' exclaimed Mrs. Lister with a profound 
 sigh ; ' I should have thought as much. And you 
 are really going to marry a girl with this disre- 
 putable mystery about her belongings ?' 
 
 ' There is nothing either disreputable or mys- 
 terious. People are sometimes lost sight of in 
 this world. Mr. Nowell was a bad husband and 
 an indifferent father, and Captain Sedgewick 
 adopted his daughter ; that is all.' 
 
 ' And no doubt, after you are married, this 
 Mr. Nowell will make his appearance some day, 
 and be a burden upon you.' 
 
 ' I am not afraid of that. And now, Belle, as 
 this is a subject upon which we don't seem very 
 likely to agree, I think we had better drop it. I 
 considered it only right to tell you of my engage- 
 ment.' 
 
 On this his sister softened a little, and pro- 
 mised Gilbert that she would do 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 speedy marriage.' 
 
 ' 0, surely you will wait a twelvemonth, at
 
 ACCEPTED. 65 
 
 least. You have known Marian Nowell such a 
 short time. You ought to put her to the test in 
 some manner before you make her your wife/ 
 
 ' I have no occasion to put her to any kind of 
 test. I have a most profound and perfect belief 
 in her goodness.' 
 
 ' Why, Gilbert, this is utter infatuation — about 
 a girl whom you have only known a little more 
 than three weeks !' 
 
 It does seem difficult for a matter-of-fact, 
 reasonable matron, whose romantic experiences 
 are things of the remote past, to understand this 
 sudden trust in, and all-absorbing love for, an 
 acquaintance of a brief summer holiday. But 
 Gilbert Fenton believed implicitly in his own in- 
 stinct, and was not to be shaken. 
 
 He went back to town by the afternoon express 
 that day, for he dared not delay his return any 
 longer. He went back regretfully enough to the 
 dryasdust business life, after spending the greater 
 part of the morning under the walnut-trees in 
 Captain Sedge wick's garden, playing with Fritz 
 the Skye terrier, and talking airy nonsense to 
 Marian, while she sat in a garden -chair hem- 
 ming silk handkerchiefs for her uncle, and look- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 OD FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 ing distractingly pretty in a print morning dress 
 with tiny pink rosebuds on a white ground, and a 
 knot of pink ribbon fastening the dainty collar. 
 He ventured to talk a little about the future too ; 
 painting, with all the enthusiasm of Claude Mel- 
 notte, and a great deal more sincerity, the home 
 which he meant to create for her. 
 
 ' You will have to come to town to choose our 
 house, you know, Marian,' he said, after a glow- 
 ing description of such a villa as never yet existed, 
 except in the florid imagination of an auctioneer ; 
 ' I could never venture upon such an important 
 step without you : apart from all sentimental 
 considerations, a woman's judgment is indispens- 
 able in these matters. The house might be per- 
 fection in every other point, and there might be 
 no boiler, or no butler's pantry, or no cupboard 
 for brooms on the landing, or some irremediable 
 omission of that kind. Yes, Marian, your uncle 
 must bring you to town for a week or so of house- 
 hunting, and soon.' 
 
 She looked at him with a startled expres- 
 sion. 
 
 ' Soon !' she repeated. 
 
 ' Yes, dear, very soon. There is nothing in
 
 ACCEPTED. 67 
 
 the world to hinder our marriage. Why should 
 we delay longer than to make all necessary ar- 
 rangements ? I long so for my new home, Ma- 
 rian. I have never had a home in my life since 
 I was a boy.' 
 
 '0 Mr. Fenton — Gilbert,' — she pronounced 
 his Christian name shyly, and in obedience to his 
 reproachful look, — ' remember how short a time 
 we have known each other. It is much too soon 
 to talk or think of marriage yet. I want you to 
 have plenty of leisure to consider whether you 
 really care for me, whether it isn't only a fancy 
 that will die out when you go back to 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 asked anxiously. 
 
 1 1 know that you are only too good for me,' 
 she answered. Upon which Gilbert hindered the 
 hemming of the Captain's handkerchiefs by stoop- 
 ing down to kiss the little hands at work upon 
 them. And then the talk drifted back to easier
 
 68 fenton's quest. 
 
 subjects, and he did not again press that ques- 
 tion as 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 every 
 possible 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 the walnut-trees, and a 
 little hand waving farewell. 
 
 How empty and dreary his comfortable bachelor 
 lodgings seemed to him that night when he had 
 dined, and sat by the open window smoking his 
 solitary cigar, listening to the dismal street-noises, 
 and the monotonous roll of ceaseless wheels yon- 
 der in Oxford- street ; not caring to go out to his 
 club, caring still less for opera or theatre, or any 
 of the old ways whereby he had been wont to 
 dispose of his evenings ! 
 
 His mind was full of Marian No well. All that 
 was grave and earnest in his nature gave force 
 to this his first love. He had had flirtations in 
 the past, of course ; but they had been no more 
 than flirtations, and at thirty his heart was as
 
 ACCEPTED. 69 
 
 fresh and inexperienced as a boy's. It pleased 
 him to think of Marian's lonely position. Better, 
 a hundred times better, that she should be thus, 
 than fettered by ties which might come between 
 them and perfect union. The faithful and gener- 
 ous protector of her childhood would of necessity 
 always claim her love ; but beyond this one affec- 
 tion, she would be Gilbert's, and Gilbert's only. 
 There would be no mother, no sisters, to absorb 
 her time and distract her thoughts from her hus- 
 band, perhaps prejudice her against him. Do- 
 mestic life for those two must needs be free from 
 all the petty jars, the overshadowing clouds no 
 bigger than a man's hand, forerunners of tempest, 
 which Mr. Fenton had heard of in many house- 
 holds. 
 
 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 that one 
 subject. He applied himself to business with a 
 new ardour ; never before had he been so anxious 
 to grow rich.
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 JOHN SALTBAM. 
 
 The offices of Fenton and Co. in Great St. Helens 
 were handsome, prosperous-looking premises, con- 
 sisting of two large outer rooms, where half-a- 
 dozen indefatigable clerks sat upon high stools 
 before ponderous mahogany desks, and wrote in- 
 dustriously all day long ; and an inner and smaller 
 apartment, where there was a faded Turkey-car- 
 pet instead of the kamptulicon that covered the 
 floor of the outer offices, a couple of capacious, 
 red -morocco -covered arm-chairs, and a desk of 
 substantial and somewhat legal design, on which 
 Gilbert Fen ton was wont to write the more im- 
 portant 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 of bonds 
 and bills, if not actual gold and bank-notes ; and 
 upon all the walls there were coloured and un- 
 coloured engravings of ships framed and glazed,
 
 JOHN SALTRAM. 71 
 
 and catalogues of merchandise that had been sold, 
 or was to be sold, hanging loosely one on the 
 other. Besides these, there were a great many 
 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 hooks in the 
 walls, and in any other available spot. And in all 
 the premises there was an air of business and 
 prosperity, which seemed to denote that Fenton 
 and Co. were travelling at a rapid pace on the 
 high-road to fortune. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton sat in the inner office at noon 
 one day about a week after his return from Lid- 
 ford. He had come to business early that morn- 
 ing, had initialed a good many accounts, and 
 written half-a-dozen letters already, and had 
 thrown himself back in his easy-chair for a few 
 minutes' idle musing — musing upon that one 
 sweet dream of his new existence, of course. 
 From whatever point his thoughts started, they 
 always drifted into that channel. 
 
 While he was sitting like this, with his hands 
 in his pockets and his chair tilted upon its 
 hind legs, the half-glass door opened, and a gen- 
 tleman came into the office — a man a little over
 
 72 
 
 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 middle height, hroad - shouldered, and powerfully 
 built, with a naturally dark complexion, which 
 had been tanned still darker by sun and wind, 
 black eyes and heavy black eyebrows, a head a 
 little bald at the top, and a face that might have 
 been called almost ugly but for the look of in- 
 tellectual power in the broad open forehead and 
 the perfect modelling of the flexible sensitive 
 mouth ; a remarkable face altogether, not easily 
 to be forgotten by those who had once looked 
 upon it. 
 
 This man was John Saltram, the one intimate 
 and chosen friend of Gilbert Fenton's youth and 
 manhood. They had met first at Oxford, and had 
 seldom lost sight of each other since the old uni- 
 versity days. They had travelled a good deal 
 together during the one idle year that had pre- 
 ceded Gilbert's sudden plunge into commerce. 
 They had been up the Nile together in the course 
 of these wanderings ; and here, remote from all 
 civilised aid, Gilbert had fallen ill of a fever — a 
 long tedious business, which brought him to the 
 very point of death, and throughout which John 
 Saltram had nursed him with a womanly tender- 
 ness and devotion that knew no abatement. If
 
 JOHN SALTRAM. 73 
 
 this had been wanting to strengthen the tie be- 
 tween them — which it was not — it would have 
 brought them closer together. As it was, that 
 dreary time of sickness and peril was only a me- 
 mory which Gilbert Fenton kept in his heart of 
 hearts, never to grow less sacred to him until the 
 -end of life. 
 
 Mr. Saltram was a barrister, almost a briefless 
 one at present, for his habits were desultory, not 
 to say idle, and he had not taken very kindly to 
 the slow drudgery of the Bar. He had some 
 money of his own, and added to 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 of this literary work, 
 for which he got very well paid, Mr. Saltram ge- 
 nerally contrived to be in debt ; and there were 
 few periods of his life in which he was not en- 
 gaged more or less in the delicate operation of 
 raising money by bills of accommodation. Habit 
 had given him quite an artistic touch for this 
 kind of thing, and he did his work fondly, like 
 some enthusiastic horticulturist who gives his 
 anxious days to the budding forth of some new 
 orchid or the production of a hitherto unobtain-
 
 74 fenton's quest. 
 
 able tulip. It is doubtful whether money pro- 
 cured from any other source was ever half so 
 sweet to this gentleman as the cash for which he 
 paid sixty per cent to the Jews. With these 
 proclivities he managed to rub on from year to 
 year somehow, getting about five hundred per 
 annum in solid value out of an income of seven, 
 and adding a little annually to the rolling mass 
 of debt which he had begun to accumulate while 
 he was at Balliol. 
 
 1 Why, Jack,' cried Gilbert, starting up from 
 his reverie at the entrance of his friend, and greet- 
 ing him with a hearty handshaking, ' this is an 
 agreeable surprise ! I was asking for you at the 
 Pnyx last night, and Joe Hawdon told me you 
 were away — up the Danube he thought, on a 
 canoe expedition.' 
 
 1 It is only under some utterly impossible dis- 
 pensation that Joseph Hawdon will ever be right 
 about anything. I have been on a walking ex- 
 pedition in Brittany, dear boy, alone, and have 
 found myself very bad company. I started soon 
 after you went to your sister's, and only came back 
 last night. That scoundrel Levison promised me 
 seventy-five this afternoon ; but whether I shall
 
 JOHN BALTBAM. 75 
 
 get it out of hini is a fact only known to himself 
 and the powers with which he holds communion. 
 And was the rustic business pleasant, Gil ? Did 
 you take kindly to the syllabubs and new milk, 
 the summer sunrise over dewy fields, the pretty 
 dairy-maids, and prize-pigs, and daily inspections 
 of the home -farm ? or did you find life rather dull 
 down at Lidford ? I know the place well enough, 
 and all the country round about there. I have 
 stayed at Heather ly with Sir David Forster more 
 than once for the shooting season. A pleasant 
 fellow Forster, in a dissipated good-for-nothing 
 kind of way, always up to his eyes in debt. Did 
 you happen to meet him while you were down 
 there ?' 
 
 * Xo, I don't think the Listers know him.' 
 
 ' So much the better for them ! It is a vice 
 to know him. And you were not dull at Lidford ?' 
 
 1 Very far from it, Jack. I was happier there 
 than I have ever been in my life before.' 
 
 ' Eh, Gil !' cried John Saltram ; ' that means 
 something more than a quiet fortnight with a 
 married sister. Come, old fellow, I have a vested 
 right to a share in all your secrets.' 
 
 1 There is no secret, Jack. Yes, I have fallen
 
 76 fenton's quest. 
 
 in love, if that's what you mean, and am en- 
 gaged.' 
 
 ' 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 his birth, he is no 
 love at all." My passion sprang into life full- 
 grown after an hour's contemplation of a beautiful 
 face in Lidford church.' 
 
 ' Who is the lady ?' 
 
 ' 0, her position is not worth speaking of. 
 She is the adopted niece of a half-pay captain — 
 an orphan, without money or connections.' 
 
 'Humph!' muttered John Saltram with the 
 privileged candour of friendship ; ' not a very ad- 
 vantageous match for you, Gilbert, from a worldly 
 point of view.' 
 
 ' I have not considered the matter from that 
 point of view.' 
 
 ' And the lady is all that is charming, of 
 course ?' 
 
 1 To my mind, yes.' 
 
 ' Very young ?' 
 
 ' Nineteen.' 
 
 'Well, dear old fellow, I wish you joy with all
 
 JOHN SALTRAM. 77 
 
 heartiness. You can afford to marry whom you 
 please, and are very right to let inclination and 
 not interest govern your choice. Whenever I 
 tie myself in the bondage of matrimony, it will he 
 to a lady who can pay my debts and set me on 
 my legs for life. Whether such a one will ever 
 consider my ugly face a fair equivalent for her 
 specie, is an open question. You must introduce 
 me to your future wife, Gilbert, on the first op- 
 portunity. I shall be very anxious to discover 
 whether your marriage will be likely to put an 
 end to our friendship.' 
 
 ' There is no fear of that, Jack. That is a 
 contingency never to arise. I have told Marian a 
 great deal about you already. She kno^ s that I 
 owe my life 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 before marriage. And there is apt 
 to come a day when the familiar bachelor friend 
 falls under the domestic taboo, together with 
 smoking in the drawing-room, brandy-and-soda, 
 and other luxuries of the old, easy-going, single 
 life.' 
 
 * Marian is not very likely to prove a domestic
 
 78 fenton's quest. 
 
 tyrant. She is the gentlest dearest girl, and is 
 very well used to bachelor habits in the person of 
 her uncle. I don't believe she will ever extin- 
 guish our cigars, Jack, even in the drawing-room. 
 I look forward to the happiest home that ever a 
 man possessed ; and it would be no home of mine 
 if you were not welcome and honoured in it. I 
 hope we shall spend many a summer evening on 
 the lawn, Jack, with a bottle of Pomard or St. 
 Julien between us, watching the drowsy old an- 
 glers in their punts, and the swift outriggers 
 flashing past in the twilight. I mean to find 
 some snug little place by the river, you know, 
 Saltram — somewhere about Teddington, where the 
 gardens slope down to the water's edge.' 
 
 ' Very pleasant ! and you will make an admir- 
 able family man, Gil. You have none of the 
 faults that render me ineligible for the married 
 state. I think your Marian is a very fortunate 
 girl. What is her surname, by the way ?' 
 
 • NowelL' 
 
 ' Marian Nowell — a very pretty name ! When 
 do you think of going back to Lidford ?' 
 
 ' In about a month. My brother-in-law wants 
 me to go back to them for the 1st of September. '
 
 JOHN SALTRAM. 79 
 
 ' Then I think I shall run down to Forster's, 
 and have a pop at the pheasants. It will give me 
 an opportunity of being presented to Miss No well.' 
 
 ' I shall be very pleased to introduce you, old 
 fellow. I know that you will admire her.' 
 
 1 "Well, I am not a very warm admirer of the 
 sex in general ; but I am sure to like your future 
 wife, Gil, if it is only because you have chosen her.' 
 
 1 And your own affairs, Jack — how have they 
 been going on '?' 
 
 1 Xot very brightly. I am not a lucky indi- 
 vidual, you know. Destiny and I have been at 
 odds ever since I was a schoolboy.' 
 
 1 Xot 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 
 then with 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 told you just now, if ever I 
 do marry, mercenary considerations are likely to 
 be at the bottom of the business. I don't mean
 
 80 fenton's quest. 
 
 to say that I would marry a woman I disliked, 
 and take it out of her in ill-usage or neglect. I 
 am not quite such a scoundrel as that. But if I 
 had the luck to meet with a woman I could like, 
 tolerably pretty and agreeable, and all that kind 
 of thing, and weak enough to care for me — a 
 woman with a handsome fortune — I should be a 
 fool not to snap at such a chance.' 
 
 ■ I see,' exclaimed Gilbert ; ' you have met 
 with such a woman.' 
 
 1 1 have.' 
 
 Again the gloomy look came over the dark 
 strongly-marked face, the thick black eyebrows 
 contracted in a frown, and the cane was struck 
 impatiently against John Saltram's boot. 
 
 ' But you are not in love with her ; I can see 
 that in your face, Jack. You'll think me a senti- 
 mental fool, I daresay, and fancy I look at things 
 in a new light now that I'm down a pit myself; 
 but, for God's sake, don't marry 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 a man and woman are 
 tied together for life, there is only a short step 
 from indifference to dislike.'
 
 JOHN SALTEAM. 81 
 
 'No, Gilbert, it's not that,' answered the 
 other, still moodily contemplative of his boots. 
 ; I really like the lady well enough — love her, I 
 daresay. I have not had much experience of the 
 tender passion since I was jilted by an Oxford 
 barmaid — whom I would have married, by Jove. 
 But the truth is, the lady in question isn't free to 
 marry just yet. There's a husband in the case — 
 a feeble old Anglo-Indian, who can't live very 
 long. Don't look so glum, old fellow ; there has 
 been nothing wrong, not a word that all the world 
 might not hear ; but there are signs and tokens 
 by which a man, without any vanity — and heaven 
 knows I have no justification for that — may be 
 sure a woman likes him. In short, I believe that 
 if Adela Branston were a widow, the course would 
 lie clear before me, and I should have nothing to 
 do but go in and win. And the stakes will be 
 worth winning, I assure you.' 
 
 ' But this Mr. Branston may live for an in- 
 definite number of years, during which you will 
 be wasting your life on a shadow.' 
 
 'Not very likely. Poor old Branston came 
 home from Calcutta a confirmed invalid, and I 
 believe his sentence has been pronounced by all 
 
 VOL. i. G
 
 82 fenton's quest. 
 
 the doctors. In the mean time he makes the best 
 of life, has his good days and bad days, and en- 
 tertains a great deal of company at a delightful 
 place near Maidenhead — with a garden sloping 
 to the river like that you were talking of just 
 now, only on a very extensive scale. You know 
 how often I have wanted you to run down there 
 with me, and how there has been always some- 
 thing to prevent your going.' 
 
 ' Yes, I remember. Eely upon it, I shall con- 
 trive to accept the next invitation, come what 
 may. But I can't say I like the idea of this pro- 
 spective 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 naturally idle disposition, he 
 is apt to take rather a liberal view of such means 
 of advancement in life as may present themselves 
 to him. But there is no prospective courtship — 
 nothing at all resembling a courtship in this 
 case, believe me. Mrs. Branston knows that I 
 like and admire her. She knows as much of 
 almost every man who goes to Kivercombe ; for 
 there are plenty who will be disposed to go in 
 against me for the prize by and by. But I think
 
 JOHN SALTEA3I. 83 
 
 that she likes me better than any one else, and 
 that the chances will be all in my favour. From 
 first to last there has not been a word spoken 
 between us which old Branston himself might not 
 hear. As to Adela's marrying again when he is 
 gone, he could scarcely be so fatuous as not to 
 foresee the probability of that.' 
 
 ' Is she pretty ?' 
 
 1 Very pretty, in rather a childish way, with 
 blue eyes and fair hair. She is not my ideal 
 among women, but no man ever marries his ideal. 
 The man who has sworn by eyes as black as a 
 stormy midnight and raven hair generally unites 
 himself to the most insipid thing in blondes, 
 and the idolater of golden locks takes to wife 
 some frizzy-haired West-Indian with an unmis- 
 takable dip of the tar-brush. When will you go 
 down to Eivercombe *?' 
 
 ' Whenever you like.' 
 
 ' The nabob is hospitality itself, and will be 
 delighted to see you, if he is to the fore when you 
 go. I fancy there is some kind of regatta — a race 
 or two, at any rate — on Saturday afternoon. Will 
 that suit you ?' 
 
 ' Very well indeed.'
 
 84 fenton's quest. 
 
 1 Then we can meet at the station. There is 
 a train down at 2.15. But we are going to see 
 something of each other in the mean time, I hope. 
 I know that I am a sore hindrance to business at 
 such an hour as this. Will you dine with me at 
 the Pnyx at seven to-night ? I shall be able to 
 tell you how I got on with Levison.' 
 'With pleasure.' 
 
 And so they parted — Gilbert Fen ton to return 
 to his letter-writing, and to the reception of callers 
 of a more commercial and profitable character ; 
 John Saltram to loiter slowly through the streets 
 on his way to the money-lender's office. 
 
 They dined together very pleasantly that even- 
 ing. Mr. Levison had proved accommodating for 
 the nonce ; and John Saltram was in high spirits, 
 almost boisterously gay, with the gaiety of a man 
 for whom life is made up of swift transitions from 
 brightness to gloom, long intervals of despond- 
 ency, and brief glimpses of pleasure ; the reckless 
 humour of a man with whom thought always 
 meant care, and whose soul had no higher aspi- 
 ration than to beguile the march of time by such 
 evenings as these. 
 
 They met on the following Saturday at the
 
 JOHN SALTRAM. 85 
 
 Great Western terminus, John Saltram still in 
 high spirits, and Gilbert Fenton quietly happy. 
 That morning's post had brought him his first 
 letter from Marian — an innocent girlish epistle, 
 which was as delicious to Gilbert as if it had been 
 the chef-d'oeuvre of a Sevigne. "What could she 
 say to him ? Very little. The letter was full of 
 gratitude for his thoughtfulness about her, for the 
 pretty tributes of his loYe which he had sent her, 
 the books and music and ribbons and gloves, in 
 the purchase whereof he had found such a novel 
 pleasure. It had been a common thing for him 
 to execute such commissions for his sister ; but it 
 was quite a new sensation to him to discuss the 
 colours of gloves and ribbons, now that the trifles 
 he chose were to give pleasure to Marian Nowell. 
 He knew every tint that harmonised or contrasted 
 best with that clear olive complexion — the brilliant 
 blue that gave new brightness to the sparkling 
 gray eyes, the pink that cast warm lights upon 
 the firmly-moulded throat and chin — and he found 
 a childish delight in these trivialities. There 
 was one ribbon he selected for her at this time 
 which he had strange reason to remember in the 
 days to come — a narrow blue ribbon with tiny pink
 
 86 fenton's quest. 
 
 rosebuds upon it, a daring mixture of the two 
 colours. 
 
 He had the letter in the breast-pocket of his 
 coat when he met John Saltram at the station, 
 and entertained that gentleman with certain pass- 
 ages 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, ' with nothing but her beauty 
 to recommend her. That wonderful gift of beauty 
 has such power to bewitch the most sensible man 
 upon occasion.' 
 
 They chartered a fly at Maidenhead, and drove 
 about a mile and a half along a pleasant road be- 
 fore they came to the gates of Eiver combe — a low 
 straggling house with verandahs, over which trailed 
 a wealth of flowering creepers, and innumerable 
 windows opening to the ground. The gardens 
 were perfection ; not gardens of yesterday, with 
 only the prim splendours of modern horticulture to 
 recommend them, but spreading lawns, on which 
 the deep springy turf had been growing a hundred 
 years — lawns made delicious in summer time by 
 the cool umbrage of old forest-trees ; fertile rose-
 
 JOHN SALTRAAT. 87 
 
 gardens screened from the biting of adverse winds 
 by tall hedges of holly and yew, the angles whereof 
 were embellished by vases and peacocks quaintly 
 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 on a summer day with its joyous ripple. 
 
 There was a good deal of company already 
 scattered about the lawn when John Saltram and 
 his friend were ushered into the pretty drawing- 
 room. The cheerful sound of croquet-balls came 
 from a level stretch of grass visible from the win- 
 dows, and quite a little fleet of boats were jostling 
 one another at the landing by the Swiss boat- 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. Brandon came in from the garden to 
 welcome them, looking very pretty in a coquettish 
 little white-chip hat with a scarlet feather, and a 
 pale-gray silk dress looped up over an elaborately- 
 flounced muslin petticoat. She was a slender 
 little woman, with a brilliant complexion, sunny 
 waving hair, and innocent blue eyes ; the sort of 
 woman whom a man would wish to shelter from 
 all the storms of life, but whom he might scarcely
 
 88 fenton's quest. 
 
 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. Sal- 
 tram,' she said. ' He is always praising you. I 
 believe he cares more for you than any one else in 
 the world.' 
 
 ' I have not many people to care for,' answered 
 John Saltram, ' and Gilbert is a friend of long 
 standing.' 
 
 A sentimental expression came over Mrs. Bran- 
 ston's girlish face, and she gave a little regretful 
 sigh. 
 
 ' I am sorry you will not see my husband to- 
 day,' she said, after a brief pause. ' It is one of 
 his bad days.' 
 
 The two gentlemen both expressed their regret 
 upon this subject ; and then they went out to the 
 lawn with Mrs. Branston and joined the group by 
 the river-brink, who were waiting for the race. 
 Here Gilbert found some pleasant people to talk to ; 
 while Adela Branston and John Saltram strolled, 
 as if by accident, to a seat a little way apart from 
 the rest, and sat there talking in a confidential
 
 JOHN BALTBAM. 89 
 
 manner, which might not really constitute a flir- 
 tation, but which had rather that appearance to 
 the eye of the ignorant observer. 
 
 The boats came flashing by at last, and there 
 was the usual excitement amongst the spectators ; 
 but it seemed to Gilbert that Mrs. Branston found 
 more interest in John Saltram's conversation than 
 in the race. It is possible she had seen too many 
 such contests to care much for the result of this 
 one. She scarcely looked up as the boats shot by, 
 but sat with her little gloved hands clasped upon 
 her knee, and her bright face turned towards John 
 Saltram. 
 
 They all went into the house at about seven 
 o'clock, after a good deal of croquet and flirtation, 
 and found a free-and-easy kind of banquet, half 
 tea, half luncheon, but very substantial after its 
 kind, waiting for them in the long low dining- 
 room. Mrs. Branston was very popular as a 
 hostess, and had a knack of bringing pleasant 
 people round her — journalists and musical men, 
 clever young painters who were beginning to make 
 their mark in the art-world, pretty girls who could 
 sing or play well, or talk more or less brilliantly. 
 Against nonentities of all kinds Adela Branston
 
 90 fenton's quest. 
 
 set her face, and had a polite way of dropping 
 people from whom she derived no amusement, 
 pleading in her pretty childish way that it was so 
 much more pleasant for all parties. That this 
 mundane existence of ours was not intended to he 
 all pleasure, was an idea that never yet troubled 
 Adela Branston's mind. She had been petted and 
 spoiled by every one about her from the beginning 
 of her brief life, and had passed from the frivolous 
 career of a schoolgirl to a position of wealth and 
 independence as Michael Branston's wife ; fully 
 believing that, in making the sacrifice involved in 
 marrying a man forty years her senior, she earned 
 the right to take her own pleasure, and to gratify 
 every caprice of her infantile mind, for the re- 
 mainder of her days. She was supremely selfish 
 ija an agreeable unconscious fashion, and consid- 
 ered herself a domestic 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 of his loneliness and 
 pain. 
 
 The popping of corks sounded merrily amidst 
 the buzz of conversation, and great antique silver
 
 JOHN SALTBAM. 91 
 
 tankards of Badminton and Moselle cnp were 
 emptied as 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 indoor picnic, Mrs. Branston and 
 her friends adjourned to the drawing-room, where 
 the grand piano had been pushed into a conspicu- 
 ous position, and where the musical business of 
 the evening speedily began. 
 
 It was very pleasant sitting by the open win- 
 dows in the summer twilight, with no artificial 
 light in the room except the wax-candles on the 
 piano, listening to good music, and talking a little 
 now and then in that subdued confidential tone to 
 which music makes such an agreeable accompani- 
 ment. 
 
 Adela Branston sat in the midst of a group in 
 a wide bay-window, and although John Saltram 
 was standing near her chair, he did not this time 
 engage the whole of her attention. Gilbert found 
 himself seated next a very animated young lady, 
 who rather bored him with her raptures about the 
 music, and who seemed to have assisted at every 
 morning and evening concert that had been given
 
 92 
 
 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 within the last two years. To any remoter period 
 her memory did not extend, and she implied that 
 she had been before that time in a chrysalis or 
 non-existent condition. She told Mr. Fenton, 
 with an air of innocent wonder, that she had 
 heard there were people 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. There 
 was a scarcity of flys at this juncture, so John 
 Saltram and Gilbert Fenton walked back to the 
 station in the moonlight. 
 
 ' Well, Gilbert, old fellow, what do you think 
 of the lady ?' Mr. Saltram asked, when they were 
 a little way beyond the gates of Kivercombe. 
 
 ■ I think her very pretty, Jack, and — well — yes 
 — upon the whole fascinating. But I don't like 
 the look of the thing altogether, and I fancy there's 
 considerable bad taste in giving parties with an 
 invalid husband upstairs. I was wondering how 
 Mr. Branston liked the noise of all that talk and 
 laughter in the dining-room, or the music that 
 came afterwards.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, old Branston delights in so-
 
 JOHN SALTRAM. 93 
 
 ciety. He is generally well enough to sit in the 
 drawing-room and look on at his wife's parties. 
 He doesn't talk much on those occasions. Indeed, 
 I believe he is quite incapable of conversing about 
 anything except the rise and fall of Indian stock, 
 or the fluctuations in the value of indigo. And, 
 you see, Adela married him with the intention of 
 enjoying her life. She confesses as much some- 
 times with perfect candour.' 
 
 ' I daresay she is very candid, and just as shal- 
 low,' said Gilbert Fenton, who was inclined to set 
 his face against this entanglement of his friend's. 
 
 ' Well — yes, I suppose she is rather shallow. 
 Those pretty pleasant little women generally are, 
 I think. Depth of feeling and force of mind are 
 so apt to go along with blue spectacles and a rugged 
 aspect. A woman's prettiness must stand for 
 something. There is so much real pleasure in the 
 contemplation of a charming face, that a man had 
 need rescind a little in the way of mental qualifi- 
 cations. And I do not think Adela Branston is 
 without a heart.' 
 
 ' You praise her very warmly. Are you really 
 in love with her, John '?' his friend asked seri- 
 ously.
 
 94 fenton's quest. 
 
 'No, Gilbert, upon my honour. I heartily 
 wish I were. I wish I could give her more by and 
 by, when death brings about her release from 
 Michael Branston, than the kind of liking I feel 
 for her. No, I am not in love with her ; but I 
 think she likes me, and a man must be something 
 worse than a brute if he is not grateful for a 
 pretty woman's regard.' 
 
 They said no more about Mrs. Branston. Gil- 
 bert had a strong distaste for the business ; but 
 he did not care to take upon himself the office of 
 mentor 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 to 
 the influence of a superior mind. It disappointed 
 him a little to find that John Saltram was capable 
 of making a mercenary marriage, capable even of 
 the greater baseness involved in the anticipation 
 of a dead man's shoes ; but his heart was not 
 easily to be turned against the chosen friend of his 
 youth, and he was prompt in making excuses for 
 the line of conduct he disapproved.
 
 CHAPTEK V. 
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 
 
 It was still quite early in September when Gilbert 
 Fenton went back to Lidford, and took up his 
 quarters once more in the airy chintz -curtained 
 bedchamber set apart for him in his sister's house. 
 He had devoted himself very resolutely to business 
 during the interval that had gone by since his last 
 visit to that quiet country house ; but the time 
 had seemed very long to him, and he fancied him- 
 self a kind of martyr to the necessities of com- 
 merce. The aspect of his affairs of late had not 
 been quite free from unpleasantness. There were 
 difficulties in the conduct of business in the Mel- 
 bourne branch of the house, that branch which 
 was under the charge of a cousin of Gilbert's, 
 about whose business capacities the late Mr. Fen- 
 ton had entertained the most exalted opinion. 
 
 The Melbourne trading had not of late done 
 much credit to this gentleman's commercial genius.
 
 96 fenton's quest. 
 
 He had put his trust in firms that had crumbled 
 to pieces before the bills drawn upon them came 
 due, involving his cousin in considerable losses. 
 Gilbert was rich enough to stand these losses, 
 however ; and he reconciled himself to them as 
 best he might, taking care to send his Australian 
 partner imperative instructions for a more pru- 
 dent system of trading in the future. 
 
 The uneasiness and vexation produced by this 
 business was still upon him when he went down 
 to Lidford ; but he relied upon Marian No well's 
 presence to dissipate all his care. 
 
 He did find himself perfectly happy in her so- 
 ciety. He was troubled by no doubts as to her 
 affection for him, no uncertainty as to the bright- 
 ness of the days that were to come. Her manner 
 seemed to him all that a man could wish in the 
 future partner of his life. An innocent trustful- 
 ness in his superior judgment, a childlike submis- 
 sion to his will which Marian displayed upon all 
 occasions, were alike flattering and delightful. 
 Nor did she ever appear to grow tired of that talk 
 of their future which was so pleasant to her lover. 
 There was no shadow of doubt upon her face when 
 he spoke of the serene happiness which they two
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 97 
 
 were to find in an existence spent together. He 
 was the first who had ever spoken to her of these 
 things, and she listened to him with an utter 
 simplicity and freshness of mind. 
 
 Time had reconciled Isabella Lister to her 
 "brother's choice, and she now deigned to smile 
 upon the lovers, very much to Gilbert's satisfac- 
 tion. He had been too proud to supplicate her 
 good graces ; but he was pleased that his only sis- 
 ter should show herself gracious and affectionate 
 to the girl he loved so fondly. During this second 
 visit of his, therefore, Marian came very often to 
 Lidford House ; sometimes accompanied by her 
 uncle, sometimes alone ; and there was perfect 
 harmony between the elder and younger lady. 
 
 The pheasants upon Martin Lister's estate did 
 not suffer much damage from his brother-in-law's 
 gun that autumn. Gilbert found it a great deal 
 pleasanter to spend his mornings dawdling in the 
 little cottage drawing-room or under the walnut- 
 trees with Marian, than to waste his noontide hours 
 in the endeavour to fill a creditable game-bag. 
 There is not very much to tell of the hours which 
 those two spent together so happily. It was an 
 innocent, frivolous, useless employment of time, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 fenton's quest. 
 
 and left 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 hap- 
 pened to consider those idle mornings, those tran- 
 quil uneventful afternoons and evenings, remem- 
 bering what a devoted man of business he had 
 once been, and how a few months ago he would 
 have denounced such a life in another. 
 
 ' Well,' he said to himself, with a happy laugh, 
 ' a man can take this fever but once in his life, 
 and it is only wise in him to surrender himself 
 utterly to the divine delirium. I shall have no 
 excuse for neglecting business by and by, when 
 my little wife and I are settled down together for 
 the rest of our days. Let me be her lover while 
 I may. Can I ever be less than her lover, I won- 
 der ? Will marriage, or custom, or the assurance 
 that we belong to each other for the rest of our 
 days, take the poetry out of our lives ? I think 
 not ; I think Marian must always be to me what 
 she has seemed to me from the very first — some- 
 thing better and brighter than the common things 
 of this life.' 
 
 Custom, which made Marian Nowell dearer to 
 Gilbert FeJiton every day, had by this time famil-
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 99 
 
 iarised her with his position as her future hus- 
 band. She was no longer surprised or distressed 
 when he pleaded for a short engagement, and a 
 speedy realisation of that Utopian home which 
 they were to inhabit together. The knowledge 
 of her uncle's delight in this engagement of hers 
 might have reconciled her to it, even if she had 
 not loved Gilbert Fenton. And she told herself 
 that she did love him ; or, more often putting the 
 matter in the form of a question, asked herself 
 whether she could be so basely ungrateful as not 
 to loye one who regarded her with such disinter- 
 ested affection '? 
 
 It was settled finally, after a good deal of plea- 
 sant discussion, that the wedding should take place 
 early in the coming spring — at latest in April. 
 Even this seemed a long delay to Gilbert ; but he 
 submitted to it as an inevitable concession to the 
 superior instinct of his betrothed, which harmo- 
 nised so well with Mrs. Lister's ideas of wisdom 
 and propriety. There was the house to be secured 
 too, so that he might have a fitting home to which 
 to take his darling when their honeymoon was 
 over ; and as he had no female relation in London 
 who could take the care of furnishing this earthly
 
 100 fenton's quest. 
 
 paradise off his hands, he felt that the whole busi- 
 ness must devolve upon himself, and could not be 
 done without time. 
 
 Captain Sedgewick promised to bring Marian 
 to town for a fortnight in October, in order that 
 she might assist her lover in that delightful duty 
 of house -hunting. She looked forward to this 
 visit with quite a childlike pleasure. Her life at 
 Lidford had been completely happy ; but it was a 
 monotonous kind of happiness ; and the notion of 
 going about London, even at the dullest time of 
 the year, was very delightful to her. 
 
 The weather happened to be especially fine 
 that September. It was the brightest month of 
 the year, and the lovers took long rambles together 
 in the woodland roads and lanes about Lidford, 
 sometimes alone, more often with the Captain, 
 who was a very fair pedestrian, in spite of having 
 had a bullet or two through his legs in the days 
 gone by. When the weather was too warm for 
 walking, Gilbert borrowed Martin Lister's dog- 
 cart, and drove them on long journeys of explo- 
 ration to remote villages, or to the cheery little 
 market-town ten miles away. 
 
 They all three set out for a walk one after-
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 101 
 
 noon, when Gilbert had been about a fortnight at 
 Lidford, with no particular destination, only bent 
 on enjoying the loYely weather and the rustic 
 beauty of woodland and meadow. The Captain 
 chose their route, as he always did on these oc- 
 casions, and under his guidance they followed the 
 river-bank for some distance, and then turned 
 aside into a wood in which Gilbert Fenton had 
 never been before. He said so, with an expres- 
 sion of surprise at the beauty of the place, where 
 the fern grew deep under giant oaks and beeches, 
 and where the mossy ground dipped suddenly down 
 to a deep still pool which reflected the sunlit sky 
 through a break in the dark foliage that shel- 
 tered it. 
 
 ' What, have you never been here *?' exclaimed 
 the Captain ; ' then you have never seen Hea- 
 therly, I suppose "?' 
 
 ' Never. By the way, is not that Sir David 
 Forster's place '?' asked Gilbert, remembering John 
 Saltram's promise. 
 
 He had seen very little more of his friend after 
 that visit to Eivercombe, and had half forgotten 
 Mr. Saltram's talk of coming down to this neigh- 
 bourhood on purpose to be presented to Marian.
 
 102 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' Yes. It is something of a show-place too, 
 and we think a good deal of it in these parts. 
 There are some fine Sir Joshuas among the family 
 portraits, painted in the days when the Forsters 
 were better off and of more importance in the 
 county than they are now. And there are a few 
 other good pictures — Dutch interiors, and some 
 seascapes by Bakhuysen. Decidedly you ought to 
 see Heatherly. Shall we push on there this after- 
 noon ?' 
 
 ' Is it far from here ?' 
 
 'Not much more than a mile. This wood 
 joins the park, and there is a public right of way 
 across the park to the Lidford road, so the gate is 
 always open. We can't waste our walk, and I 
 know Sir David quite well enough to ask him to 
 let you see the pictures, if he should happen to be 
 at home.' 
 
 ' I should like it of all things,' said Gilbert 
 eagerly. ' My friend John Saltram knows this Sir 
 David Forster, and he talked of being down here 
 at this time ; I forgot all about it till you spoke 
 of Heatherly just know. I have a knack of for- 
 getting things nowadays.' 
 
 ' I wonder that you should forget anything
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 103 
 
 connected with Mr. Saltram, Gilbert/ said Marian ; 
 ' that Mr. Saltram of whom you think so much. 
 I cannot tell you how anxious I am to see what 
 kind of person he is ; not handsome — you have 
 confessed as much as that.' 
 
 * Yes, Marian, I admit the painful fact. There 
 are people who call John Saltram ugly. But his 
 face is not a common one ; it is a very picturesque 
 kind of ugliness — a face that Yelasquez would 
 have loved to paint, I think. It is a rugged, 
 strongly-marked countenance with a villanously- 
 dark complexion ; but the eyes are very fine, the 
 mouth perfection ; and there is a look of power in 
 the face that, to my mind, is better than beauty.' 
 
 ' And I think you owned that Mr. Saltram is 
 hardly the most agreeable person in the world.' 
 
 1 Well no, he is not what one could well call 
 an eminently agreeable person. And yet he ex- 
 ercises a good deal of influence over the men he 
 knows, without admitting many of them to his 
 friendship. He is very clever ; 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 himself out for social successes ; 
 but he is a man who seems to know more of every
 
 104 fenton's quest. 
 
 subject than the men about him. I doubt if he 
 will ever succeed at the Bar. He has so little 
 perseverance or steadiness, and indulges in such 
 an erratic, desultory mode of life ; but he has made 
 his mark in literature already, and I think he 
 might become a great man if he chose. Whether 
 he ever 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 out- 
 breaks of dissipation. They don't last long, and 
 they seem to leave not the faintest impression 
 upon his herculean constitution ; but of course 
 that sort of thing does more or less injury to a 
 man's mind, however comparatively harmless the 
 form of his dissipation may be. There are very 
 few men whom John Saltram cannot drink under 
 the table, and rise with a steady brain himself 
 when the wassail is ended ; yet I believe, in a 
 general way, few men drink less than he does. 
 At cards he is equally strong ; a past-master in 
 all games of skill ; and the play is apt to be rather 
 high at one or two of the clubs he belongs to. 
 He has a wonderful power of self-restraint when 
 he cares to exert it ; will play six or seven hours
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 105 
 
 every night for three weeks at a stretch, and then 
 not touch a card for six months. Poor old John,' 
 said Gilbert Fenton, with a half-regretful sigh ; 
 1 under happy circumstances, he might he such a 
 good man.' 
 
 'But I fear he is a dangerous friend for 
 you, Gilbert,' exclaimed Marian, horrified by this 
 glimpse of a bachelor life. 
 
 'No, darling, I have never shared his wilder 
 pleasures. There are a few chosen spirits with 
 whom he consorts at such times. I believe this 
 Sir David 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 every autumn. 
 Things have not gone well with him. His wife, 
 who was a very beautiful girl, and whom he pas- 
 sionately loved, was killed by a fall from her horse 
 a few months after the birth of her first child. 
 The child died too, and the double loss ruined 
 Sir David. He used to spend the greater part of 
 his life at Heatherly, and was a general favourite 
 among the county people ; but since that time 
 he has avoided the place, except during the shoot- 
 ing season. He has a hunting-box in the shires,.
 
 106 fenton's quest. 
 
 and is a regular daredevil over a big country they 
 tell me.' 
 
 They had reached the little gate opening from 
 the wood into the park by this time. There was 
 not much difference in the aspect of the sylvan 
 scene upon the other side of the fence. Sir 
 David's domain had been a good deal neglected of 
 late years, and the brushwood and brambles grew 
 thick under the noble old trees. The timber had 
 not yet suffered by its owner's improvidence. The 
 end of all things must have come for Sir David 
 before he would have consented to the spoliation 
 of a place he fondly loved, little as he had cared 
 to inhabit it since the day that shattered all that 
 was brightest and best in his life. 
 
 For some time Captain Sedgewick and his 
 companions went along a footpath under the shel- 
 ter of the trees, and then emerged upon a wide 
 stretch of smooth turf, across which they com- 
 manded a perfect view of the principal front of the 
 old house. It was a quadrangular building of 
 the Elizabethan period, very plainly built, and 
 with no special beauty to recommend it to the 
 lover of the picturesque. Whatever charm of form 
 it may have possessed in the past had been ruth-
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 107 
 
 lessly extirpated by the modernisation of the 
 windows, which were now all of one size and 
 form — a long gaunt range of unsheltered case- 
 ments staring blankly out upon the spectator. 
 There were no flower-beds, no terraced walks, or 
 graceful flights of steps before the house; only a 
 bare grassplot, with a stiff line of tall elms on 
 each side, and a wide dry moat dividing it from 
 the turf in the park. Two lodges — ponderous 
 square brick buildings with very small windows, 
 each the exact counterpart of the other, and a 
 marvel of substantial ugliness — kept guard over 
 a pair of tall iron gates, about six hundred yards 
 apart, approached by stone bridges that spanned 
 the moat. 
 
 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 the 
 tall elms overhead. An elderly female appeared 
 in answer to this summons, and opened the gate 
 in a slow mechanical way, without the faintest 
 show of interest in the people about to enter, and 
 looking as if she would have admitted a gang of 
 obvious burglars with equal indifference. 
 
 1 Rather a hideous style of place,' said Gilbert
 
 108 fenton's quest. 
 
 as tliey walked towards the house ; ' hut I think 
 show-places, as a general rule, excel in ugliness. 
 I daresay the owners of them find a dismal kind 
 of satisfaction in considering the depressing in- 
 fluence their dreary piles of "bricks - and - mortar 
 must exercise on the minds of strangers ; it may 
 he a sort of 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 admit a carriage ; and 
 lounging upon a bench under this stony shelter 
 they found a sleepy-looking man-servant, who in- 
 formed Captain Sedgewick that Sir David was at 
 Heatherly, but that he was out shooting with his 
 friends at this present moment. In his absence 
 the man would be very happy to show the house 
 to Captain Sedgewick and his party. 
 
 Gilbert Fen ton asked about John Saltram. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Saltram had arrived at Heatherly on 
 Tuesday evening, two nights ago. 
 
 They went over the state-rooms, and looked at 
 the pictures, which were really as good as the 
 Captain had represented them. The inspection 
 occupied a little more than an hour, and they 
 were ready to take their departure, when the
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 109 
 
 sound of masculine voices resounded loudly in 
 the hall, and their conductor announced that Sir 
 David and his friends had come in. 
 
 There were only two gentlemen in the hall 
 when they went into that spacious marble-paved 
 chamber, where there were great logs burning on 
 the wide open hearth, in spite of the warmth of 
 the September day. One of these two was Sir 
 David Forster, a big man, with a light-brown 
 beard and a florid complexion. The other was 
 John Saltram, who sat in a lounging attitude on 
 one of the deep window - seats examining his 
 breech-loader. His back was turned towards the 
 window, and the glare of the blazing logs shone 
 full upon his dark face with a strange Rembrandt - 
 like effect. 
 
 One glance told Marian Xowell who this man 
 was. That powerful face, with its unfathomable 
 eyes and thoughtful mouth, was not the counten- 
 ance she had conjured up from the depths of her 
 imagination when Gilbert Fenton had described 
 his friend ; yet she felt that this stranger loung- 
 ing in the window was John Saltram, and no 
 other. He rose, and set down his gun very 
 quietly, and stood by the window waiting while
 
 110 fenton's quest. 
 
 Captain Sedgewick introduced Gilbert to Sir David. 
 Then he came forward, shook hands with his 
 friend, and was thereupon presented to Marian 
 and her uncle by Gilbert, who made these intro- 
 ductions with a kind of happy eagerness. 
 
 Sir David was full of friendliness and hospi- 
 tality, and insisted on keeping them to show Gil- 
 bert and Miss Nowell some pictures in the billiard- 
 room and in his own private snuggery, apartments 
 which were not shown to ordinary visitors. 
 
 They strolled through these rooms in a lei- 
 surely way, Sir David taking considerable pains 
 to show Gilbert Fenton the gems of his collection, 
 John Saltram acting as cicerone to Marian. He 
 was curious to discover what this girl was like ; 
 whether she had indeed only her beauty to re- 
 commend her, or whether she was in sober reality 
 the perfect being Gilbert Fenton believed her to 
 be. 
 
 She was very beautiful. The first brief look 
 convinced Mr. Saltram that upon this point at 
 least her lover had indulged in no loverlike ex- 
 aggeration. There was a singular charm in the 
 face; a higher, more penetrating loveliness than 
 mere perfection of feature ; a kind of beauty that
 
 HALCYON DAYS. Ill 
 
 would have been at once the delight and despera- 
 tion of a painter — so fitting a subject for his 
 brush, so utterly beyond the power of perfect re- 
 production, unless by one of those happy, almost 
 accidental successes which make the triumphs of 
 genius. 
 
 John Saltram watched Marian Xowell's face 
 thoughtfully as he talked to her, for the most part, 
 about the pictures which they were looking at 
 together. Before their inspection of these art- 
 treasures was ended, he was fain to confess to 
 himself that she was intelligent as well as beauti- 
 ful. It was not that she had said anything par- 
 ticularly brilliant, or had shown herself learned 
 in the qualities of the old Dutch masters ; but 
 she possessed that charming childlike capacity for 
 receiving information from a superior mind, and 
 that perfect and rapid power of appreciating a 
 clever man's conversation, which are apt to seem 
 so delightful to the sterner sex when exhibited by 
 a pretty woman. At first she had been just a 
 little shy and constrained in her talk with John 
 Saltram. Her lover's account of this man had 
 not inspired her with any exalted opinion of his 
 character. She was rather inclined to look upon
 
 112 fenton's quest. 
 
 him as a person to be dreaded, a friend whose 
 influence was dangerous at best, and who might 
 prove the evil genius of Gilbert Fenton's life. 
 But whatever her opinion on this point might 
 remain, her reserve soon melted before John Sal- 
 tram's clever talk and kindly conciliating manner. 
 He laid himself out to please on this occasion, and 
 it was very rarely he did that without succeeding. 
 
 ' I want you to think of me as a kind of bro- 
 ther, Miss Nowell,' he said in the course of their 
 talk. ' Gilbert and I have been something like 
 brothers for the last twelve years of our lives, and 
 it would be a hard thing, 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 I can 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 your 
 husband's old friend.' 
 
 Marian blushed a little at this, remembering 
 that only an hour or two ago she had been think- 
 ing that this friendship was a perilous one for 
 Gilbert, and that it would be well if John Sal- 
 tram's influence over him could be lessened some- 
 how in the future.
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 113 
 
 1 1 don't believe I should ever have the power 
 to diminish Gilbert's regard for you, Mr. Saltram, 
 even were I inclined to do so,' she said. 
 
 ' yes, you would ; your power over him will 
 be illimitable, depend upon it. 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. 'lam utterly in- 
 experienced in the world, you know, and Mr. 
 Fenton is my superior in every way." 
 
 1 Your superior in years, I know, but in what 
 else ?' 
 
 'In everything else. In intellect and judg- 
 ment, as well as in knowledge of the world. You 
 could never imagine what a quiet changeless life 
 I have led.' 
 
 ' Your intellect is so much the clearer for 
 that, I think. It has not been disturbed by all 
 the narrow petty influences of a life spent in what 
 is called " society." ' 
 
 Before they left the house, Gilbert and the 
 Captain were obliged to promise to dine at Hea- 
 therly next day. very much to the secret distaste 
 of the former, who must thus lose an evening with 
 
 VOL. i. i
 
 114 fenton's quest. 
 
 Marian, but who was ashamed to reveal his hope- 
 less condition by a persistent refusal. Captain 
 Sedgewick begged John Saltram to choose an 
 early day for dining at the cottage, and Gilbert 
 gave him a general invitation to Lidford House. 
 
 These matters being settled, they departed, 
 accompanied by Mr. Saltram, who proposed to 
 walk as far as the wood with them, and who ex- 
 tended his walk still farther, only leaving them 
 at the gate of the Captain's modest domain. The 
 conversation was general throughout the way 
 back ; and they all found plenty to talk about, as 
 they loitered slowly on among the waving shadows 
 of the trees flickering darkly on the winding path 
 by which they went. Gilbert lingered outside the 
 gate after Marian and her uncle had gone into 
 the cottage — he was so eager to hear his friend 
 praise the girl he loved. 
 
 < Well, John ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Well, dear old boy, she is all that is beauti- 
 ful and charming, and I can only congratulate 
 you upon your choice. Miss Nowell's perfection 
 is a subject about which there cannot be two 
 opinions.' 
 
 ' And you think she loves me, Jack ?'
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 115 
 
 ' Do I think she loves you ? Why, surely, 
 Gil, that is not a question upon which you want 
 another man's judgment "?' 
 
 * Xo, of course not, but one is never tired of 
 receiving the assurance of that fact. And you 
 could see by her way of speaking about me — ' 
 
 ' She spoke of you in the prettiest manner 
 possible. She seems to consider you quite a 
 superior being.' 
 
 ' Dear girl, she is so good and simple-hearted. 
 Do you know, Jack, I feel as if I could never be 
 sufficiently grateful to Providence for my happi- 
 ness in having won such an angel.' 
 
 1 Well, you certainly have reason to consider 
 yourself a very lucky fellow ; but I doubt if any 
 man ever deserved good fortune better than you 
 do, Gilbert. And now, good-bye. It's getting 
 unconscionably late, and I shall scarcely get back 
 in time to change my clothes for dinner. We 
 spend all our evenings in pious devotion to bil- 
 liards, with a rubber or two, or a little lansquenet 
 towards the small hours. Don't forget your en- 
 gagement to-morrow; good-bye.' 
 
 They had a very pleasant evening at Heatherly. 
 Sir David's guests at this time consisted of a
 
 116 fenton's quest. 
 
 Major Foljambe, an elderly man who had seen a 
 good deal of service in India ; a Mr. Harker, who 
 had been in the church, and had left it in disgust 
 as alike unsuited to his tastes and capacity ; Mr. 
 Windus Carr, a prosperous West-end solicitor, 
 who had inherited a first-rate practice from his 
 father, and who devoted his talents to the enjoy- 
 ment of life, leaving his clients to the care of his 
 partner, a steady-going stout gentleman, with a 
 bald head, and an inexhaustible capacity for busi- 
 ness ; and last, but by no means least, John Sal- 
 tram, who possessed more influence over David 
 Forster than any one else in the world.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 
 
 After the dinner at Heatherly, John Saltram 
 came very often to the cottage. He did not care 
 much for the fellows who were staying with Sir 
 David this year, he told Gilbert. He knew all 
 Major Foljambe's tiger-stories by heart, and had 
 convicted him of glaring discrepancies in his de- 
 scription of the havoc he and his brother officers 
 had made among the big game. Windus Carr 
 was a conceited presuming cad, who was always 
 boring them with impossible accounts of his con- 
 quests among the fair sex ; and that poor Harkcr 
 was an unmitigated fool, whose brains had run 
 into his billiard-cue. This was the report which 
 John Saltram gave of his fellow-guests ; and he 
 left the shooting-party morning after morning to 
 go out boating with Gilbert and Marian, or to 
 idle away the sunny hours on the lawn listening 
 to the talk of the two others, and dropping in a
 
 118 fenton's quest. 
 
 word now 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 Gil- 
 bert had told him he should stay at home to 
 write letters, and was duly presented to the Lis- 
 ters, who made a little dinner-party in his honour 
 a few days afterwards, to which Captain Sedge'wick 
 and Marian were invited — a party which went off 
 with more brightness and gaiety than was wont 
 to distinguish the Lidford-House entertainments. 
 After this there was more boating — long after- 
 noons spent on the winding river, with occasional 
 landings upon picturesque little islands or wooded 
 banks, where there were the wild-flowers Marian 
 Nowell loved and understood so well; more idle 
 mornings in the cottage garden — a happy innocent 
 break in the common course of life, which seemed 
 almost as pleasant to John Saltram as to his 
 friend. He had contrived to make himself popu- 
 lar with every one at Lidford, and was an especial 
 favourite with Captain Sedgewick. 
 
 He seemed so thoroughly happy amongst 
 them, and displayed such a perfect sympathy with 
 them in all things, that Gilbert Fenton was taken
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 119 
 
 utterly by surprise by his abrupt departure, which 
 happened oue day without a word of waruiug. He 
 had diued at the cottage on the previous evening, 
 and had been in his wildest, most reckless spirits 
 — that mood to which he was subject at rare in- 
 tervals, and in which he exercised a potent fasci- 
 nation over his companions. He had beguiled the 
 little party at the cottage into complete forgetful- 
 ness of the hour by his unwonted eloquence upon 
 subjects of a deeper, higher kind than it was his 
 habit to speak about ; and then at the last mo- 
 ment, when the clock on the mantelpiece had 
 struck twelve, he had suddenly seated himself at 
 the piano, and sung them Moore's ' Farewell, but 
 whenever you welcome the hour,' in tones that 
 went straight to the hearts of the listeners. He 
 had one of those rare sympathetic voices which 
 move people to tears unawares, and before the 
 song was ended Marian was fairly overcome, and 
 had made a hasty escape from the room ashamed 
 of her emotion. 
 
 Late as it was, Gilbert accompanied his friend 
 for a mile of his homeward route. He had se- 
 cured a latchkey during his last visit to Lidford 
 House, and could let himself in quietly of a night
 
 120 fenton's quest. 
 
 without entrenching upon the regular habits of 
 Mrs. Lister's household. 
 
 Once clear of the cottage, John Saltram's 
 gaiety vanished all in a moment, and gave place 
 to a moody silence which Gilbert was powerless 
 to dissipate. 
 
 'Is there anything amiss, Jack?' he asked. 
 ' I know high spirits are not always a sign of in- 
 ward contentment with you. Is there anything 
 wrong to-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 and wished each 
 other good-night ; but early next morning a brief 
 note was delivered to Mr. Fenton at his sister's 
 house to the following effect : 
 
 ' My deae Gilbert, — I find myself obliged to 
 leave this place for London at once, and have not 
 time to thank any one for the kindness I have 
 received during my stay. Will you do the best 
 to repair this omission on my part, and offer my
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 121 
 
 warmest expressions of gratitude to Captain Sedge- 
 wick and Miss Xowell 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 Lis- 
 ter I shall be very pleased to see him if he will 
 look me up at the Pnyx when he is next in town. 
 1 Ever yours, 
 
 'John Saltram.' 
 
 This was all. There was no explanation of 
 the reason for this hurried journey, — a strange 
 omission between men who were on terms of such 
 perfect confidence as obtained with these two. 
 Gilbert Fenton was not a little disturbed by this 
 unlooked-for event, fearing that some kind of evil 
 had befallen his friend. 
 
 ' His money-matters may have fallen into a 
 desperate condition,' he thought ; ' or perhaps 
 that woman — that Mrs. Branston, is at the bot- 
 tom of the business.' 
 
 He went to the cottage that morning as usual, 
 but not with his accustomed feeling of unalloyed 
 happiness. The serene heaven of his tranquil life
 
 122 fenton's quest. 
 
 was clouded a little by this strange conduct of 
 John Saltram's. It wounded him to think that 
 his old companion was keeping a secret from him. 
 
 ' I suppose it is because I lectured him a little 
 about Mrs. Branston the other day,' he said to 
 himself. ' The business is connected with her in 
 some way, I daresay, and poor Jack does not care 
 to arouse my virtuous indignation. That comes 
 of taking a high moral tone with one's friend. He 
 swallows the pill with a decent grace at the time, 
 and shuts one out of his confidence ever after- 
 wards.' 
 
 Captain Sedge wick expressed himself much 
 surprised and disappointed by Mr. Saltram's de- 
 parture. Marian said very little upon the subject. 
 There seemed nothing extraordinary to her in 
 the fact that a gentleman should be summoned to 
 London by the claims of business. 
 
 Gilbert might have brooded longer upon the 
 mystery involved in his friend's conduct, but that 
 evening's post brought him trouble in the shape 
 of bad news from Melbourne. His confidential 
 clerk — an old man who had been with his father 
 for many years, and who knew every intricacy of 
 the business — wrote him a very long letter, dwell-
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 123 
 
 ing upon the evil fortune which had attended all 
 their Australian transactions of late, and hinting 
 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 man from a false sense of 
 security. Gilbert was so much disturbed by it, 
 that he determined upon going back to London by 
 the earliest fast-train next morning. It was cut- 
 ting short his holiday only by a few days. He 
 had meant to return at the beginning of the fol- 
 lowing week, and he felt that he had already some 
 reason to reproach himself for his neglect of busi- 
 ness. 
 
 He left Lidford happy in the thought that 
 Captain Sedgewick and Marian were to come to 
 London in October. The period of separation 
 would be something. less than a month. And after 
 that ? Well, he would of course spend Christmas 
 at Lidford; and he fancied how the holly and 
 mistletoe, the church-decorations and carol-sing- 
 ing, and all the stereotyped genialities of the sea- 
 son, — things that had seemed trite and dreary to 
 him since the days of his boyhood, — would have 
 a new significance and beauty for him when he
 
 124 fenton's quest. 
 
 and Marian kept the sacred festival together. And 
 then how quickly would begin the new year, the 
 year whose spring-tide would see them man and 
 wife ! Perhaps there is no period of this mortal 
 life so truly happy as that in which all our 
 thoughts are occupied in looking forward to some 
 great joy to come. Whether the joy, when it does 
 come, is ever so unqualified a delight as it seemed 
 in the distance, or whether it ever comes at all, 
 are questions which we have all solved for our- 
 selves somehow or other. To Gilbert Fenton 
 these day-dreams were bright and new, and he 
 was troubled by no fear of their not being realised. 
 He went at his business with considerable 
 ardour, and made a careful and detailed investiga- 
 tion of all affairs connected with their Melbourne 
 trading, assisted throughout by Samuel Dwyer, 
 the old clerk. The result of this examination 
 convinced him that his cousin had been playing 
 him false ; that the men with whom his pretended 
 losses had been made were men of straw, and the 
 transactions were shadows invented to cover his 
 own embezzlements. It was a complicated busi- 
 ness altogether ; and it was not until Gilbert Fen- 
 ton had been engaged upon it for more than a
 
 SENTENCE OF EXTLE. 125 
 
 week, and had made searching inquiries as to the 
 status of the firms with which the supposed deal- 
 ings had taken place, that he was able to arrive at 
 this conclusion. Having at last made himself 
 master of the real state of things, as far as it was 
 in any way possible to do so at that distance from 
 the scene of action, Gilbert saw that there was 
 only one line of conduct open to him as a man of 
 business. That was to go at once to Melbourne, 
 investigate his cousin's transactions on the spot, 
 and take the management of the colonial house 
 into his own hands. To do this would be a sore 
 trial to him, for it would involve the postponement 
 of his marriage. He could scarcely hope to do 
 what he had to do in Melbourne and to get back 
 to England before a later date than that which he 
 had hoped would be his wedding-day. Yet to do 
 anything less than this would be futile and fool- 
 ish ; and it was possible that the future stability 
 of his position was dependent upon his arrange- 
 ment of these Melbourne difficulties. It was his 
 home, the prosperity of his coming life, that he 
 had to fight for ; and he told himself that he 
 must put aside all weakness, as he had done once 
 before, when he turned away from the easy-going
 
 126 fenton's quest. 
 
 studies and pleasures of a young Oxford life to 
 undertake a hand-to-hand fight with evil fortune. 
 
 He had conquered then, as he hoped to con- 
 quer now, having an energetic nature, and a strong 
 faith in man's power to master fortune hy honest 
 work and patience. 
 
 There was no time lost after once his decision 
 was arrived at. He began to put his affairs in 
 order for departure immediately, and wrote to 
 Marian within a few hours of making up his mind 
 as to the necessity of this voyage. He told her 
 frankly all that had happened, that their fortune 
 was at stake, and that it was his bounden duty to 
 take this step, hard as it might seem to him. He 
 could not leave England without seeing her once 
 more, he said, recently as they had parted, and 
 brief as his leisure must needs be. There were 
 so many things he would have to say to her on 
 the eve of this cruel separation. 
 
 He went down to Lidford one evening when all 
 the arrangements for his voyage were complete, 
 and he had two clear days at his disposal before 
 the vessel he was to go in left Liverpool. The 
 Listers were very much surprised and shocked 
 when he told them what he was going to do ; Mrs.
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 127 
 
 Lister bitterly bewailing the insecurity of all com- 
 mercial positions, and appearing to consider her 
 brother on the verge of bankruptcy. 
 
 He found a warm welcome at the cottage from 
 the Captain, who heartily approved of the course 
 he was taking, and was full of hopefulness about 
 the future. 
 
 ' A few months more or less can make little 
 difference,' he said, when Gilbert was lamenting 
 the postponement of his wedding. ' Marian will 
 be quite safe in her old uncle's care ; and I do not 
 suppose either of you will love each other any the 
 less for the delay. I have such perfect confidence 
 in you, Gilbert, you see ; and it is such a happi- 
 ness to me to know that my darling's future is in 
 the hands of a man I can so thoroughly trust. 
 Were you reduced to absolute poverty, with the 
 battle of life to fight all over again, I would give 
 you my dear girl without fear 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 your love for her.' 
 
 1 You may believe that. Every day makes her 
 dearer to me. I should be ashamed to tell you 
 how bitterly I feel this parting, and what a des-
 
 128 
 
 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 perate mental struggle I went through before I 
 could make up my mind to go.' 
 
 Marian came into the room in the midst of 
 this conversation. She was very pale, and her 
 eyes had a dull heavy look. The bad news in Gil- 
 bert's letter had distressed her even more than he 
 had anticipated. 
 
 'My darling,' he said tenderly, looking down 
 at the changed face, with her cold hand clasped in 
 his own, ' how ill you are looking ! I fear I made 
 my letter too dismal, and that it frightened you.' 
 
 ' 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 re- 
 pair, dear. The losses are not more than I can 
 stand. All that I take to heart is the separation 
 from you, Marian.' 
 
 'I am not worth so much regret,' she said, 
 with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her 
 hands clasping and unclasping each other nerv- 
 ously. 
 
 'Not worth so much regret, Marian !' he ex- 
 claimed. ' You are all the world to me ; the be- 
 ginning and end of my universe.' 
 
 She looked a little brighter by and by, when
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 129 
 
 her lover had done his best to cheer her with 
 hopeful talk, which cost him no small effort in the 
 depressed state of his mind. The day went by 
 very slowly, although it was the last which those 
 two were to spend together until Gilbert Fenton's 
 return. It was a hopelessly wet day, with a per- 
 petual drizzling rain and a leaden-gray sky ; wea- 
 ther which seemed to harmonise well enough with 
 the pervading gloom of Gilbert's thoughts as he 
 stood by the fire leaning against an angle of the 
 mantelpiece, and watching Marian's needle mov- 
 ing monotonously in and out of the canvas. 
 
 The Captain, who led an easy comfortable kind 
 of life at all times, was apt to dispose of a good 
 deal of his leisure in slumber upon such a day as 
 this. He sat in his own particular easy-chair, 
 dozing behind the shelter of a newspaper, and 
 lulled agreeably by the low sound of Gilbert and 
 Marian's conversation. 
 
 So the quiet hours went by, overshadowed by 
 the gloom of that approaching separation. After 
 dinner, when they had returned to the drawing- 
 room, and Captain Sedgewick had refreshed his 
 intellectual powers with copious draughts of strong 
 tea, he began to talk of Marian's childhood, and 
 
 VOL. I. k
 
 180 fenton's quest. 
 
 the circumstances 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.' 
 
 1 1 thought as much. It contains that old- 
 fashioned jewelry I spoke of, 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 ever happen now that so many 
 years have gone by, and there has been no en- 
 deavour to trace her. — Kun and fetch the case, 
 Marian. There are some of its contents which 
 Gilbert ought to see before he leaves England — 
 papers which 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 an old-fashioned ebony jewel- 
 case inlaid with brass. She unlocked it with a 
 little key hanging to her watch-chain, and ex- 
 hibited its contents to Gilbert Fenton. There 
 were some curious old rings, of no great value ; 
 a seal-ring with a crest cut on a bloodstone — a 
 crest of that common kind of device which does 
 not imply noble or ancient lineage on the part of
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 131 
 
 the bearer thereof; a necklace and earrings of 
 amethyst ; a gold bracelet with a miniature of a 
 young man, whose handsome face had a hard dis- 
 agreeable expression ; a locket containing gray 
 hair, and having a date and the initials ' M. G.' 
 engraved on the massive plain gold case. 
 
 These were all the trinkets. In a secret 
 drawer there was a certificate of marriage between 
 Percival Xowell, bachelor, gentleman, and Lucy 
 Geoffry, spinster, at St. Pancras church, London. 
 The most interesting contents of the jewel case con- 
 sisted of a small packet of letters written by Perci- 
 val No well to Lucy Geoffry before their marriage. 
 
 ' I have read them carefully ever so many 
 times, with the notion that they might throw 
 some light upon Mr. and Mrs. Xowell's antece- 
 dents,' said the Captain, as Gilbert held these in 
 his hands, disinclined to look at documents of so 
 private and sacred a character ; * but they tell 
 very little. I fancy that Miss Geoffry was a 
 governess in some family in London — the enve- 
 lopes are missing, you see, so there is no evidence 
 as to where she was living, except that it was in 
 London — and that she left her employment to 
 marry this Percival Xowell. You'd like to read
 
 132 fenton's quest. 
 
 the letters yourself, I daresay, Gilbert. Put them 
 in your pocket, and look them over at your leisure 
 when you get home. You can bring them back 
 before you leave Lidford.' 
 
 Mr. Fenton glanced at Marian to see if she 
 had any objection to his reading the letters. She 
 was quite silent, looking absently at the trinkets 
 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 that night reading Per- 
 cival Nowell's love-letters. They revealed very 
 little to him, except the unmitigated selfishness 
 of the writer. That quality exhibited itself in 
 every page. The lovers had met for the first time 
 at the house of some Mr. Crosby, in whose family 
 Miss Geoffry seemed to be living ; and there 
 were clandestine meetings spoken of in the Ee- 
 gent's -park, for which reason Gilbert supposed 
 Mr. Crosby's house must have been in that lo-
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 133 
 
 cality. . There were broken appointments, for 
 which Miss Geoffry was bitterly reproached by 
 her lover, who abused the whole Crosby house- 
 hold in a venomous manner for having kept her 
 at home at these times. 
 
 ' If you loved me, as you pretend, Lucy,' Mr. 
 Nowell wrote on one occasion, 'you would speedily 
 exchange this degrading slavery for liberty and 
 happiness with me, and would be content to leave 
 the future utterly in my hands, without question 
 or fear. A really generous woman would do this.' 
 
 There was a good deal more to the same effect, 
 and it seemed as if the proposal of marriage came 
 at last rather reluctantly ; but it did come, and 
 was repeated, and urged in a very pressing man- 
 ner ; while Lucy Geoffry to the last appeared to 
 have hung back, as if dreading the result of that 
 union. 
 
 The letters told little of the writer's circum- 
 stances or social status. Whenever he alluded to 
 his father, it was with anger and contempt, and 
 in a manner that implied some quarrel between 
 them ; but there was nothing to indicate what 
 kind of man the father was. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton took the packet back to the
 
 134 fenton's quest. 
 
 cottage next morning. He was to return to Lon- 
 don that afternoon, and had only a few hours to 
 spend with Marian. The day was dull and cold, 
 but there was no rain ; and they walked together 
 in the garden, where the leaves were beginning to 
 fall, and whence every appearance of summer 
 seemed to have vanished since Gilbert's last visit. 
 For some time they were both rather silent, 
 pacing thoughtfully up and down the sheltered 
 walk that bounded the lawn. Gilbert found it 
 impossible to put on an appearance of hopefulness 
 on this last day. It was better wholly to give up 
 the attempt, and resign himself to the gloom that 
 brooded over him, shutting out the future. That 
 airy castle of his — the villa on the banks of the 
 Thames — seemed to have faded and vanished al- 
 together. He could not look beyond the Austra- 
 lian journey to the happy time of his return. 
 The hazards of time and distance bewildered him. 
 He felt an unspeakable dread of the distance that 
 was to divide him from Marian Nowell — a dread 
 that grew stronger with every hour. He was 
 destined to suffer a fresh pang before the moment 
 of parting came. Marian turned to him by and 
 by with an earnest anxious face, and said :
 
 SENTENCE OF EXILE. 135 
 
 1 Gilbert, there is something which I think I 
 ought to say to you before you go away.' 
 
 ' "What is that, my darling ?' 
 
 1 It is rather hard to say. I fear it will give 
 you pain. I have been thinking about it for a 
 long time. The thought has been a constant 
 reproach to me. Gilbert, it would be better if we 
 were both free ; better if you could leave England 
 without any tie to weigh you down with anxieties 
 when you are out yonder, and will have so much 
 occasion for perfect freedom of mind.' 
 
 ' Marian ! ' 
 
 1 0, pray, pray don't think me ungrateful or 
 unmindful of your goodness to me. I am only 
 anxious for your happiness. I am not steady 
 enough, or fixed enough, in my mind. I am not 
 worthy of all the thought and care you have given 
 me.' 
 
 • Marian, have I done anything to forfeit your 
 love ?' 
 
 1 no, no.' 
 
 1 Then why do you say these things to me ? 
 Do you want to break my heart ?' 
 
 1 Would it break your heart if I were to recall 
 my promise, Gilbert ?'
 
 136 fenton's quest. 
 
 'Yes, Marian,' lie answered gravely, drawing 
 her suddenly to him, and looking into her face 
 with earnest scrutinising eyes ; ' hut if you do not 
 love me, if you cannot love me — and God knows 
 how happy I have heen in the belief that I had 
 won your love long ago — let the word be spoken. 
 I will bear it, my dear, I will bear it.' 
 
 ' no, no,' she cried, shocked by the dead 
 whiteness of his face, and bursting into tears. 
 ' I will try to be worthy of you. I will try to love 
 you as you deserve to be loved. It was only a 
 fancy of mine that it would be better for you to 
 be free from all thoughts of me. I think it would 
 seem 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 ex- 
 pression through her tears — an innocent, half- 
 childish look that went to his heart — and he 
 clasped her to his breast, believing that this pro- 
 posal to set him free had been indeed nothing 
 more than a girlish caprice. 
 
 ' My dearest, my life is bound up with your 
 love,' he said. 'Nothing can part us except your 
 ceasing to love me.'
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 1 GOOD-BYE.' 
 
 The hour for the final parting came at last, and 
 Gilbert Fenton turned his back upon the little 
 gate by which he had watched Marian Xowell 
 standing upon that first summer Sunday evening 
 which sealed his destiny. 
 
 He left Lidford weary at heart, weighed down 
 by a depression he had vainly struggled against, 
 and he brooded over his troubles all the way back 
 to town. It seemed as if all the hopes that had 
 made life so sweet to him only a week ago had 
 been swept away. He could not look beyond that 
 dreary Australian exile ; he could not bring his 
 thoughts to bear upon the time that was to come 
 afterwards, and which need be no less bright be- 
 cause of this delay. 
 
 ' She may die while I am away,' he thought. 
 ' God, if that were to happen ! If I were to 
 come back and find her dead ! Such things have
 
 138 fenton's quest. 
 
 been ; and men and women have borne them, and 
 gone on living.' 
 
 He bad one more duty to perform before be 
 left England. He had to say good-bye to John 
 Saltram, whom he had not seen since they parted 
 that night at Lidford. He could not leave Eng- 
 land without some kind of farewell to his old 
 friend, and he had reserved this last evening for 
 the duty. 
 
 He went to the Pnyx on the chance of finding 
 Saltram there, and failing in that, ate his solitary 
 dinner in the coffee-room. The waiters told him 
 that Mr. Saltram had not been at the club for 
 some weeks. Gilbert did not waste much time 
 over his dinner, and went straight from the Pnyx 
 to the Temple, where John Saltram had a second- 
 floor in Figtree-court. 
 
 Mr. Saltram was at home. It was his own 
 sonorous voice which answered Gilbert's knock, 
 bidding him enter with a muttered curse upon 
 the interruption by way of addendum. The room 
 into which Mr. Eenton went upon receiving this 
 unpromising invitation was in a state of chaotic 
 confusion. An open portmanteau sprawled upon 
 the floor, and a whole wardrobe of masculine
 
 ' GOOD-BYE.' 139 
 
 garments seemed to have been shot at random 
 on to the chairs near it ; a dozen soda-water 
 bottles, full and empty, were huddled in one 
 corner ; a tea-tray tottered on the extreme edge 
 of a table heaped with dusty books and papers ; 
 and at a desk in the centre of the room, with a 
 great paraffin lamp flaring upon his face as he 
 wrote, sat John Saltram, surrounded by fallen 
 slips of copy, writing as if to win a wager. 
 
 ' Who is it ? and what do you want ?' he asked 
 in a husky voice, without looking up from his 
 paper or suspending the rapid progress of his pen. 
 
 1 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 got up. 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 a knack of doing things 
 against time. I have been giving myself a spell 
 of hard 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. The lamp shone full upon 
 John Saltram's face as he sat at his desk: and
 
 140 fenton's quest. 
 
 .after looking at him for a moment by that vivid 
 light, Gilbert Fenton gave a cry of surprise. 
 ' What is the matter, Gil ?' 
 ' You are the matter. You are looking as 
 worn and haggard as if you'd had a long illness 
 since I saw you last. I never remember you look- 
 ing so ill. This kind of thing won't do, John. 
 You'd soon kill yourself at this rate.' 
 
 'Not to be done, my dear fellow. I am the 
 toughest thing in creation. I have been sitting 
 up all night for the last week or so, and that does 
 rather impair the freshness of one's complexion ; 
 but I assure you there's nothing so good for a 
 man as a week or two of unbroken work. I have 
 heen doing an exhaustive review of Eoman litera- 
 ture for one of the quarterlies, and the subject 
 involved a little more reading than I was quite 
 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 his head leaning on his 
 hand, waiting for Gilbert to talk. He was evi- 
 dently in one of those silent moods which were 
 common to him at times.
 
 ' GOOD-BYE.' 141 
 
 Gilbert told him of his Melbourne troubles, 
 and of his immediate departure. The announce- 
 ment roused him from his absent humour. He 
 dropped his arm from the table suddenly, and sat 
 looking full at Gilbert with a very intent expres- 
 sion. 
 
 ' This is strange news,' he said, ' and it will 
 cause the postponement of your marriage, I sup- 
 pose ?' 
 
 ' Unhappily, yes ; that is unavoidable. Hard 
 lines, isn't it, Jack ?' 
 
 1 "Well, yes ; I daresay the separation seems 
 rather a hardship ; but you are young enough to 
 stand a few months' delay. "When do you sail *?' 
 
 ' To-morrow.' 
 
 ' So soon ?' 
 
 ' Yes. It is a case in which everything de- 
 pends upon rapidity of action. I leave Liverpool 
 to-morrow afternoon. I came up from Lidford 
 to-day on purpose 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 the last of me, eh, old fellow ?' 
 
 John Saltram hesitated, looking doubtfully at 
 his papers.
 
 142 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' It would be only a kind thing to do, Jack, 
 and a wholesome change for yourself into the 
 bargain. Anything would be better for you than 
 being shut up in these chambers another day.' 
 
 'Well, Gilbert, I'll go with you,' said Mr. 
 Saltram presently, with a kind of recklessness. 
 ' It is a small thing to do for friendship. Yes, 
 I'll see you off, dear boy. Egad, I wish I could 
 go to Australia with you. I would, if it were not 
 for my engagements with the children and sundry 
 other creditors. I think a new country might do 
 me good. But there's no use 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 have been some reason 
 for your leaving Lidford in that sudden way the 
 other day, and your note explained nothing. I 
 thought you and I had no secrets from 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 I 
 hurried off to set things straight.' 
 
 ' Let me help you somehow or other, Jack.' 
 
 'No, Gilbert; I will never suffer you to be-
 
 'good-bye.' 143 
 
 come entangled in the labyrinth of my affairs. 
 You don't know what a hopeless wilderness you 
 would enter if you were desperate enough to 
 attempt my rescue. I have been past redemption 
 for the last ten years, ever since I left Oxford. 
 Nothing but a rich marriage will ever set me 
 straight ; and I sometimes doubt if that game 
 is worth the candle, and whether it would not be 
 better to make a clean sweep of my engagements, 
 offer up my name to the execration of mankind 
 and the fiery indignation of solvent journalists, — 
 who would find subject for sensation leaders in 
 my iniquities, — emigrate, and turn bushranger. 
 A wild free life in the wilderness must be a happy 
 exchange for all the petty worries and perplexities 
 of this cursed existence.' 
 
 ' And how about Mrs. Branston, John ? By 
 the way, I thought that she might have had 
 something to do with vour sudden journey to 
 London.' 
 
 'No; she had nothing to do with it. I have 
 not seen her since I came back from Lidford.' 
 
 'Indeed !' 
 
 1 No. Your lecture had a potent effect, you 
 see,' said Mr. Saltram, with something of a
 
 144 fenton's quest. 
 
 sneer. 'You have almost cured nie 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 
 not the sort of woman to acquire any strong hold 
 upon you.' 
 
 < You think not ?' 
 
 ' I am sure of it.' 
 
 After this John Saltram became more expan- 
 sive. They sat together until late in the night, 
 talking chiefly of the past, old friends, and half- 
 forgotten days; recalling the scenes through 
 which they had travelled together with a pensive 
 tenderness, and dwelling regretfully upon that 
 careless bygone time when life was fresh for both 
 of them, and the future seemed to lie across the 
 straightest, easiest high-road to reputation and 
 happiness. 
 
 Gilbert spoke of that perilous illness of his in 
 Egypt, the fever in which he had been given over 
 by every one, and only saved at last by the ex- 
 emplary care and devotion of his friend. John 
 Saltram had a profound objection to this thing 
 being talked about, and tried immediately to
 
 ' GOOD-BYE.' 145 
 
 change the drift of the conversation ; but to-night 
 Gilbert was not to be stopped. 
 
 ' You refuse the help of my purse, Jack,' he 
 said, ' and forget that I owe you my life. I should 
 never have been to the fore to navigate the good 
 ship Fenton and Co., if it hadn't been for your 
 care. The doctor fellow at Cairo told me as much 
 in very plain terms. Yes, John, I consider my- 
 self your debtor to the amount of a life.' 
 
 ' Saving a man's life is sometimes rather a 
 doubtful boon. I think if I had a fever, and 
 some officious fool dragged me through it when 
 I was in a fair way to make a decent end, I should 
 be very savagely disposed towards him.' 
 
 1 Why, John Saltram, you are the last man in 
 the world from whom I should expect that dreary 
 kind of talk. Yet I suppose it's only a natural 
 consequence of shutting yourself up in these 
 rooms for ten days at a stretch.' 
 
 1 What good use have I made of my life in 
 the past, Gilbert?' demanded the other bitterly; 
 *' and what have I to look forward to in the future ? 
 To marry, and redeem my position by the aid of a 
 woman's money. That's hardly the noblest des- 
 tiny that can befall a man. And yet I think if 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 fenton's quest. 
 
 Adela Branston were free, and willing to marry 
 me, I might make something of my life. I might 
 go into Parliament, and make something of a 
 name for myself. I could write books instead of 
 anonymous articles. I should scarcely sink down 
 into an idle mindless existence of dinner-giving 
 and dinner-eating. Yes, I think the best thing 
 that could happen to me would be to marry Adela 
 Branston.' 
 
 They parted at last, John Saltram having 
 faithfully promised his friend to work no more 
 . that night, and they met at Euston-square early 
 the next morning for the journey to Liverpool. 
 Gilbert had never found his friend's company 
 more delightful than on this last day. It seemed 
 as if John Saltram put away every thought of self 
 in his perfect sympathy with the thoughts and 
 feelings of the traveller. They dined together, 
 and it was 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 to me — if I should 
 have gone to the bad utterly before you come 
 back, you must try to remember our friendship 
 of the past. Think that I have loved you very
 
 * GOOD-BYE.' 147 
 
 dearly — as well as one man ever loved another, 
 perhaps.' 
 
 1 My dear John, you have no need to tell me 
 to think that. Nothing can ever weaken the love 
 between us. And you are not likely to go to the 
 bad. Good-bye, dear old friend. I shall remem- 
 ber you every day of my life. You are second 
 only to Marian in my heart. I shall write you 
 an account of my proceedings, and shall expect to 
 hear from you. Once more, good-bye.'
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 MISSING. 
 
 The bell rang. Gilbert Fenton and his friend 
 shook hands in silence for the last time, and in 
 the next moment John Saltram ran down the 
 steps to the little steamer which had brought 
 them out to the larger vessel. The sails spread 
 wide in the cool evening wind, and the mighty 
 ship glided away into the dusk. John Saltram's 
 last look showed him his friend's face gazing 
 down upon him over the bulwarks full of trust 
 and affection. 
 
 He went back to London by the evening 
 express, and reached his chambers at a late hour 
 that night. There had been some attempt at 
 tidying the rooms in his absence ; but his books 
 and papers had been undisturbed. Some letters 
 were lying on the desk, amongst them one in a 
 big scrawling hand that was very familiar to Mr. 
 Saltram, the envelope stamped 'Lidford.' He
 
 MISSING. 149 
 
 tore this open eagerly. It was from Sir David 
 Forster. 
 
 1 Dear Saltram' (wrote the Baronet), — ' What 
 do you mean by this iniquitous conduct ? You 
 only obtained my consent to your hurried depar- 
 ture 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, al- 
 though 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 re- 
 spect your laborious hours. — Ever yours, 
 
 c David Forster.' 
 
 John Saltram stood with this letter open in 
 his hand, staring blankly at it, like a man lost 
 in a dream. 
 
 'Go back!' he muttered at last — 'go back, 
 when I thought I did such a great thing in com- 
 ing away ! No, I am not weak enough for that 
 folly.'
 
 150 fenton's quest. 
 
 On the 5th of July in the following year, 
 Gilbert Fenton landed in England, after nearly 
 ten months of exile. He had found hard work 
 to do in the colonial city, and had done it ; sur- 
 mounting every difficulty by a steady resolute 
 course of action. 
 
 Astley Fenton had tried to shelter his frauds, 
 heaping falsehood upon falsehood ; and had ended 
 by making a full confession, after receiving his 
 cousin's promise not to prosecute. The sums 
 made away with by him amounted to some thou- 
 sands. Gilbert found that he had been leading 
 a life of reckless extravagance, and was a noto- 
 rious gambler. So there came an evening when, 
 after a prolonged investigation of affairs, Astley 
 Fenton put on his hat, and left his cousin's office 
 for ever. When Gilbert heard of him next, he 
 was clerk to a bookseller in Sidney. 
 
 The disentanglement of the Melbourne trad- 
 ing had occupied longer than Gilbert expected ; 
 and his exile had been especially dreary to him 
 during the last two months he spent in Australia, 
 from the failure of his English letters. The two 
 first mails after his arrival had brought him let- 
 ters from Marian and her uncle, and one short
 
 MISSING. 151 
 
 note from John Saltrarn. The mails that followed 
 brought him nothing, and he was inexpressibly 
 alarmed and distressed by this fact. If he could 
 by any possibility have returned to England im- 
 mediately after the arrival of the first mail which 
 brought him no letter, he would have done so. 
 But his journey would have been wasted had he 
 not remained to complete the work of reorganisa- 
 tion he had commenced; so he stayed, sorely 
 against the grain, hoping to get a letter by the 
 next mail. 
 
 That came, and with the same dispiriting re- 
 sult to Gilbert Fenton. There was a letter from 
 his sister, it is true ; but that was written from 
 Switzerland, where she was travelling with her 
 husband, and brought him no tidings of Marian. 
 He tried to convince himself that if there had 
 been bad news, it must needs have come to him ; 
 that the delay was only the result 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 place with such de- 
 ficient postal arrangements as those which ob- 
 tained at Lidford? But, argue with himself as 
 he might, this silence of his betrothed was none
 
 152 fenton's quest. 
 
 the less perplexing to him, and he was a prey to- 
 perpetual anxiety during the time that elapsed 
 hefore the sailing of the vessel that was to convey 
 him back to England. 
 
 Then came the long monotonous voyage, af- 
 fording ample leisure for gloomy thoughts, for 
 shapeless fears in the dead watches of the night, 
 when the sea washed drearily against his cabin 
 window, and he lay broad awake counting the 
 hours that must wear themselves out before he 
 could set foot on English ground. As the time 
 of his arrival drew nearer, his mind grew restless 
 and fitful, now full of hope and happy visions of 
 his meeting with Marian, now weighed down by 
 the burden of some unspeakable terror. 
 
 The day dawned at last, that sultry summer 
 day, and Gilbert was amongst those eager passen- 
 gers who quitted the vessel at daybreak. 
 
 He went straight from the quay to the railway- 
 station, and the delay of an hour which he had to 
 endure here seemed almost interminable to him. 
 As he paced to and fro the long platform waiting 
 for the London express, he wondered how he had 
 borne all the previous delay, how he had been 
 able to live through that dismal agonising time.
 
 MISSING. 153 
 
 His own patience was a mystery to him now that 
 the ordeal was over. 
 
 The express started at last, and he sat quietly 
 in his corner trying to read a newspaper ; while 
 his fellow-travellers discussed the state of trade 
 in Liverpool, which seemed from their account to 
 he as desperate and hopeless as the condition of 
 all commerce appears invariably to he whenever 
 commercial matters come under discussion. Gil- 
 bert Fenton was not interested in the Liverpool 
 trade at this particular crisis. He knew that he 
 had weathered the storm which had assailed his 
 own fortunes, and that the future lay clear and 
 bright before him. 
 
 He did not waste an hour in London, but 
 went straight from one station to another, and 
 was in time to catch a train for Fairleigh, the 
 station nearest to Lidford. It was five o'clock in 
 the afternoon when he arrived at this place, and 
 chartered a fly to take him over to Lidford — a 
 lovely summer afternoon. The sight of the fa- 
 miliar English scenery, looking so exquisite in 
 its summer glory, filled him with a pleasure that 
 was almost akin to pain. He had often walked 
 this road with Marian ; and as he drove along he
 
 154 fenton's quest. 
 
 looked eagerly at every distant figure, half hoping 
 to see his darling approach him in the summer 
 sunlight. 
 
 Mr. Fenton deposited his carpet-bag at the 
 cosy village inn, where snow-white curtains flut- 
 tered gaily at every window in the warm western 
 breeze, and innumerable geraniums made a gaudy 
 blaze of scarlet against the wooden wall. He did 
 not stop here to make any inquiries about those 
 he had come to see. His heart was beating 
 tumultuously in expectation of the meeting that 
 seemed so near. He alighted from the fly, dis- 
 missed the driver, and walked rapidly across a 
 field leading by a short-cut to the green on which 
 Captain Sedgewick's house stood. This field 
 brought him to the side of the green opposite the 
 Captain's cottage. He stopped for a moment as 
 he came through the little wooden gate, and looked 
 across the grass, where a regiment of geese was 
 inarching towards the still pool of willow-shadowed 
 water. 
 
 The shutters of the upper rooms were closed, 
 and there was a board above the garden - gate. 
 The cottage was to be let. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton's heart gave one great throb,
 
 MISSING. 155 
 
 and then seemed to cease beating altogether. He 
 walked across the green slowly, stunned by this 
 unlooked-for blow. Yes, the house was empty. 
 The garden, which he remembered in such ex- 
 quisite order, had a weedy dilapidated look that 
 seemed like the decay of some considerable time. 
 He rang the bell several times, but there was no 
 answer ; and he was turning away from the gate 
 with the stunned confused feeling still upon him, 
 unable to consider what he ought to do next, 
 when he heard himself called by his name, and 
 saw a woman looking at him across the hedge of 
 the neighbouring garden. 
 
 ' Were you wishing to make any inquiries 
 about the last occupants of Hazel Cottage, sir ?' 
 she asked. 
 
 1 Yes,' Gilbert answered huskily, looking at 
 her in an absent unseeing way. 
 
 He had seen her often during his visits to the 
 cottage, busy at work in her garden, which was 
 much smaller than the Captain's, but he had never 
 spoken to her before to-day. 
 
 She was a maiden lady, who eked-out her 
 slender income by letting a part of her miniature 
 abode whenever an opportunity for so doing oc-
 
 156 fenton's quest. 
 
 curred. The care of tins cottage occupied all her 
 days, and formed the delight and glory 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 been polished to the last ex- 
 tremity of brightness. 
 
 'Perhaps you would be so good as to walk 
 into my sitting-room for a few moments, sir,' said 
 this lady, opening her garden -gate. ' I shall be 
 most happy to afford you any information about 
 your friends.' 
 
 ' You are very good,' said Gilbert, following 
 her into the prim little parlour. 
 
 He had recovered his self-possession in some 
 degree by this time, telling himself that this de- 
 sertion of Hazel Cottage involved no more than a 
 change of residence. 
 
 ' My name is Dodd,' said the lady, motioning 
 Mr. Fenton to a chair, ' Miss Letitia Dodd. I 
 had the pleasure of seeing you very often during 
 your visits next door. I was not on visiting terms 
 with Captain Sedgewick and Miss Nowell, al- 
 though we bowed to each other out of doors. I 
 am only a tradesman's daughter — indeed my 
 brother is now carrying on business as a butcher
 
 MISSING. 157 
 
 in Fairleigh — and of course I am quite aware of 
 the difference in our positions. I am the last per- 
 son to intrude myself upon my superiors.' 
 
 ' If you will be so kind as to tell me where 
 they have gone ?' Gilbert asked, eager to stop this 
 formal statement of Miss Dodd's social standing. 
 
 1 Where they have gone!' she repeated. ' Dear, 
 dear ! Then you do not know — ' 
 
 ' I do not know what ?' 
 
 1 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. He was seized in the 
 night, poor dear gentleman, and it was only dis- 
 covered when the servant went to call him in 
 the morning. He only lived two days after the 
 seizure; and never spoke again.' 
 
 ' And Miss Xowell — what made her leave the 
 cottage ? She is still at Lidford, I suppose ?' 
 
 1 dear no, Mr. Fenton. She went away 
 altogether about a month after the Captain's 
 death.' 
 
 ' "Where did she go ?' 
 
 'I cannot tell you that. I did not even know
 
 158 fenton's quest. 
 
 that she intended leaving Hazel Cottage until the 
 day after she left. When I saw the shutters closed 
 and the hoard up, you might have knocked me 
 down with a feather. Miss Nowell was so much 
 liked in Lidford, and she had more than one in- 
 vitation from friends to stay with them for the 
 sake of a change after her uncle's death ; but she 
 would not visit anywhere. She stayed quite alone 
 in the cottage, with only the old servant.' 
 
 'But there must surely be some one in the 
 place who knows where she has gone!' exclaimed 
 Gilbert. 
 
 ' I think not. The landlord of Hazel Cottage 
 does not know. He is my landlord also, and I 
 was asking him about Miss Nowell when I paid 
 my rent the other day. He said he supposed she 
 had gone away to be married. That has been the 
 general impression, in fact, at Lidford. People 
 made sure that Miss Nowell had left to be married 
 to you.' 
 
 ' I have only just returned from Australia. I 
 have come back to fulfil my engagement to Miss 
 Nowell. Can you suggest no one from whom I 
 am likely to obtain information ?' 
 
 ' There is the family at the Rectory ; they knew
 
 MISSING. 159 
 
 her very well, and were extremely kind to her 
 after her uncle's death. It might he worth your 
 while to call upon Mr. Marchant.' 
 
 1 Yes, I will call,' Gilbert answered ; ' thanks 
 for the suggestion.' 
 
 He wished Miss Dodd good-afternoon, and left 
 her standing at the gate of her little garden, 
 watching him with profound interest as he walked 
 away towards the village. There was a pleasing- 
 mystery in the affair, to the mind of Miss Dodd. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton went at once to the Rectory, 
 although it was now past seven o'clock. He had 
 met Mr. and Mrs. Marchant several times, and 
 had visited them with the Listers. 
 
 The Rector was at home, sitting over his soli- 
 tary glass of port by the open window of his snug 
 dining-room, looking lazily out at a group of sons 
 and daughters playing croquet on the lawn. He 
 was surprised to see Mr. Fenton, but welcomed 
 him with much cordiality. 
 
 * I have come to you full of care, Mr. Mar- 
 chant,' Gilbert began ; ' and the pressing nature 
 of my business must excuse the lateness of my 
 visit.' 
 
 ' There is no occasion' for any excuse. I am
 
 160 fenton's quest. 
 
 very glad to see you at this time. Pray help your- 
 self to some wine, there are clean glasses near 
 you ; and take some of those strawberries, on 
 which my wife prides herself amazingly. People 
 who live in the country all their days are obliged 
 to give 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 engaged to Miss Nowell.' 
 
 ' Perfectly. I had imagined until this mo- 
 ment that you and she were married. When she 
 left Lidford, I concluded that she had gone to 
 stay with friends of yours, and that the marriage 
 would, in all probability, take place at an early 
 period, without any strict observance of etiquette 
 as to her mourning for her uncle. It was natural 
 that we should think this, 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 by us. My wife and 
 daughters called upon her two or three times after 
 the Captain's death, and were even anxious that
 
 MISSING. 161 
 
 she should come here to stay for a short time ; 
 but she would uot do that. She seemed grateful, 
 aud touched by their anxiety about her, but they 
 could not bring her to talk of 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 inteiwiew with the Rector lasted some time 
 longer; but it told him nothing. Whom next 
 could he question? He knew all Marian's friends, 
 and he spent the next day in calling upon them, 
 but with the same result ; no one could tell him 
 her reason for leaving Hazel Cottage, or where 
 she had gone. 
 
 There remained only one person whom he 
 could question, and that was the old servant who 
 had lived with Captain Sedgewick nearly all the 
 time of his residence at Lidford, and whom Gil- 
 bert had conciliated by numerous gifts during his 
 visits to Hazel Cottage. She was a good-hu- 
 moured honest creature, of about fifty, and had 
 been devoted to the Captain and Marian. 
 
 After a good deal of trouble, Gilbert ascer- 
 tained that this woman had not accompanied her 
 
 VOL. I. 31
 
 162 
 
 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 young mistress when she left Lidford, hut had 
 taken service in a grocer's family at Fairleigh. 
 Having discovered this, Mr. Fenton set off imme- 
 diately for the little market-town, on foot this 
 time, and with his mind full of the days when he 
 and Marian had walked this way together. 
 
 He found the shop to which he had heen 
 directed — a roomy old-fashioned emporium in 
 the High-street, sunk three or four feet below 
 the level of the pavement, and approached by a 
 couple of steps ; a shop with a low ceiling, that 
 was made lower by bunches of candles, hams, 
 bacon, and other merchandise hanging from the 
 massive beams that spanned it. Mr. Fenton, 
 having duly stated his business, was shown into 
 the grocer's best parlour — a resplendent apart- 
 ment, where there were more ornaments in the 
 way of shell - and - feather flowers under glass 
 shades, and Bohemian-glass scent-bottles, than 
 were consistent with luxurious occupation, and 
 where every chair and sofa was made a perfect 
 veiled prophet by enshrouding antimacassors. 
 Here Sarah Down, the late Captain's servant, 
 came to Mr. Fenton, wiping her hands and arms 
 upon a spotless canvas apron, and generally
 
 MISSING. 163 
 
 apologetic as to her appearance. To this woman 
 Gilbert repeated the question he had asked of 
 others, with the same disheartening result. 
 
 ' The poor dear young lady felt the Captain's 
 loss dreadfully ; as well she might, when they 
 had been so fond of each other,' Sarah Down said, 
 in answer to one of Gilbert's inquiries. ' I never 
 knew any one grieve so deeply. She wouldn't 
 go anywhere, and she couldn't bear to see any 
 one who came to see her. She used to shut her- 
 self up in the Captain's room day after day, kneel- 
 ing by his bedside, and crying as if her heart 
 would break. I have looked through the keyhole 
 sometimes, and seen her there on her knees, with 
 her face buried in the bedclothes. She didn't 
 care to talk about him even to me, and I had 
 hard work to persuade her to eat or drink enough 
 to keep lite in her at this time. When the days 
 were fine, I used to try and get her to walk out a 
 little, for she looked as white as a ghost for want 
 of air ; and after a good deal of persuasion, she 
 did go out sometimes of an afternoon, but she 
 wouldn't ask any one to walk with her, though 
 there were plenty she might have asked — the 
 young ladies from the Rectory and others. She
 
 164 fenton's quest. 
 
 preferred being alone, she told me, and I was 
 glad that she should get the air and the change 
 anyhow. She brightened a little after this, but 
 very little. It was all of a sudden one day that 
 she told me she was going away. I wanted to go 
 with her, but she said that couldn't be. I asked 
 her where she was going, and she told me, after 
 hesitating a little, that she was going to friends 
 in London. I knew she had been very fond of 
 two young ladies that she went to school with at 
 Lidford, whose father lived in London ; and I 
 thought it was to their house she was going. I 
 asked her if it was, and she said yes. She made 
 arrangements with the landlord about selling the 
 furniture. He is an auctioneer himself, and there 
 was no difficulty about that. The money was to 
 be sent to her at a post-office in London. I won- 
 dered at that, but she said it was better so. She 
 paid every sixpence that was owing, and gave me 
 a handsome present over and above my wages ; 
 though I didn't want to take anything from her, 
 poor dear young lady, knowing that there was 
 very little left after the Captain's death, except 
 the furniture, which wasn't likely to bring much. 
 And so she went away about two days after she
 
 MISSING. 165 
 
 first mentioned that she was going to leave Lid- 
 ford. It was all very sudden, and I don't think 
 she bade good-bye to any one in the place. She 
 seemed quite broken-down with grief in those two 
 last days. I shall never forget her poor pale face 
 when she got into the fly.' 
 
 1 How did she go ? From the station here ?' 
 'I don't know anything about that, except that 
 the fly came to the cottage 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's death '?' 
 
 1 Only when I spoke about you, sir. I used 
 to try to comfort her, telling her she had you 
 still left to care for her, and to make up for him 
 she'd lost. But she used to look at me in a 
 strange pitiful sort of way, and shake her head. 
 " I am very miserable, Sarah, " she would say to 
 me ; "I am quite alone in the world now my dear 
 uncle is gone, and I don't know what to do." I 
 told her she ought to look forward to the time 
 when she would be married, and would have a 
 happy home of her own : but I could never get 
 her to talk of that.'
 
 166 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' Can you tell me the name and address of her 
 friends in London — the young ladies with whom 
 she went to school ?' 
 
 ' The name is Bruce, sir ; and they live, or 
 they used to live at that time, in St. John's-wood. 
 I have heard Miss Nowell say that, hut I don't 
 know 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 unaccount- 
 able that my dearest girl should have left Lid- 
 ford without writing me word of her removal and 
 her intentions with regard to the future — that 
 she should have sent me no announcement of her 
 uncle's death, although she must have known how 
 well I loved him. I am going to ask you a ques- 
 tion that is very painful to me, but which must 
 be asked sooner or later. Do you know of any 
 one else whom she may have liked better than 
 me — any one whose influence may have governed 
 her at the time she left Lidford ?' 
 
 'No, indeed, sir,' replied the woman promptly. 
 ' Who else was there ? Miss Nowell knew so few 
 gentlemen, and saw no one except the Hector's fa- 
 mily and two or three ladies after the uncle's death.'
 
 MISSING. 167 
 
 'Not at the cottage, perhaps. But she may 
 have seen some one out-of-doors. You say she 
 always went out alone at that time, and preferred 
 to do so.' 
 
 • Yes, sir, that is true. But it seemed natural 
 enough that she should like to he alone on account 
 of her grief.' 
 
 ' There must have been some reason for her 
 silence towards me, Sarah. She could not have 
 acted so cruelly without some powerful motive. 
 Heaven only knows what it may have been. The 
 business of my life will be to find her — to see her 
 face to face once more, and hear the explanation 
 of her conduct from her own lips.' 
 
 He thanked the woman for her information, 
 slipped a sovereign into her hand, and departed. 
 He called upon the proprietor of Hazel Cottage, 
 an auctioneer, surveyor, and house-agent in the 
 High-street of Fairleigh, but could obtain no fresh 
 tidings from this gentleman, except the fact that 
 the money realised by the Captain's furniture had 
 been sent to Miss Xowell at a post-office in the 
 City, and had been duly acknowledged by her, 
 after a delay of about a week. The auctioneer 
 showed Gilbert the letter of receipt, which was
 
 168 fenton's quest. 
 
 worded in a very formal business-like manner, 
 and bore no address but ' London.' The sight 
 of the familiar hand gave him a sharp pang. 
 God, how he had languished for a letter in that 
 handwriting ! 
 
 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 
 slab of granite recorded the virtues of the dead. 
 It lay in the prettiest, most retired part of the 
 churchyard, half- hidden under a wide - spreading 
 yew. Gilbert Fenton sat upon a low wall near at 
 hand for a long time, brooding over his broken 
 life, and wishing himself at rest beneath that 
 solemn shelter. 
 
 ' She never loved me,' he said to himself bit- 
 terly. ' I shut my eyes obstinately to the truth, 
 or I might have discovered the secret of her in- 
 difference by a hundred signs and tokens. I 
 fancied that a man who loved a woman as I loved 
 her must succeed in winning her heart at last. 
 And I accepted her girlish trust in me, her inno- 
 cent gratitude for my attentions, as the evidence 
 of her love. Even at the last, when she wanted 
 to release me, I would not understand. I did not
 
 MISSING. 169 
 
 expect to be loved as I loved lier. I would have 
 given so much, and beeu content to take so little. 
 What is there I would not have done — what sa- 
 crifice of my own pride that I would not have 
 happily made to win her? 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, your friend 
 in spite of every wrong.' 
 
 He knelt down by the grave, and pressed his 
 lips to the granite on which George Sedgewick's 
 name was chiselled. 
 
 ' I owe it to the dead to discover her fate,' he 
 said to himself, as he rose from that reverent at- 
 titude. ' I owe it to the dead to penetrate the 
 secret of her new life, to assure myself that she 
 is happy, and has fallen under no fatal influence.' 
 
 The Listers were still abroad, and Gilbert was 
 very glad that it was so. It would have excru- 
 ciated him to hear his sister's comments on Ma- 
 rian's conduct, and to perceive the suppressed 
 exultation with which she would most likely have 
 discussed this unhappy termination to an engage- 
 ment which had been entered on in utter disre- 
 gard of her counsel.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 JOHN SALTEAM S ADVICE. 
 
 Mr. Fenton discovered the Bruce family in Boun- 
 dary-road St. John's-wood, after a good deal of 
 trouble. But they could tell him nothing of their 
 dear friend Miss Nowell, of whom they spoke with 
 the warmest regard. They had never seen her 
 since they had left the school at Lidford, where 
 they had been boarders, and she a daily pupil. 
 They had not even heard of Captain Sedgewick's 
 death. 
 
 Gilbert asked these young ladies if they knew 
 of any other acquaintance of Marian's living in or 
 near London. They both answered promptly in 
 the negative. The school was a small one, and 
 they had been the only pupils who came from 
 town ; nor had they ever heard Marian speak of 
 any London friends. 
 
 Thus ended Mr. Fenton's inquiries in this 
 direction, leaving him no wiser than when he left
 
 JOHN saltram's advice. 171 
 
 Lidford. He had now exhausted every possible 
 channel by which he might obtain information. 
 The ground lay open before him, and there was 
 nothing left for him but publicity. He took an 
 advertisement to the Times office that afternoon, 
 and paid for six insertions in the second column : 
 
 ' Miss Marian Xowell, late of Lidford, Mid- 
 landshire, is requested to communicate imme- 
 diately 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 fancied this advertisement must 
 needs bring him some tidings of his lost love. 
 The mystery might be happily solved after all, 
 and Marian prove true to him. He tried to per- 
 suade himself that this was possible ; but it was 
 very difficult to reconcile her line of conduct with 
 the fact of her regard for him. 
 
 In the evening he went to the Temple, eager 
 to see John Saltram, from whom he had no in- 
 tention to keep the secret of his trouble. He 
 found his friend at home, writing, with his desk
 
 172 fenton's quest. 
 
 pushed against the open window, and the dust 
 and shabhiness of his room dismally obvious in 
 the hot July sunshine. He started up as Gilbert 
 entered, and the dark face grew suddenly pale. 
 
 'You took me by surprise,' he said. ' I didn't 
 know you were in England.' 
 
 ' I only landed two days ago,' answered Gil- 
 bert, as they shook hands. ' I daresay I startled 
 you a little, dear old fellow, coming in upon you 
 without 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 coming home 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 be- 
 fallen him since his arrival in England. 
 
 ' I come to you for counsel and help, John,' 
 he said, when he had finished his story.
 
 JOHN saltram's advice. 173 
 
 1 1 will give you my help, so far as it is pos- 
 sible for one man to help another in such a busi- 
 ness, and my counsel in all honesty/ answered 
 John Saltram ; ' but I doubt if you will be in- 
 clined to receive it.' 
 
 1 Why should you doubt that ?' 
 
 1 Because it is not likely to agree with your 
 own ideas.' 
 
 ' Speak out, John.' 
 
 ' I think that if Miss Xowell had really loved 
 you, she would never have taken this step. I 
 think that she must have left Lidford in order to 
 escape from her engagement, perhaps expecting 
 your early return. I believe 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 you against sacrificing your life 
 to a delusion.' 
 
 1 It is not under the delusion that Marian 
 Xowell loves me that I am going to search for 
 her,' Gilbert Fenton said slowly, after an interval 
 of silence. ' 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 she 
 may still be true to me, and that there may have
 
 174 fenton's quest. 
 
 been some hidden reason for her conduct. Granted 
 that she wished to escape from her engagement, 
 she might have trusted to my honour to give her 
 a prompt release the moment I became acquainted 
 with the real state of her feelings. There must 
 have been some stronger influence than this at 
 work when she left Lidford. I want to know the 
 true cause of that hurried departure, John. I 
 want 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 advertise- 
 ments in the Times. They may bring me tidings 
 of Marian — if not directly, from some person who 
 has seen her since she left Lidford.' 
 
 ' If she really wished to hide herself from you, 
 she would most likely change her name.' 
 
 ' Why should she wish to hide herself from 
 me ? She must know that she might trust me. 
 Of her own free will she would never do this cruel 
 thing. There must have been some secret influ- 
 ence at work upon my darling's mind. It shall 
 be my business to discover what that influence 
 was ; or in plainer words still, to discover the
 
 JOHN saltram's advice. 175 
 
 man who has robbed, me of Marian NowelTs 
 heart.' 
 
 ' It comes to that, then/ said John Saltram. 
 ' You suspect some unknown rival '?' 
 
 ' Yes : that is the most natural conclusion to 
 arrive at. And jet heaven knows how unwillingly 
 I take that into consideration.' 
 
 ' There is no particular person whom you 
 suspect ?' 
 
 'Xo one." 
 
 1 If there should be no result from your adver- 
 tisement, what will you do ?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you just yet. Unless I get some 
 kind of clue, the business will seem a hopeless 
 one. But I cannot imagine that the advertise- 
 ments will fail completely. If she left Lidford to 
 lie married, there must be some record of her 
 marriage. Should my first advertisements fail, 
 my next shall be inserted with a view to discover 
 such a record.' 
 
 'And if, after infinite trouble, you should 
 find her the wife of another man, what reward 
 would you have for your wasted time and lost 
 labour ?' 
 
 ' The happiness of knowing her to be in a safe
 
 176 fenton's quest. 
 
 and honourable position. I love her too dearly to 
 remain in ignorance of her fate.' 
 
 ' Well, Gilbert, I know that good advice is 
 generally thrown away in such a 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 thing alone, and 
 resign yourself to the inevitable. I acknowledge 
 that Miss Nowell was eminently worthy of your 
 affection; but you know the old song — "If she 
 be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be ?" 
 There are plenty of women in the world. The 
 choice is wide enough.' 
 
 ' Not for me, John. Marian Nowell is the 
 only woman I have ever loved, the only woman 
 I ever can love.' 
 
 ' My dear boy, it is so natural for you to be- 
 lieve that just now; and a year hence you will 
 think so differently !' 
 
 ' No, John. But I am not going to make any 
 protestations of my constancy. Let the matter 
 rest. I know that my life is broken — that this 
 blow has left me nothing to hope for or to live 
 for, except the hope of finding the girl who has 
 wronged me. I won't weary you with lamenta-
 
 JOHN sal-tram's advice. 177 
 
 tions. My talk lias been entirely of self since I 
 came into this room. Tell me your own affairs, 
 Jack, old friend. How lias the world gone with 
 you since we parted at Liverpool last year ?' 
 
 1 Not too smoothly. My financial position be- 
 comes a little more obscure and difficult of com- 
 prehension every year, as you know ; but I rub on 
 somehow. I have been working at literature like 
 a galley-slave ; have contributed no end of stuff 
 to the Quarterlies ; and am engaged upon a 
 book, — yes, Gil, positively a book, — which I hope 
 may do great things for me if ever I can finish 
 it.' 
 
 ' Is it a novel ?' 
 
 'A novel! no!' cried John Saltram, with a 
 wry face ; 'it is the romance of reality I deal 
 with. My book is a Life of Jonathan Swift. He 
 was always a favourite study of mine, you know, 
 that brilliant, unprincipled, intolerant, cynical, 
 irresistible, miserable man. Scott's biography 
 seems to me to give but a tame picture, and 
 others are only sketches. Mine will be a pre- 
 Raphaelite study — faithful as a photograph, care- 
 ful as a miniature on ivory, and life-size.' 
 
 'I trust it will bring you fame and money 
 
 vol. I. n
 
 178 fenton's quest. 
 
 when the time comes/ answered Gilbert. 'And 
 how about Mrs. Branston ? Is she as charming 
 as ever ?' 
 
 ' A little more so, if possible. Poor old Mi- 
 chael Branston is dead — went off the hooks rather 
 suddenly about a month ago. The widow looks 
 amazingly pretty in her weeds.' 
 
 * And you will marry her, I suppose, Jack, as 
 soon as her mourning is over?' 
 
 ' Well, yes ; it is on the cards,' John Saltram 
 said, in an indifferent tone. 
 
 ' 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 
 Neius ; the personalty sworn under a hundred 
 and twenty thousand, — all left to the widow, — 
 besides real property — a house in Cavendish - 
 square, the villa at Maidenhead, and a place near 
 Leamington.' 
 
 ' It would be a splendid match for you, Jack.' 
 
 ' Splendid, of course. An unprecedented stroke 
 of luck for such a fellow as 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
 
 JOHN saltbam's advice. 179 
 
 slavery, I tliink, Gil, and there 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 de- 
 ceive her. And she would expect devoted affec- 
 tion from a second husband. She is full of ro- 
 mantic ideas, schoolgirl theories of life which she 
 was obliged to nip in the bud when she went to 
 the altar with old Branston, but which have burst 
 into flower now 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.' 
 
 ' 1 hope you will marry her. I should like to 
 see you safe in smooth water, and with some pur- 
 pose in life. I should like to see you turn your 
 back upon the loneliness of these dreary cham- 
 bers.' 
 
 1 They are not very brilliant, are they ? I 
 don't know how many generations of briefless 
 barristers these * chairs and tables have served. 
 The rooms have an atmosphere of failure; but
 
 180 fenton's quest. 
 
 they suit me very well. I am not always here, 
 you know. I spend a good deal of my time in 
 the country.' 
 
 1 Whereabouts ?' 
 
 ' Sometimes in one direction, sometimes in 
 another ; wherever my truant fancy leads me. I 
 prefer such spots as are most remote from the 
 haunts of men, unknown to cockneys ; and so 
 long as there is a river within reach of my lodg- 
 ing, I can make myself tolerably happy with a 
 punt and a fishing-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 David Forster would not 
 let me alone until I went down to him. He was 
 ill, and in a very dismal condition altogether, 
 abandoned by the rest of his cronies, and a close 
 prisoner in the house which has so many painful 
 associations 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
 
 JOHN baltram's advice. 181 
 
 the kind old Captain ; but Forster was uncon- 
 scionably exacting, — there was no getting away 
 from him.' 
 
 Gilbert stopped with his friend until late that 
 night, smoking and drinking a mild mixture of 
 brandy and soda-water, and talking of the things 
 that had been doing on this side of the globe 
 while he had been on the other. Xo more was 
 said about Marian, or Gilbert's plans for the fu- 
 ture. In his own mind that one subject reigned 
 supreme, shutting -out every other thought; but 
 he did not want to make himself a nuisance to 
 John Saltram, and he knew that there are bounds 
 to the endurance of which friendship is capable. 
 
 The two friends seemed cheerful enough as 
 they smoked their cigars in the summer dusk, the 
 quiet of the flagged court below rarely broken by 
 a passing footfall. It was the pleasantest evening 
 which Gilbert Fenton had spent for a long time, 
 in spite of the heavy burden on his mind, in spite 
 of the depressing view which Mr. Saltram took of 
 his position. 
 
 'Dear old John,' he said, as they shook hands 
 at parting, ' I cannot tell you what a happiness it 
 has been to me to see you again. We were never
 
 182 fenton's quest. 
 
 separated so long before since trie clay when I ate 
 my first dinner at Balliol.' 
 
 The other seemed touched by this expression 
 of regard, but disinclined to betray his emotion, 
 after the manner of Englishmen on such occa- 
 sions. 
 
 ' My dear Gilbert, it ought to be very pleasant 
 to me to hear that. But I doubt 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 am by a long way, and 
 are not likely to profit much in the long-run by 
 your friendship for a reprobate like me.' 
 
 ' That's all nonsense, John. That kind of 
 vague self-accusation means nothing. I have no 
 doubt I shall live to see you a great man, and to 
 be proud 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 a 
 distinguished future are within your grasp.' 
 
 ' The chances within my grasp ! Yes. My 
 dear Gilbert, I tell you there are some men 
 for whom everything in this world comes too 
 late.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by that ?'
 
 JOHN saltram's advice. 183 
 
 ' Only that I doubt if you will ever see ine 
 Adela Branstou's husband.' 
 
 ' 1 can't understand you, John.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, there is nothing strange in 
 that. There are times when I cannot understand 
 myself.'
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 JACOB NOWELL. 
 
 The days went by, and brought Gilbert Fenton 
 no reply to his advertisement. He called at the 
 post-office morning and evening, only to find the 
 same result ; and a dull blank feeling, a kind of 
 deadness of heart and mind, began to steal over 
 him with the progress of the days. He went 
 through the routine of his business-life steadily 
 enough, working as hard as he had ever worked; 
 but it was only by a supreme effort that he could 
 bring his mind to bear upon the details of busi- 
 ness — all interest in his office-work was gone. 
 
 The advertisement had appeared for the sixth 
 time, and Gilbert had framed a second, offering 
 a reward of twenty pounds for any direct evidence 
 of the marriage of Marian Nowell ; when a letter 
 was handed to him one evening at the post-office 
 — a letter in a common blue envelope, directed in
 
 JACOB XOWELL. 185 
 
 a curious crabbed hand, and bearing the London 
 post -mark. 
 
 His heart beat loud and fast as he tore open 
 this envelope. It contained only a half-sheet of 
 paper, "with these words written upon it in the 
 cramped half-illegible hand which figured on the 
 outside : 
 
 ' The person advertising for Marian Xowell is 
 requested to call at Xo. 5 Queen-Anne's -court 
 Wardour-street, any evening after seven.' 
 
 This was all. Little as this brief note implied, 
 however, Gilbert made sure that the writer must 
 be in a position to give him some kind of in- 
 formation about the object of his search. It was 
 six o'clock when he received the communication. 
 He went from the post-office to his lodgings with 
 Ms mind in a tumult of excitement, made a mere 
 pretence of taking a hasty dinner, and set off im- 
 mediately afterwards for "Wardour-street. 
 
 There was more than time for him to walk, 
 and he hoped that the walk might have some 
 effect in reducing the fever of his mind. He did 
 not want to present himself before strangers — 
 who, no doubt, only wanted to make a barter of 
 any knowledge they possessed as to Marian's
 
 186 fenton's quest. 
 
 whereabouts — in a state of mental excitement. 
 The address to which he was going mystified 
 him beyond measure. What could people liv- 
 ing in such a place as this know of her whom he 
 sought ? 
 
 He was in Wardour- street at a quarter before 
 seven, but he had considerable trouble in finding 
 Queen-Anne's-court, and the clocks of the neigh- 
 bourhood were striking the hour as he turned into 
 a narrow alley with 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 of old silver, tarnished 
 and blackened, huddled together behind the wire- 
 guarded glass, was dimly visible in the uncertain 
 light. There was some old jewelry too, and a 
 little wooden bowl of sovereigns or gold coins of 
 some kind or other. 
 
 On a brass plate upon the door of this estab- 
 lishment there appeared the name of Jacob Nowell, 
 silversmith and money-changer. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton stared in amazement at this 
 inscription. It must needs be some relative of 
 Marian's he was about to see. 
 
 He opened the door, bewildered a little by
 
 JACOB XOWELL. 187 
 
 this discovery, and a shrill hell 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 door in the obscure 
 background, and asked in a sharp voice what the 
 visitor pleased to want. 
 
 ' I wish to see Mr. Xowell. the writer of a 
 letter addressed to the post-office in Wigmore- 
 street.' 
 
 The sallow-faced young man disappeared with- 
 out a word, leaving Gilbert standing in the dimly 
 lighted shop, where he saw more old silver 
 crowded upon shelves behind glass doors, carved 
 ebony cabinets looming out of the dusk, and here 
 and there an old picture in a tarnished frame. 
 On the counter there was a glass case containing 
 foreign bank-notes, and gold, some curious old 
 watches, and other trinkets, a baby's coral, a bat- 
 tered silver cup, and a gold snuff-box. 
 
 While Gilbert waited thus he heard voices in 
 a room at the back — the shrill tones of the sallow 
 young man, and a feeble old voice raised queru- 
 lously — and then, after a delay which seemed long 
 to his impatience, the young man reappeared and 
 told him Mr. Xowell was ready to see him.
 
 188 fenton's quest. 
 
 Gilbert went into the room at the end of the 
 shop — a small dark parlour, more crowded with a 
 heterogeneous collection of plate, pictures, and 
 bric-a-brac of all kinds than the shop itself. Sultry 
 as the July evening was, there was a fire burning 
 in the pinched rusty grate, and over this fire the 
 owner of the room bent affectionately, with his 
 slippered feet on the fender, and his bony hands 
 clasping his bony knees. 
 
 He was an old man, with long yellowish-white 
 hair streaming from beneath a velvet skull-cap, 
 and bright black eyes deep set in a pale thin face. 
 His nose was a sharp aquiline, and gave some- 
 thing of a bird-like aspect to a countenance that 
 must once have been very handsome. He was 
 wrapped in a long dressing-gown of some thick 
 gray woollen stuff. 
 
 The sallow-faced young man lingered by the 
 half-glass door between the parlour and the shop, 
 as if he would fain have remained a witness to 
 the interview about to take place between his 
 master and the stranger ; but the old man looked 
 round at him sharply, and said, 
 
 ' That will do, Tulliver ; you can go back to 
 the shop. If Abrahams brings that little lot
 
 JACOB NOWELL. 189 
 
 again to-night, tell him I'll give five-and-nine an 
 ounce, not a fraction more.' 
 
 Mr. Tulliver retired, leaving the door ajar 
 ever so little ; but the penetrating black eyes of 
 the master were quick to perceive this manoeuvre. 
 
 ' Will you be so good as to shut that door, sir, 
 quite securely ?' he said to Gilbert. ' That young- 
 man is very inquisitive ; I'm afraid I've kept him 
 too long. A mistake, that. People talk of old 
 servants ; but half the robberies in the world are 
 committed by old servants. Be seated, if you 
 please, sir. You find this room rather close, per- 
 haps. Some people do ; but I'm old and chilly, 
 and I can't live without a fire.' 
 
 ' I have come to you in great anxiety of mind,' 
 said Gilbert, as he seated himself upon the only 
 disengaged chair in the room, ' and with some 
 hope that you may be able to set my mind at ease 
 by affording me information about Miss Marian 
 Nowell.' 
 
 'I can give you no information about her.' 
 
 'Indeed !' cried Gilbert, with a bitter pang of 
 disappointment ; ' and yet you answered my ad- 
 vertisement.' 
 
 ' I did, because I have some reason to sup-
 
 190 . fenton's quest. 
 
 pose this Marian Nowell may be my grand- 
 daughter.' 
 
 ' That is quite possible.' 
 
 ' Can you tell me her father's name ?' 
 
 ' Percival Nowell. Her mother was a Miss 
 Lucy Geoffry.' 
 
 'Eight,' said the old man. 'Percival Nowell 
 was "my only son — my only child of late years. 
 There was a girl, but she died early. He was my 
 only son, and his mother and I were foolish 
 enough to be proud of his good looks and his 
 clever ways ; and we brought him up a gentle- 
 man, sent him to an expensive school, and after 
 that to the University, and pinched ourselves in 
 every way for his sake. My father was a gentle- 
 man ; and it was only after I had failed as a pro- 
 fessional man, through circumstances which I 
 need not explain to you now, that I took to this 
 business. I would have made any sacrifice in 
 reason for that boy of mine. I wanted him to be 
 a gentleman, and to make his way in one of the 
 learned professions. After a great deal of chop- 
 ping and changing, he fixed upon the Bar, took 
 chambers in the Temple, made me pay all the 
 fees, and pretended to study. But I soon found
 
 JACOB NO WELL. 191 
 
 that he was leading a wild dissipated life, and 
 was never likely to be good for anything. He got 
 into debt, drew bills upon me, and behaved alto- 
 gether in a most shameful manner. When I sent 
 for him, and remonstrated with him upon his dis- 
 graceful conduct, he told me that I was a miser, 
 that I spent my life in a dog-kennel for the sake 
 of hoarding money, and that I deserved nothing 
 better than his treatment of me. I may have 
 been better off at this time than I had cared to 
 let him know, for I had soon found out what a 
 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 
 told him to go about his business, and never to 
 expect another sixpence from me as long as he 
 lived. How he managed to exist after this, I 
 hardly know. He was very much mixed-up with 
 a disreputable lot of turf-men, and I believe he 
 made money by betting. His mother robbed me 
 for him, I found out afterwards, and contrived to 
 send him a good deal of money at odd times. 
 My business as a dealer in second-hand silver was 
 better then than it is now, and I had so much 
 money passing through my hands that it was
 
 192 fenton's quest. 
 
 pretty easy for my wife to cheat me. Poor soul ! 
 she has been dead and gone these fifteen years, 
 and I have freely forgiven her. She loved that 
 young man to distraction. If he had wanted a 
 step to reach the object of his wishes, she would 
 have laid herself down in the dust and let him 
 walk over her body. I suppose it is in the nature 
 of mothers to love their sons like that. Well, sir, 
 I never saw my gentleman after that day. I had 
 plenty of letters from him, all asking for money ; 
 threatening letters, pitiful letters, letters in which 
 he swore he would destroy himself if he didn't 
 receive a remittance by return of post; but I never 
 sent him a shilling. About a year after our last 
 meeting, I received the announcement of his mar- 
 riage with Miss Geoffry. He wrote to tell me 
 that, if I would allow him a decent income, he 
 would reform and lead a steady life. That letter 
 I did answer ; to the effect that, if he chose to 
 come here and act as my shopman, I would give 
 him board and lodging for himself and his wife, 
 and such wages as he should deserve. I told him 
 that I had given him his chance as a gentleman, 
 and he had thrown it away. I would give him 
 the opportunity now of succeeding in a humbler
 
 JACOB XOWELL. 193 
 
 career by sheer industry and perseverance, as I 
 had succeeded myself. If he thought that I had 
 made a fortune, there was so much the more rea- 
 son for him to try his luck. This was the last 
 letter I ever wrote to him. It was unanswered ; 
 but about a year and a half afterwards there 
 came a few lines to his mother, telling her of 
 the birth of a daughter, which was to be 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 for some time ; that 
 these failed suddenly at last ; and that anxiety 
 about her worthless son — anxiety which she tried 
 to hide from me — shortened her life. She never 
 complained, poor soul ! never mentioned Percy's 
 name until the last, when she begged me to be 
 kind to him if he should ever come to throw him- 
 self upon my kindness. I gave her my promise 
 that, if that came to pass, he should find me a 
 better friend to him than he deserved. It is hard 
 to refuse the last prayer of a faithful wife who has 
 done her duty patiently for nearly thirty years.' 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' Have you any reason to suppose your son 
 still living ?' 
 
 ' I have no evidence of his death. Often and 
 often, after my poor wife was gone, I have sat alone 
 here of a night thinking of him ; thinking that he 
 might come in upon me at any moment ; almost 
 listening for his footstep in the quiet of the place. 
 But he never came. He would have found me 
 very soft-hearted at such times. My mind changed 
 to him a good deal after his mother's death. I 
 used to think of him as he was in his boyhood, 
 when Marian and I had such great hopes of him, 
 and would sit and talk of him for hours together by 
 this fireside. An old man left quite alone as I 
 was had plenty of time for such thoughts. Night 
 after night I have fancied I heard his step, and 
 have looked up at that door expecting to see him 
 open it 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 of me.' 
 
 ' You have never taken any measures for find- 
 ing him ?' inquired Gilbert. 
 
 'No. If he wanted me, he knew where I was 
 to be found. I was a fixture. It was his busi-
 
 JACOB XOWELL. 195 
 
 ness to come to nie. When I saw the name of 
 Marian Nowell in your advertisement a week ago, 
 I felt curious to know whether it could he my 
 grandchild you were looking for. I held-off till 
 this morning, thinking it wasn't worth my while 
 to make any inquiries ahout the matter; hut I 
 couldn't get it out of my head somehow ; and it 
 ended hy my answering your advertisement. I 
 am an old man, you see, without a creature he- 
 longing to me ; and it might be a comfort to me 
 to meet with some one of my own flesh and blood. 
 The bit of money I may leave behind me when I 
 die won't be much ; but it might as well go to my 
 son's child as to a stranger.' 
 
 ' If your son's child can be found, you will 
 discover her to be well worthy of your love. Yes, 
 though she has done me a cruel wrong, I believe 
 her 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 en- 
 gagement, and the bitter disappointment which 
 had befallen him on his return from Australia. 
 The old man listened with every appearance of 
 interest. He approved of Gilbert's notion of ad- 
 vertising for the particulars of a possible marriage,
 
 196 fenton's quest. 
 
 and offered to bear his part in the expenses of 
 the search for his granddaughter. 
 
 Gilbert smiled at this offer. 
 
 'You do not know what a worthless thing 
 money is to me now,' he said, ' or how lightly I 
 hold my own trouble or loss in this matter.' 
 
 He left Queen-Anne's-court soon after this, af- 
 ter having promised Jacob Nowell to return and 
 report progress so soon as there should be anything 
 worth telling. He went back to Wigmore-street 
 heavy-hearted, depressed by the reaction that fol- 
 lowed the vain hope which the silversmith's letter 
 had inspired. It mattered little to him to know 
 the antecedents of Marian's father, while Marian's 
 destiny remained still hidden from him.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGROVE. 
 
 Ox the following day Gilbert Fenton took his 
 second advertisement to the office in Printing- 
 house-square ; an advertisement offering a reward 
 of twenty pounds for any reliable information as 
 to the marriage of Marian Xowell. A week went 
 by, during which the advertisement appeared on 
 alternate days ; and at the end of that time there 
 came a letter from the parish-clerk of Wygrove, a 
 small town about forty miles farther from London 
 than Lidford, stating that, on the 14th of March, 
 John Holbrook and Marian Nowell had been mar- 
 ried at the church in that place. Gilbert Fenton 
 left London by an early train upon the morning 
 after his receipt of this letter ; and at about three 
 o'clock in the afternoon found himself on the out- 
 skirts of Wygrove, rather a difficult place to reach, 
 involving a good deal of delay at out-of-the-way
 
 198 fenton's quest. 
 
 junctions, and a six-mile journey by stage-coach 
 from the nearest station. 
 
 It was about the dullest dreariest little town 
 to which his destiny had ever brought Gilbert 
 Fenton, consisting of a melancholy high-street, 
 with a blank market-place, and a townhall that 
 looked as if it had not been opened within the 
 memory of man ; a grand old gothic church, much 
 too large for the requirements of the place ; a 
 grim square brick box inscribed ' Ebenezer;' and 
 a few prim villas straggling off into the country. 
 
 On one side of the church there was a curious 
 little old-fashioned court, wonderfully neat and 
 clean, with houses the parlours whereof were sunk 
 below the level of the pavement, after the manner 
 of these old places. There was a great show of 
 geraniums in the casements, and a general aspect 
 of brightness and order distinguished all these 
 modest dwellings. It was to this court that Mr. 
 Fenton had been directed on inquiring for Thomas 
 Stoneham, the parish-clerk, at the inn where the 
 coach deposited him. He was fortunate enough 
 to find Mr. Stoneham sunning himself on the 
 threshold of his domicile, smoking an after-dinner 
 pipe. A pleasant clattering of tea-things sounded
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGROVE. 199 
 
 from the neat little parlour within, showing that, 
 early as it was, there were already preparations for 
 the cup which cheers without inebriating in the 
 Stoneham household. 
 
 Thomas Stoneham, supported by a freshly- 
 painted door of a vivid green and an extensive 
 brass plate engraved with his name and functions, 
 was a personage of some dignity. He was a mid- 
 dle-aged man, ponderous and slow of motion, with 
 a latent pomposity, which he rendered as agree- 
 able as possible 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 
 dignities of this earth — less lucrative, of course, 
 than a bishopric or the woolsack, and of a nar- 
 rower range, but quite as important on a small 
 scale. ' The world might get on pretty well with- 
 out bishops,' thought Mr. Stoneham, when he 
 pondered upon these things as he smoked his 
 churchwarden pipe ; ' but what would become of a 
 parish in which there was no clerk ?' 
 
 This gentleman, seeing Gilbert Fenton ap- 
 proach, was quick to surmise that the stranger 
 came in answer to the letter he had written the 
 day before. The advent of a stranger in Wygrove
 
 200 fenton's quest. 
 
 was so rare an occurrence, that it was natural 
 enough for him to jump at this conclusion. 
 
 ' I believe you are Mr. Stoneham,' said Gil- 
 bert, ' and the writer of a letter in answer to an 
 advertisement in the Times.' 
 
 ' My name is Stoneham, sir ; I am the clerk 
 of this parish, and have been for twenty years and 
 more, as I think I may have stated in the letter 
 to which you refer. Will you be so kind as to 
 step inside ?' 
 
 Mr. Stoneham waved his hand towards the 
 parlour, to which apartment Gilbert descended. 
 Here he found Mrs. Stoneham, a meek little 
 sandy-haired woman, who seemed to be borne 
 down by the weight of her lord's dignity; and 
 Miss Stoneham, also meek and sandy, with a great 
 many stiff little corkscrew ringlets budding-out 
 all over her head and a sharp little inquiring nose. 
 
 These ladies would have retired on Gilbert's 
 entrance, but he begged them to remain ; and after 
 a good deal of polite hesitation they consented to 
 do so, Mrs. Stoneham resuming her seat before 
 the tea-tray, and Miss Stoneham retiring to a 
 little table by the window, where she was engaged 
 in trimming a bonnet.
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGR0VE. 201 
 
 1 1 want to know all about this marriage, Air. 
 Stonehani,' Gilbert began, when he had seated 
 himself in a shining mahogany arm-chair by the 
 empty fireplace. ' First and foremost, I want you 
 to tell me where Air. 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 here they went the Lord 
 knows where. They went away the very day they 
 were married. There was a fly waiting for them 
 at the church-door, with their luggage upon it, 
 when the ceremony was over, ready to drive them 
 to Grange wick station. I saw them get into it 
 and drive away ; and that's every mortal thing 
 that I know as to what became of them after they 
 were married in yonder church.' 
 
 ' You don't know who this Mr. Holbrook is ?' 
 
 1 No more than the babe unborn, sir. He was 
 a stranger in this place, was only here long enough 
 to get the license for his marriage. I should take 
 him to be a gentleman ; but he wasn't a pleasant 
 person to speak to — rather stand-off-ish in his 
 manners. He wasn't the sort of man I should
 
 202 fenton's quest. 
 
 have chosen if I'd been a pretty young woman like 
 Miss Nowell ; but there's no accounting for taste, 
 and she seemed uncommonly fond of him. I 
 never saw any one more agitated than she was 
 when they were married. She was crying in a 
 quiet way all through the service, and when it was 
 over she fainted dead-off. I daresay it did seem 
 hard to her to be married like that, without so 
 much as a friend to give her away. She was in 
 mourning 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 be any age between 
 thirty and forty ; not a gentleman that I should 
 have taken a fancy to myself, as I said before ; but 
 young women are that wayward 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 of my daughter's. If 
 you'd like to ask any questions of Miss Long, 
 our Jemima might step round there with you pre- 
 sently.'
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGROVE. 203 
 
 ' 1 should be very glad to do so,' Gilbert ans- 
 wered quickly. 
 
 He asked several more questions ; but Mr. 
 Stonehani could give him no information, except 
 as to the bare fact of the marriage. Gilbert knew 
 now that the girl he had so fondly loved and so 
 entirely trusted was utterly lost to him ; that he 
 had been jilted cruelly and heartlessly, as he could 
 but own to himself. Yes, she had jilted him, had 
 in all probability never loved him. He blamed 
 himself for having urged his suit too ardently, 
 with little reference to Marian's own feelings, with 
 a rooted obstinate conviction that he needed only 
 to win her in order to insure the happiness of 
 both. 
 
 Having fully proved Mr. Stoneham's inability 
 to afford him any farther help in this business, 
 Gilbert availed himself of the fair Jemima's will- 
 ingness to ' step round' to Miss Long's domicile 
 with him, in the hope of obtaining fuller informa- 
 tion from that lady. "While Miss Stonebam was 
 engaged in putting on her bonnet for this expedi- 
 tion, the clerk proposed to take Gilbert across to 
 the church and show him the entry of the mar- 
 riage in the register. ' "With a view to the satis-
 
 204 fenton's quest. 
 
 factory settlement of the reward/ Mr. Stoneharn 
 added in a fat voice, and with the air of a man to 
 whom twenty pounds more or less was an affair of 
 very little moment. 
 
 Gilbert assented to this, and accompanied Mr. 
 Stoneharn to a little side-door which admitted 
 them into the old church, where the light shone 
 dimly through painted windows, in which there 
 seemed more leaden framework than glass. The 
 atmosphere of the place was cold even on this 
 sultry July afternoon, and the vestry to which Mr. 
 Stoneharn conducted his companion had a damp 
 mouldy smell. 
 
 He opened a cupboard, with a good deal of 
 jingling of a great bunch of keys, and produced 
 the register; a grim-looking volume bound in 
 dingy leather, and calculated to inspire gloomy 
 feelings in the minds of the bridegrooms and 
 brides who had occasion to inscribe their names 
 therein ; a volume upon which the loves and the 
 graces who hover around the entrance to the ma- 
 trimonial state had shed no ray of glamour. 
 
 Thomas Stoneharn laid this book before Gil- 
 bert, open at the page on which Marian's marriage 
 was recorded. Yes, there was the familiar signa-
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGROVE. 205 
 
 ture in the fair flowing hand he had loved so 
 well. It was his Marian, and no other, whom 
 John Holbrook had married in that gloomy old 
 church. 
 
 The signature of the bridegroom was in a stiff 
 straight hand, all the letters formed with unusual 
 precision, as if the name had been written in a 
 slow laboured way. 
 
 Who could this John Holbrook be '? Gilbert 
 was quite certain that he had never heard the 
 name at Lidford, nor could he believe that if any 
 attachment between this man and Marian Xowell 
 had existed before his own acquaintance with her, 
 Captain Sedgewick would have been so dishonour- 
 able as 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 
 absence from England ; yet Sarah Down had 
 been able to tell him of no new visitor at Hazel 
 Cottage. 
 
 He copied the record of the marriage on a leaf 
 in his pocket-book, paid Mr. Stoneham a couple 
 of ten-pound notes, and left the church. The 
 clerk's daughter was waiting for him in the little 
 court outside, and they went at once to the house
 
 206 fenton's quest. 
 
 where Miss Nowell had lodged during her resi- 
 dence at Wy grove. 
 
 It was a house in a neat little terrace on the 
 outskirts of the town ; a house approached by a 
 flight of steep stone steps of spotless purity, and a 
 half-glass door, which opened at once into a bright 
 airy -looking parlour, faintly perfumed with rose- 
 leaves and lavender mouldering in the china vases 
 on the mantelpiece. Here Gilbert was introduced 
 to Miss Long, a maiden lady of uncertain age, 
 who wore stiff bands of suspiciously black hair 
 under an imposing structure of lace and artificial 
 flowers, and a rusty black-silk dress, the body of 
 which fitted so tightly as to seem like a kind of 
 armour. This lady received Mr. Fenton very 
 graciously, and declared herself quite ready to 
 give him any information in her power about Miss 
 Nowell. 
 
 It happened unfortunately, however, that her 
 power was of a most limited extent. 
 
 ' A sweeter young lady never lived than Miss 
 Nowell,' she said. ' I've had a great many people 
 occupying these apartments since my father's 
 death left me thrown upon my own resources. 
 I've had lodgers that I might call permanent, in
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGK0VE. 207 
 
 a manner of speaking ; but I never had any one 
 that I took -to as I took -to Miss Xowell, though 
 she was hardly with me three weeks from first to 
 last.' 
 
 1 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 a young lady that 
 was going to be married to the man she loved 
 much more cheerful and hopeful about the future 
 than Miss Xowell was. She told me that her 
 uncle had not been dead many weeks, and I 
 thought at first that this was the only grief she 
 had on her mind ; but after some time, when I 
 found her very low and downhearted, and had 
 won upon her to trust me almost as if I had been 
 an old Mend, she owned to me that she had be- 
 haved very badly to a gentleman she had been 
 engaged to, and that the thought of her wicked- 
 ness to him preyed upon her mind. " I don't 
 think any good can ever come of my marriage, 
 Miss Long," she said to me ; "I think I must 
 surely be punished for my falsehood to the good 
 man who loved me so truly. But there are some 
 things in life that seem like fate. They come
 
 208 fenton's quest. 
 
 upon us in a moment, and we have no strength 
 to fight against them. I helieve it was my fate 
 to love John Holbrook. There is nothing in this 
 world 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 the first 
 hour in which I saw him he was my master." ' 
 
 ' This Mr. Holbrook was very fond of her, I 
 suppose ?' 
 
 ' 1 daresay he was, sir ; but he was not a man 
 that showed his feelings very much. They used 
 to go for long walks together, though it was March 
 and cold windy weather, and she always seemed 
 happier when he brought her home. He came 
 every evening to drink tea with her, and I used 
 to hear them talking as I sat at work in the next 
 room. She was happy enough when he was with 
 her. It was only when she was alone that she 
 would give way to low spirits and gloomy thoughts 
 about the future.' 
 
 'Did she ever tell you anything about Mr. 
 Holbrook — his position or profession ? how long 
 she had known him ? how and where they had 
 first met ?' 
 
 ' No, sir. She told me once that he was not
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGR0VE. 209 
 
 rich; I think that is about all she ever said of 
 him, except when she spoke of his influence over 
 her, 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 friend of Mr. Holbrook's 
 was going to lend him an old farmhouse in a 
 very pretty part of the country. It would be very 
 lonely, she said, and her husband would have 
 sometimes to leave her to attend to his business 
 in London; but she would not mind that. "Some 
 day, I daresay, he will let me live in London 
 with him," she said; "but I don't like to ask 
 him that yet." ' 
 
 ' Did she drop no hint as to the whereabouts 
 of this place to which they were 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. ' In what manner did 
 this Mr. Holbrook impress you? You were in- 
 terested in the young lady, and would therefore 
 naturally be interested in her lover. Did he 
 strike you as worthy of her ?' 
 
 VOL. i. p
 
 210 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' I cannot say that lie did, sir,' Miss Long 
 answered . doubtfully. ' I could see that he had 
 great power over her, though his manner to her 
 was always very gentle ; but I cannot say that I 
 took-to him myself. I daresay he is a very clever 
 man ; but he had a cold proud way that kept one 
 at a distance from him, and I seemed to know no 
 more of him at the last than I had known on the 
 first day I saw him. I believe he loved Miss 
 Nowell, and that's about all the good I do believe 
 of him.' 
 
 After this there was no more to be asked of 
 Miss Long; so Gilbert thanked her for her civility, 
 and bade good-evening at once to her and to Miss 
 Stoneham. There was time for him to catch the 
 last coach to Grange wick station. He determined 
 upon going from Grangewick to Lidford, instead 
 of returning to London. He wanted, if possible, 
 to find-out something more about this man Hol- 
 brook, who must surely have been known to some 
 one at Lidford during his secret courtship of 
 Marian No well. 
 
 He wasted two days at Lidford making in- 
 quiries on this subject, in as quiet a manner as 
 possible and in every imaginable quarter ; but
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGROYE. 211 
 
 without the slightest result. No one either at 
 Lidford or Fairleigh had ever heard of Mr. Hol- 
 brook. 
 
 Gilbert's last inquiries were made in a sin- 
 gular direction. After exhausting every likely 
 channel of information, he had a few hours left 
 before the departure of the fast-train by which he 
 had determined to return to London ; and this 
 leisure he devoted to a visit to Heatherly-park, 
 in the chance of finding Sir David Forster at 
 home. It was just possible that Mr. Holbrook 
 might be one of Sir David's innumerable bachelor 
 acquaintances. 
 
 Gilbert walked from Lidford to Heatherly by 
 that romantic woodland path by which he had 
 gone with Marian and her uncle on the bright 
 September afternoon when he first saw Sir David's 
 house. The solitary walk awakened very bitter 
 thoughts ; the memory of those hopes which had 
 then made the sunshine of his life, and without 
 which existence seemed a weary purposeless jour- 
 ney across a desert land. 
 
 Sir David was at home, the woman at the 
 lodge told him; and he went on to the house, 
 and rang a great clanging bell, which made an
 
 212 fenton's quest. 
 
 alarming clamour in the utter stillness of the 
 place. 
 
 A gray-haired old servant answered the sum- 
 mons, and ushered Gilbert into the state drawing- 
 room, an apartment with a lofty arched roof, eight 
 long windows, and a generally ecclesiastical aspect, 
 which was more .suggestive of solemn grandeur 
 than of domestic comfort. 
 
 Here Gilbert waited for about ten minutes, at 
 the end of which time the man returned, to re- 
 quest that he would be so kind as to go to Sir 
 David's study. His master was something of an 
 invalid, the man told Gilbert. 
 
 They went through the billiard-room to a very 
 snug little apartment, with dark - panelled walls 
 and one large window opening upon a rose-garden 
 on the southern side of the house. There was a 
 ponderous carved-oak bookcase on one side of the 
 room ; on all the others the paraphernalia of sport- 
 ing — gunnery and fishing-tackle, small-swords, 
 whips, and boxing-gloves — artistically arranged 
 against the panelling ; and over the mantelpiece an 
 elaborate collection of meerschaum pipes. Through 
 a half-open door Gilbert caught a glimpse of a com- 
 fortable bedchamber leading out of this room.
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGR0VE. 213 
 
 Sir David was sitting on a low easy-chair near 
 the window, with one leg supported on a luxuri- 
 ously-cushioned rest, invented for the relief of 
 gouty subjects . Although not yet forty, the ba- 
 ronet was a chronic sufferer from this complaint. 
 
 c 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 
 heels in this dreary old place, and quite alone. 
 You can't imagine what a treat it is to see a 
 friendly intelligent face from the outer world.' 
 
 1 The purpose of my visit is such a purely 
 selfish one, that I am really ashamed to receive 
 such a kindly greeting, Sir David. If I had 
 known you were here and an invalid, I should 
 have gladly come to see you ; but I didn't know 
 it. I have been at Lidford on a matter of busi- 
 ness for the last two days ; and I came here on 
 the hazard of finding you, and with a faint hope 
 that you might be able to give me some help in 
 an affair which is supremely important to me.' 
 
 Sir David Forster looked at Gilbert Fenton 
 curiously for a moment, and then took up an 
 empty meerschaum that lay upon a little table 
 near him, and began to fill it with a thoughtful
 
 214 
 
 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 air. Gilbert had dropped into an arm-chair on 
 the opposite side of the open window, and was 
 watching the baronet's face, puzzled a little by 
 that curious transient expression which had just 
 flitted across it. 
 
 ' What is the business ?' Sir David asked pre- 
 sently ; ' and how can I be of use to you ?' 
 
 ' 1 think you knew all about my engagement 
 to Miss No well when I was here last September, 
 Sir David,' Gilbert began presently. 
 
 ' Yes, Saltram told me you were engaged ; not 
 but what it was easy enough to see how the land 
 lay, without any telling.' 
 
 ' Miss No well has jilted me. I love her too 
 dearly to be able to entertain any vindictive feel- 
 ing against her; but I do feel vindictively dis- 
 posed towards the man who has robbed me of her, 
 for I know that only a very powerful influence 
 would have induced her to break faith with me ; 
 and this man must needs have known the dishon- 
 ourable thing he was doing when he tempted her 
 away from me. I want to know who he is, Sir 
 David, and how he came to acquire such an in- 
 fluence over my plighted wife.' 
 
 ' My dear Fenton, you are going on so fast !
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGR0VE. 215 
 
 You say Miss Xowell has jilted you. She is mar- 
 ried to some one else, then, I suppose ?' 
 
 ' She is married to a Mr. Holbrook. I came 
 to Lidford the night before last, with the hope of 
 finding out something about him ; but all my en- 
 deavours have resulted in failure. It struck me 
 at last, as a kind of forlorn hope, that this Mr. 
 Holbrook might possibly be one of your autumnal 
 visitors ; and I came here to ask you that question.' 
 
 'No,' answered the baronet; 'I have had no 
 visitor called Holbrook. Is the name quite strange 
 to yourself ?' 
 
 ' Entirely strange.' 
 
 1 And this Mr. Holbrook is now Miss Xowell's 
 husband ? and you want to know who he is ? 
 With what end ?' 
 
 ' I want to find the man who has done me the 
 deadliest wrong one man can do another.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, don't you see that it is fate, 
 and not Mr. Holbrook, that has done you this 
 wrong ? If Miss Xowell had really loved you as 
 she ought to have loved you, it would have been 
 quite impossible for her to be tempted away from 
 you. It was her destiny to marry this Holbrook, 
 rely upon it ; and had you been on the spot to
 
 216 fenton's quest. 
 
 protect your own interests, the result would have 
 been just the same. Believe me, I am very sorry 
 for you, and can fully sympathise with your feel- 
 ings in this business ; but I cannot see what good 
 could possibly arise out of a meeting between you 
 and your fortunate rival. The days of duelling 
 are past ; and even if it were not so, I think you 
 are too generous to seek to deprive Miss Nowell 
 of her husband.' 
 
 'I do not know about that. There are some 
 wrongs which all a man's Christianity is not wide 
 enough to cover. I think if that man and I were 
 to meet, there would be very little question of 
 mercy on my side. I hold a man who could act 
 as he has acted unworthy of all consideration — 
 utterly unworthy of the woman he has won from 
 me.' 
 
 1 My dear fellow, you know the old saying. A 
 man who is in love thinks everything 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 awaken your senses to the ab- 
 surdity of any vindictive pursuit of the man. If 
 the lady did not love you, believe me, you are well 
 out of the business.'
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGR0VE. 217 
 
 ' Yes, that is what every one would tell rue, I 
 daresay,' Gilbert answered impatiently. 'But is 
 there to be no atonement for my broken life, ren- 
 dered barren to me by this man's act ? I tell you, 
 Sir David, there is no such thing as pardon for a 
 wrong like this. But I know how foolish this 
 talk must seem to you : there is always something 
 ridiculous in the sufferings of a jilted lover.' 
 
 ' Not at all, my dear Fenton. I heartily wish 
 that I could be of use to you in this matter ; but 
 there is very little chance of that ; and, believe 
 me, there is only one rational course open to you, 
 which is, to forget Miss Nowell, or Mrs. Holbrook, 
 with all possible assiduity.' 
 
 Gilbert smiled, a melancholy incredulous smile. 
 Sir David's advice was only the echo of John Sal- 
 tram's counsel — the counsel which he would re- 
 ceive from every man of the world, no doubt — the 
 counsel which he himself would most likely have 
 given to a friend under the same circumstances. 
 
 Sir David was very cordial, and wanted his 
 visitor to dine and sleep at Heatherly; but this 
 Gilbert declined. He was eager to get back to 
 London now that his business was finished. 
 
 He arrived in town late that night ; and went
 
 218 fenton's quest. 
 
 back to his office-work next day with a dreary feel- 
 ing that he must needs go through the same dull 
 routine day after day in all the time to come, with- 
 out purpose or hope in his life, only because a 
 man must go on living somehow to the end of his 
 earthly pilgrimage, whether the sun shine upon 
 him or not. 
 
 He went to Queen-Anne's-court one evening 
 soon after his return, and told Mr. Nowell all he 
 had discovered at Wygrove. The old man showed 
 himself keenly interested in his granddaughter's 
 fate. 
 
 ' I would give a great deal to see her before I 
 die,' he said. ' Whatever I have to leave will be 
 hers. It may be little or much — I won't speak 
 about that ; but I've lived a hard life, and saved 
 where other men would have spent. I should like 
 to see my son's child ; I should like to have some 
 one of my own flesh and blood about me in my 
 last days.' 
 
 ' Would it not be a good plan to put an adver- 
 tisement into the Times, addressed to Mrs. Hol- 
 brook, from a relation ? She would be likely to 
 answer that, when she would not reply to any ap- 
 peal coming directly from me.'
 
 THE MARRIAGE AT WYGEOYE. 219 
 
 1 Yes,' answered Jacob Xowell ; ' and her hus- 
 band would let her come to me for the sake of 
 what I may have to leave her. But that can't be 
 helped, I suppose; it is the fate of a man who 
 lives as I have lived, to be cared for at last only 
 for what he has to give. I'll put in such an ad- 
 vertisement as you speak of; and we'll see what 
 comes of it.'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton called several times in the Tem- 
 ple without being able to see John Saltram; a 
 slip of paper pasted on the outer door of that gen- 
 tleman's chamber informed the public that he was 
 ' out of town,' and that was all. Gilbert took the 
 trouble to penetrate the domicile of the laundress 
 who officiated in Mr. Saltram's chambers, in order 
 to obtain some more particular information as to 
 her employer's movements, and after infinite diffi- 
 culty succeeded in finding that industrious matron 
 in the remote obscurity of a narrow court near the 
 river. But the laundress could tell Mr. Fenton 
 very little. She did not know whither Mr. Sal- 
 tram had gone, or when he was likely to return. 
 He was one of the most uncertingest gentlemen 
 she had to do for ; and he had been out of town 
 a great deal lately ; which was not to be wondered 
 at, considering the trying hot weather, when it
 
 A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. 221 
 
 was not to be supposed that gentlefolks as was 
 free to do what they pleased would stay in Lon- 
 don. It was hard enough upon working people 
 with five children to wash and mend and cook for, 
 and fever in the court besides, and provisions 
 dearer than they had been these ten years. Gil- 
 bert asked if Mr. Saltram had left any orders about 
 his letters ; but the woman told him, no ; there 
 never was such a careless gentleman 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 note begging his friend to come to 
 him when he was next in London ; and having 
 done this, he paid no more visits to the Temple, 
 but waited patiently for Mr. Saltram's coming, 
 feeling very sure that his request would not be 
 neglected. If anything could have intensified the 
 gloom of his mind at this time it would have been 
 the absence of that one friend, whom he loved 
 better than he had ever loved any one in this 
 world, except Marian No well. He stayed in town 
 all through the blank August and September sea- 
 son, working harder than he had worked since the
 
 222 fenton's quest. 
 
 early days of his commercial life, taking neither 
 pleasure nor interest in anything, and keeping as 
 much as possible out of the way of all his old 
 acquaintance. 
 
 No answer came to Jacob No well's advertise- 
 ment, although it appeared several times ; and the 
 old man began to despair of ever seeing his grand- 
 daughter. Gilbert used to drop in upon him 
 sometimes of an evening during this period, at his 
 urgent request. He was interested in the solitary 
 silversmith for Marian's sake, and very willingly 
 sacrificed an occasional evening for his gratifica- 
 tion. He fancied that these visits of his inspired 
 some kind of jealousy in the breast of the sallow- 
 faced, sleek-haired shopman; who regarded him 
 always on these occasions with a look of sup- 
 pressed malevolence, and by every stratagem in 
 his power tried to find out the nature of the 
 conversation between the visitor and his em- 
 ployer, making all kinds of excuses to come 
 into the parlour, and showing himself proof 
 against the most humiliating treatment from 
 his master. 
 
 ' Does that young man expect you to leave 
 him money ? and does he look upon me as a pos-
 
 A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. 223 
 
 sible rival ?' Gilbert asked one night, provoked by 
 the shopman's conduct. 
 
 1 Very likely/ Mr. Nowell answered with a ma- 
 licious grin. ' One gets good service from a man 
 who expects his reward in the future. Luke Tul- 
 liver serves me very well indeed, and of course I 
 am not responsible for his delusions.' 
 
 1 Do you know, Mr. Xowell, 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 the silversmith promptly. ' I 
 don't for a moment suppose that Luke Tulliver 
 would be honest if I gave him an opportunity to 
 cheat me. As to the badness of his countenance, 
 that is so much the better. I like to deal with 
 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 clever tempter.' 
 
 ' That young man lives in the house with you, 
 I suppose ?' 
 
 1 Yes ; my household consists of Luke Tulli- 
 ver, and an old woman who does the cooking and
 
 224 fenton's quest. 
 
 other work. There are a couple of garrets at the 
 top of the house where the two sleep ; my own 
 bedroom is over this ; and the room over the shop 
 is full of pictures and other unsaleable stuff, which 
 I have seldom occasion to show to anybody. My 
 business is not what it once was, Mr. Fenton. I 
 have made some rather lucky hits in the way of 
 picture - dealing in the course of my business 
 career, but I haven't done a big line lately.' 
 
 Gilbert was inclined to believe that Jacob 
 Nowell was a much richer man than he cared 
 to confess, and that the fortune which Marian 
 Nowell might inherit in the future was a con- 
 siderable one. The old man had all the attri- 
 butes of a miser. The house in which he lived 
 had the aspect of a place in which money has 
 been made and hoarded day by day through long 
 dull years. 
 
 It was not until the end of October that John 
 Saltram made his appearance at his old friend's 
 lodgings. He had just come up from the country, 
 and was looking his best — brighter and younger 
 than Gilbert had seen him look for a long time. 
 
 ' My dear Jack, I began to think I should
 
 A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR . 'I'lo 
 
 never see you again. What have you been doing 
 all this time, and where have you been ?' 
 
 ' I have been hard at work, as usual, for the 
 reviews, down Oxford way, at a 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 Miss Xo well's marriage. 
 Was there any result '?' 
 
 ' Yes ; I know all about the marriage now, 
 but I don't know who or what the man is," Gil- 
 bert answered; and then went on to give his 
 friend a detailed account of his experience at Wy- 
 grove, and his visit to Sir David Forster. 
 
 1 My dear foolish Gilbert,' said John Saltram, 
 ' how much useless trouble you have given your- 
 self ! Was it not enough to know that this girl 
 had broken faith with you ? I think, were I in 
 your place, that would be the end of the story 
 for me. And now you know more than that — 
 you know that she 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 the business of my life to 
 discover.' 
 
 1 For what good ?' 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' For the deadliest harm to him,' Gilbert ans- 
 wered moodily. ' If ever he and I meet, I will 
 have some payment for my broken life ; some 
 compensation for my ruined hopes. We two 
 should not meet and part lightly, 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 have more 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 ; h a mistake, my dear fellow,' he said. 
 1 Life is not long enough for these strong pas- 
 sions. There is nothing in the world worth the 
 price these bitter hatreds and stormy angers cost 
 us. You have thrown away a great deal of deep 
 feeling on a lady, whose misfortune it was not to 
 be able to return your affection as she might have 
 done — as you most fully deserved at her hands. 
 Why waste any farther emotion in regrets that 
 are as useless as they are foolish ?'
 
 A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. 227 
 
 ' You may as well ask me why I exist,' Gilbert 
 answered quietly. ' Kegret for 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 speak of pleasanter topics. 
 The two men dined together, and sat by the fire 
 afterwards 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 Bran- 
 ston's name could be omitted entirely from this 
 confidential talk. 
 
 1 1 have seen nothing and heard very little of 
 her while I have been away,' John Saltram said, 
 in answer to a question of Gilbert's ; ' but I called 
 in Cavendish-square this afternoon, and was for- 
 tunate enough to find her at home. She wants 
 me to dine with her next Sunday, and I half 
 promised to do so. Will you come too ? I know 
 that she would be glad to see you.' 
 
 ' I cannot see that I am wanted, John.' 
 
 1 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 so 
 frivolous a person.'
 
 228 penton's quest. 
 
 ' I am very much flattered by Mrs. Bran stem's 
 kindly estimate of me, but I do not think I have 
 any claim to it, except the fact that I am your 
 friend. I shall be happy to go with you on Sun- 
 day, if you really wish it.' 
 
 'I do really wish it. I shall drop Mrs. Bran- 
 ston a line to say you will come. She asked me 
 to bring you whenever I had an opportunity. The 
 dinner-hour is seven. I'll call for you here a few 
 minutes before. I don't promise you a very lively 
 evening, remember. There will only be Adela, 
 and a lady she has taken as her companion.' 
 
 'I don't care about lively evenings. I have 
 been nowhere in society since I returned from 
 Melbourne. I have done with all that kind of 
 thing.' 
 
 'My dear Gilbert, that sort of renunciation 
 will never do,' John Saltram said 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 happy future. Let the dead 
 bury their dead.' 
 
 'Yes, John; and what is left for the living 
 when that burial is over ? I don't want to make 
 myself obnoxious by whining over my troubles,
 
 A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. 229 
 
 but they are not to be lessened by philosophy, and 
 I can do nothing but bear them as best I may. 
 I had long been growing tired of society, in the 
 conventional acceptation of the word, and all the 
 stereotyped pleasures of a commercial man's life. 
 Those things are less than nothing when a man 
 has nothing brighter and fairer beyond them — no 
 inner life by which the common things of this 
 world are made precious. It is only dropping out 
 of the arena a little earlier than I might have 
 done otherwise. I have a notion that I shall 
 wind-up my affairs next year, sell my business, 
 and go abroad. I could manage to retire upon a 
 very decent income, in spite of my losses the 
 other day.' 
 
 'Don't dream of that, Gilbert; for heaven's 
 sake, don't dream of anything so mad as that. 
 "What would a man of your age be without some 
 kind of career ? A mere purposeless wanderer on 
 the face of the earth. Stick to business, dear 
 old fellow. Believe me, there is nothing like 
 work to make a 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, I should — '
 
 230 fenton's quest. 
 
 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 having come between you 
 and your happiness. Yet, if Marian Nowell did 
 not love you — as a wife should love her husband, 
 with all her heart and soul — it was ten thousand 
 times better that the knot should be cut in time, 
 however roughly. Think what your misery would 
 have been if you had discovered after your mar- 
 riage that her heart had never been really yours !' 
 
 ' I cannot imagine that possible. I have no 
 shadow of doubt that I should have 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 own interests, 
 I do not think his influence could have prevailed 
 against me.' 
 
 'It is quite natural that you should think 
 that,' John Saltram said gravely. 'Yet you may 
 be mistaken. A woman's love is such a capricious 
 thing, and so often bestowed upon the least de- 
 serving amongst those who seek it.' 
 
 After this they were silent for some time, and
 
 A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. 231 
 
 then Gilbert told his friend about his acquaint- 
 ance with Jacob Xowell, and the old man's futile 
 endeavours to find his grandchild ; to all of which 
 Mr. Saltram listened attentively. 
 
 1 Then you fancy there is a good bit of money 
 in question ?' he said, when Gilbert had told him 
 everything. 
 
 'I fancy so. But I have no actual ground for 
 the belief. The place in which the old man lives 
 is poor enough, and he has carefully abstained 
 from any hint as to what he might leave his 
 granddaughter. Whatever it is, Marian ought to 
 have it ; and there is very little chance of that, 
 unless she comes forward in response to Mr. 
 Xowell'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 subjects until it was time for them 
 to part. 
 
 John Saltram walked back to the Temple in a 
 very sombre mood, meditating upon his friend's 
 trouble. 
 
 'Poor old Gilbert,' he said to himself, 'this 
 business has touched him more deeply than I
 
 232 fenton's quest. 
 
 could have thought possible. I wish things had 
 happened otherwise. What is it Lady Macbeth 
 says? "Naught's had, all's spent, when our de- 
 sire is got without content." I wonder whether 
 the fulfilment of one's heart's desire ever does 
 bring perfect contentment ? I think not. There 
 is always something wanting. And if a man 
 comes by his wish basely, there is a taint of 
 poison in the wine of life that neutralises all its 
 sweetness.'
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MRS. PALLIXSOX HAS VIEWS. 
 
 At seven o'clock on Sunday evening, as the neigh- 
 bouring church bells were just sounding their last 
 peal, Mr. Fenton found himself on the threshold 
 of Mrs. Branston's house in Cavendish-square. It 
 was rather a gloomy mansion, pervaded through- 
 out with evidences of its late owner's oriental 
 career : old Indian cabinets ; ponderous chairs of 
 elaborately-carved ebony, clumsy in form and bar- 
 baric in design ; curious old china and lacquered 
 ware of every kind, from gigantic vases to the 
 tiniest cups and saucers ; ivory temples, and gods 
 in silver and clay, crowded the drawing-rooms and 
 the broad landings on the staircase. The curtains 
 and chair-covers were of Indian embroidery ; the 
 carpets of oriental manufacture. Everything had 
 a gaudy semi-barbarous aspect. 
 
 Mrs. Branston received her guests in the back 
 drawing-room, a smaller and somewhat snugger
 
 234 
 
 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 apartment than the spacious chamber in front, 
 which was dimly visible in the light of a single 
 moderator lamp and the red glow of a fire through 
 the wide-open archway between the two rooms. 
 In the inner room the lamps were brighter, and 
 the fire burned cheerily ; and here Mrs. Branston 
 had established for herself a comfortable nook in 
 a deep velvet - cushioned arm - chair, very low and 
 capacious, sheltered luxuriously from possible 
 draughts by a high seven-leaved Japanese screen. 
 The fair Adela was a chilly personage, and liked 
 to bask in her easy-chair before the 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 auburn hair, and a volumin- 
 ous Indian shawl of vivid scarlet making a drapery 
 about her shoulders. She was evidently very 
 pleased to see John Saltram, and gave a cordial 
 welcome to his friend. On the opposite side of 
 the fireplace there was a tall rather grim -looking 
 lady, also in mourning, and with an elaborate 
 head-dress of bugles and ornaments of a feathery 
 and beady nature, which were supposed to be 
 flowers. About her neck this lady wore numer- 
 ous rows of jet beads, from which depended crosses
 
 MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS. 235 
 
 and lockets of the same material; she had jet 
 earrings and jet bracelets ; and had altogether a 
 beaded and bugled appearance, which would have 
 been eminently fascinating to the untutored taste 
 of a North- American Indian. 
 
 This lad}- was Mrs. Pallinson, a widow of lim- 
 ited means, and a distant relation of Adela Bran- 
 ston's. Left quite alone after her husband's death, 
 and feeling herself thoroughly helpless, Adela had 
 summoned this experienced matron to her aid; 
 whereupon Mrs. Pallinson had given up a small 
 establishment in the far north of London, which 
 she was in the habit of speaking about on occa- 
 sions as her humble dwelling, and had taken up 
 her quarters in Cavendish- square, where she was 
 a power of dread to the servants. 
 
 Gilbert fancied that Mrs. Pallinson was by no 
 means too favourably disposed towards John Sal- 
 tram. She had sharp black eyes, very much like 
 the jet beads with which her person was decorated, 
 and with these she kept a close watch upon Mrs. 
 Branston and Mr. Saltram when the two were 
 talking together. Gilbert saw how great an effort 
 it cost her at these times to keep up the common- 
 place conversation which he had commenced with
 
 236 
 
 FENT0N S QUEST. 
 
 her, and how intently she was trying to listen to 
 the talk upon the other side of the fireplace. 
 
 The dinner was an admirable one, the wines 
 perfection, Mr. Branston having been a past-mas- 
 ter of the art of good living, and having stocked 
 his cellars which a view to a much longer life 
 than had been granted to him ; the attendance was 
 careful and complete; the dining-room, with its 
 rather old-fashioned furniture and heavy crimson 
 hangings, a picture of comfort ; and Mrs. Branston 
 a most charming hostess. Even Gilbert was fain 
 to forget his own troubles and enjoy life a little in 
 that agreeable society. 
 
 The two gentlemen accompanied the ladies 
 back to the drawing-room. There was a grand 
 piano in the front room, and to this Adela Bran- 
 ston went at Mr. 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 lady did her 
 best to improve the occasion by extorting what in- 
 formation she could from Mr. Fenton about his 
 friend. 
 
 ' Adela tells me that you and Mr. Saltram are
 
 MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS. 237 
 
 friends of very long standing, Mr. Fenton,' she 
 began, fanning herself slowly with a shining black 
 fan as she sat opposite Gilbert, awful of aspect in 
 the sombre splendour of her beads and bugles. 
 
 1 Yes ; we were at Oxford together, and have 
 been fast friends ever since.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! — how really delightful ! The young 
 men of the present day appear to me generally 
 so incapable of a sincere friendship. And you and 
 Mr. Saltram have been friends all that time '? He 
 is a literary man, I understand. I have not had 
 the pleasure of reading any of his works ; but 
 Adela tells me he is extremely clever." 
 
 * He is very clever.' 
 
 1 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 steadi- 
 ness may involve,' Gilbert answered, smiling ; ' but 
 I daresay when my friend marries he will be 
 steady enough. I cannot see that literary tastes 
 and dissipated habits have any natural affinity. I 
 should rather imagine that a man with resources 
 of that kind would be likely to lead a quieter life 
 than a man without such resources.'
 
 238 
 
 ' Do you really think so ? I fancied that artists 
 and poets and people of that kind were altogether 
 a dangerous class. And you think that Mr. Sal- 
 tram will be steady when he is married ? He is 
 engaged to be married, I conclude by your manner 
 of saying that.' 
 
 1 1 had no idea my words implied anything of 
 the kind. No, I do not think John Saltram is 
 engaged.' 
 
 Mrs. Pallinson glanced towards the piano, 
 where the two figures seemed very close to each 
 other in the dim light of the room. Adela's play- 
 ing had been going on in a desultory kind of 
 manner, broken every now and then by her con- 
 versation with John Saltram, and had evidently 
 been intended to give pleasure only to that one 
 listener. 
 
 While she was still playing in this careless 
 fitful way, a servant announced Mr. Pallinson ; 
 and a gentleman entered whom Gilbert had no 
 difficulty in recognising as the son of the lady he 
 had been conversing with. This new-comer was a 
 tall pale-faced young man, with intensely pene- 
 trating black eyes exactly like his mother's, sharp 
 well-cut features, and an extreme precision of dress
 
 MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS. 239 
 
 and manner. His hands, which were small and 
 thin, were remarkable for their whiteness, and 
 were set-off by spotless wristbands, which it was 
 his habit to smooth fondly with his slim fingers in 
 the intervals of his discourse. Mrs. Pallinson 
 rose and embraced this gentleman with stately af- 
 fection. 
 
 'My son Theobald — Mr. Fenton,' she said. 
 ' My son is a medical practitioner, residing at 
 Maida-hill ; and it is a pleasure to him to spend 
 an occasional evening with his cousin Adela and 
 myself.' 
 
 'Whenever the exigences of professional life 
 leave me free to enjoy that happiness,' Mr. Pallin- 
 son added in a brisk semi-professional manner. 
 ' Adela has been giving you some music, I see. 
 I heard one of Handel's choruses as I came up- 
 stairs.' 
 
 He went into the front drawing-room, shook 
 hands with Mrs. Branston, and established him- 
 self with a permanent air beside the piano. Adela 
 did not seem particularly glad to see him; and 
 John Saltram, who had met him before in Caven- 
 dish-square, received him with supreme indiffer- 
 ence.
 
 240 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' 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 adjoin- 
 ing apartment. ' It was my misfortune to lose an 
 admirable husband very early in life ; and I have 
 been ever since that loss wholly devoted to my son 
 Theobald. My care has been amply rewarded by 
 his goodness. He is a most estimable and talented 
 young man, and has already attained an excellent 
 position 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 object of my life. His career 
 up to this hour has been all that the fondest mo- 
 ther could desire. If I can only see him happily 
 
 and advantageously married, 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 of that, I think, fascinating as 
 
 the doctor may be. Plain John Saltram stands to 
 
 win that prize.'
 
 MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS. '241 
 
 They went into the front drawing-room pre- 
 sently, and heard Mr. Pallinson play the ' Halle- 
 lujah chorus,' arranged as a duet, with his cousin. 
 He was a young man who possessed several ac- 
 complishments in a small way — could sing a little, 
 and play the piano and guitar a little, sketch a 
 little, and was guilty of occasional effusions in the 
 poetical line which were the palest, most inverte- 
 brate 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 dul- 
 cet accents and engaging manners had rendered 
 him a favourite with the young mothers of the 
 neighbourhood, who believed implicitly in Mr. 
 Pallinson's gray powders when their little ones' 
 digestive organs had been impaired by injudicious 
 diet, and confided in Mr. Pallinson's carefully-ex- 
 pressed opinion as the fiat of an inscrutable power. 
 
 Mr. Theobald Pallinson himself cherished a 
 very agreeable opinion of his own merits. Life 
 seemed to him made on purpose that Theobald 
 Pallinson should flourish and succeed therein. He 
 could hardly have formed any idea of the world 
 except as an arena for himself. He was not es- 
 pecially given to metaphysics ; but it would not 
 
 vol. i. R
 
 242 fenton's quest. 
 
 have been very difficult for hirn to believe that the 
 entire universe was an emanation from the brain 
 of Theobald Pallinson — a phenomenal world exist- 
 ing only in his sense of sight and touch. Happy 
 in this opinion of himself, it is not to be supposed 
 that the surgeon had any serious doubt of ultimate 
 success with his cousin. He regarded John Sal- 
 tram as an interloper, who had gained ground in 
 Mrs. Branston's favour only by the accident of his 
 own absence from the stage. The Pallinsons had 
 not been on visiting terms with Adela during the 
 life of the East-India merchant, who had not shown 
 himself favourably disposed to his wife's relations ; 
 and by this means Mr. Saltram had enjoyed ad- 
 vantages which Theobald Pallinson told himself 
 could not have been his, had he, Theobald, been 
 at hand to engage his cousin's attention by those 
 superior qualities of mind and person which must 
 needs have utterly outshone the other. All that 
 Mr. Pallinson wanted was opportunity ; and that 
 being now afforded him, he looked upon the happy 
 issue of events as a certainty, and already contem- 
 plated the house in Cavendish-square, the Indian 
 jars and cabinets, the ivory chessmen and filigree- 
 silver rosewater-bottles, the inlaid desks and Ja-
 
 MES. PALLIXSON HAS VIEWS. 243 
 
 panese screens, the ponderous plate and rare old 
 wines, with a sense of prospective proprietorship. 
 It seemed as if John Saltram had favoured this 
 gentleman's views by his prolonged absence from 
 the scene, holding himself completely aloof from 
 Adela Branston at a time when, had he been in- 
 clined to press his suit, he might have followed 
 her up closely. Mrs. Branston had been not a 
 little wounded by this apparent neglect on the 
 part of one whom she loved better than anything 
 else in the world ; but she was inclined to believe 
 anything rather than that John Saltram did not 
 care for her ; and she had contrived to console 
 herself with the idea that this avoidance of her 
 had been prompted by a delicate consideration for 
 her reputation, and a respect for the early period 
 of her mourning. To-night, in his society, she 
 had an air of happiness which became her wonder- 
 fully; and Gilbert Fenton fancied that a man 
 must needs be hard and cold whose heart could 
 not be won by so bright and gracious a creature. 
 
 She spoke more than once, in a half-playful 
 way, of Mr. Saltram's absence from London ; but 
 the deeper feeling underneath the lightness of her 
 manner was very evident to Gilbert.
 
 244 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' 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't think 
 what charm it is that you find in country life. I 
 have so often" heard you profess your indifference 
 to shooting, and the ordinary routine of rustic 
 existence. Perhaps the secret is, that you fear 
 your reputation as a man of fashion would suffer 
 were you to be seen in London at such a bar- 
 barous season as this.' 
 
 'I have never rejoiced in a reputation for 
 fashion,' Mr. Saltram answered, with his quiet 
 smile — a smile that gave a wonderful brightness 
 to his face ; ' and I think I like London in the 
 autumn better than at any other time. One has 
 room to move about. I have been in the country 
 of late because I really do appreciate rural sur- 
 roundings, and have found myself able to write 
 better in the perfect quiet of rural life.' 
 
 ' It is rather hard upon your friends that you 
 should devote all your days to literature.' 
 
 'And still harder upon the reading public, 
 perhaps. But, my dear Mrs. Branston, remem- 
 ber, I must write to live.' 
 
 Adela gave a little impatient sigh. She was
 
 MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS. 245 
 
 thinking how gladly she would have made this 
 man master of her ample fortune ; wondering 
 whether he would ever claim from her the allegi- 
 ance she was so ready to give. 
 
 Mr. Pallinson did his best to engage his 
 cousin's attention during the rest of the evening. 
 He brought her her tea-cup, and hovered about 
 her while she sipped the beverage with that grace- 
 ful air of suppressed tenderness which constant 
 practice in the drawing-rooms of Maida-hill had 
 rendered almost natural to him ; but, do what he 
 would, he could not distract Mrs. Branston's 
 thoughts and looks from John Saltram. It was 
 on him that her eyes were fixed while the accom- 
 plished Theobald was giving her a lively account 
 of a concert at the Eyre Arms ; and it was the 
 fascination of his presence which made her ans- 
 wer at random to her cousin's questions about 
 the last volume of the laureate's, which she had 
 been lately reading. Even Mr. Pallinson, obtuse 
 as he was apt to be when called upon to compre- 
 hend any fact derogatory to his own self-esteem, 
 was fain to confess to himself that this even- 
 ing's efforts were futile, and that this dark-faced 
 stranger was the favourite for those matrimonial
 
 246 fenton's quest. 
 
 stakes he had entered himself to run for. He looked 
 at Mr. Saltram with a critical eye many times in 
 the course of the evening, wondering what pos- 
 sible merit any sensible woman could perceive in 
 such a man. But then, as Theobald Pallinson 
 reflected, the misfortune is that so few women 
 are sensible ; and it was gradually becoming evi- 
 dent to him that Michael Branston's widow was 
 amongst the most foolish of her sex. 
 
 Mrs. Pallinson kept a sharp watch upon Adela 
 throughout the evening, plunging into the con- 
 versation every now and then with a somewhat 
 dictatorial and infallible air, and generally con- 
 triving to drag some praise of Theobald into her 
 talk : now dilating rapturously upon that fever 
 case which he had managed so wonderfully the 
 other day, proving his judgment superior to that 
 of an eminent consulting physician ; anon launch- 
 ing out into laudation of his last poem, which 
 had been set to music by a young lady in St. 
 John's-wood ; and by and by informing the com- 
 pany of her son's artistic talents, and his extra- 
 ordinary capacity as a judge of pictures. To 
 these things the surgeon himself listened with a 
 deprecating air, smoothing his wristbands, and
 
 MRS. PALLINSON HAS VIEWS. 247 
 
 caressing his slim white hands, while he play- 
 fully reproved his parent for her maternal weak- 
 ness. 
 
 Mr. Pallinson held his ground near his cousin's 
 chair till the last moment, while John Saltram 
 sat apart hy one of the tables, listlessly turning 
 over a volume of engravings, and only looking up 
 at long intervals to join in the conversation. He 
 had an absent weary look, which puzzled Gilbert 
 Fenton, who, being only a secondary personage in 
 •this narrow circle, had ample leisure to observe 
 his friend. 
 
 The three gentlemen left at the same time, 
 Mr. Pallinson driving away in a neat miniature 
 brougham, after politely offering to convey his 
 cousin's guests to their destination. It was a 
 bright starlight night, and Gilbert walked to the 
 Temple with John Saltram, through the quietest 
 of the streets leading eastwards. They lit their 
 cigars as they left the square, and walked for 
 some time in a friendly companionable silence. 
 When they did speak, their talk was naturally of 
 Adela Branston. 
 
 1 1 thought she was really charming to-night,' 
 Gilbert said, ' in spite of that fellow's efforts to
 
 248 fenton's quest. 
 
 absorb her attention. It is pretty easy to see 
 how the land lies in that direction ; and if such 
 a rival were likely to injure you, you have a very 
 determined one in Mr. Pallinson.' 
 
 i Yes ; the surgeon has evidently fixed his 
 hopes upon poor old Michael Branston's money. 
 But I don't think he will succeed.' 
 
 I You will not allow him to do so, I hope ?' 
 
 I 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 Marian No well.' 
 
 ' Ah, your Marian is a star, single and alone 
 in her brightness, like that planet up yonder ! 
 But Adela Branston is a good little soul, and will 
 make a charming wife. Gilbert, I wish to heaven 
 you would fall in love with her ! ' 
 
 Gilbert Fenton stared aghast at his com- 
 panion, as he tossed the end of his cigar into 
 the gutter. 
 
 ' Why, John, you must be mad to say such a 
 thing.' 
 
 1 No, it is by no means a mad notion. I want 
 to see you cured, Gilbert. I do like you, dear 
 boy, you know, as much as it is possible for a
 
 MRS. PALLIXSON HAS VIEWS. 249 
 
 selfish worthless fellow like me to like any man. 
 I would give a great deal to see you happy ; and 
 I am sure that you might be so as Adela Bran- 
 ston's husband. I grant you that I am the fa- 
 vourite at present ; but she is just the sort of 
 woman to be won by any man who would really 
 prove himself worthy of her. Her liking for me 
 is a mere idle fancy, which would soon die 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 were free, I would not give 
 my heart to a woman whose affection had to be 
 diverted from another channel before it could be 
 bestowed upon me. I can't imagine what has 
 put such a preposterous idea into your head, or 
 why 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 my nature to do strange 
 things — my destiny to take the wrong turning in 
 life!' 
 
 ' When shall I see you again ?' Gilbert asked, 
 when they were parting at the Temple gates.
 
 250 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' I can scarcely tell you that. I must go back 
 to Oxford to-morrow.' 
 
 • So soon T 
 
 ' Yes, my work gets on better down there. I 
 will let you know directly I return to London.' 
 
 On this they parted, Gilbert considerably mys- 
 tified by his friend's conduct, but not caring to 
 push his questions farther. He had his own 
 affairs to think of: that one business which ab- 
 sorbed almost the whole of his thoughts — the 
 business of his search for the man who had 
 robbed him of his promised wife. This interval, 
 in which he remained inactive, devoting himself 
 to the duties of his commercial life, was only a 
 pause in his labours. He was not the less bent 
 upon bringing about a face -to -face meeting be- 
 tween himself and Marian's husband because of 
 this brief suspension of his efforts.
 
 CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 While Gilbert Fenton was deliberating what 
 steps to take next in his quest of his unknown 
 enemy, a gentleman arrived at a small hotel near 
 Charing-cross — a gentleman who was evidently a 
 stranger to England, and whose portmanteaus and 
 other travelling paraphernalia bore the names of 
 New York manufacturers. He was a portly in- 
 dividual of middle age, and was still eminently 
 handsome. He, dressed well, lived expensively, 
 and had altogether a prosperous appearance. He 
 took care to inform the landlord of the hotel that 
 he was not an American, but had returned to the 
 land of his birth, after an absence of something 
 like fifteen years, and after realising a handsome 
 fortune upon the other side of the Atlantic. He 
 was a very gracious and communicative person, 
 and seemed to take life in an easy agreeable man- 
 ner, like a man whose habit it was to look on the
 
 252 fenton's quest. 
 
 brighter side of all things, provided his own com- 
 fort was secured. Norton Percival was the name 
 on this gentleman's luggage, and on the card 
 which he gave to the waiter whom he desired to 
 look after his letters. After dining sumptuously 
 on the evening of his arrival in London, this Mr. 
 Percival strolled out in the autumn darkness, and 
 made his way through the more obscure streets 
 between Charing-cross and Wardour- street. The 
 way seemed familiar enough to him, and he only 
 paused now and then to take note of some alter- 
 ation in the buildings which he had to pass. The 
 last twenty years have not made much change in 
 this neighbourhood, and the traveller from New 
 York found little to surprise him. 
 
 1 The place looks just as dull and dingy as it 
 used to look when I was a lad,' he said to him- 
 self. ' I daresay I shall find the old court un- 
 changed in 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 he had much money, or whether he was 
 really as poor as he made himself out. It's diffi- 
 cult to say. I know I made him bleed pretty 
 freely, at one time and another, before he turned
 
 FATHER AND SON. 253 
 
 rusty : and it's just possible I may have had 
 pretty nearly all he had to give.' 
 
 He was in TVardour-street by "this time, look- 
 ing at the dimly-lighted shops where broker's 
 ware of more or less value, old oak carvings, 
 doubtful pictures, and rusted armour loomed 
 duskily upon the passer - by. At the corner of 
 Queen-Anne's-court he paused, and peered curi- 
 ously into the narrow alley. 
 
 1 The court is still here, at any rate,' he mut- 
 tered to himself, ' and I shall soon settle the other 
 question.' 
 
 His heart beat faster than it was wont to beat 
 as he drew near his destination. Was it any 
 touch of real feeling, or only selfish apprehension, 
 that quickened its throbbing ? The man's life 
 had been so utterly reckless of others, that it 
 would be dangerous to give him credit for any af- 
 fectionate yearning — any natural remorseful pang 
 in such a moment as this. He had lived for self, 
 and self alone ; and his own interests were in- 
 volved in the issue of to-night. 
 
 A few steps brought him before Jacob Xowell's 
 window. Yes, it was just as he remembered it 
 twenty years before — the same dingy old silver.
 
 254 fenton's quest. 
 
 the same little heap of gold, the same tray of 
 tarnished jewelry glimmered in the faint light of 
 a solitary gas-burner behind the murky glass. 
 On the door-plate there was still Jacob Nowell's 
 name. Yet all this might mean nothing. The 
 grave might have closed over the old silversmith, 
 and the interest of trade necessitate the preserva- 
 tion of the familiar name. 
 
 The gentleman calling himself Percival went 
 into the shop. How well he remembered the 
 sharp jangling sound of the bell ! and how in- 
 tensely he had hated it and all the surroundings 
 of his father's sordid life in the days when he 
 was pursuing his headlong career as a fine gen- 
 tleman, and only coming to Queen- Anne's-court 
 for money ! He remembered what an incubus the 
 shop had been upon him ; what a pursuing phan- 
 tom and perpetual image of his degradation in the 
 days of his university life, when he was inces- 
 santly haunted by the dread that his father's social 
 status would be discovered. The atmosphere of 
 the place brought back all the old feelings, and he 
 was young again, a nervous supplicant for money, 
 which was likely to be refused to him. 
 
 The sharp peal of the bell produced Mr. Luke
 
 FATHER AND SON. 255 
 
 Tulliver, who emerged from a little den in a cor- 
 ner at the back of the shop, where he had been 
 engaged copying items into a stock-book by the 
 light of a solitary tallow-candle. The stranger 
 looked like a customer, and Mr. Tulliver received 
 him graciously, turning up the gas over the coun- 
 ter, which had been burning at a diminished and 
 economical rate hitherto. 
 
 ' Did you wish to look at anything in antique 
 silver, sir ?' he asked briskly. ' 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 Jacob Nowell is still living ?' 
 
 'Yes, sir. Mr. Nowell is my master. You 
 might have noticed his name upon the 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, Norton Percival 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 ; I will see him.' 
 
 The voice trembled a little ; and the silver-
 
 256 fenton's quest. 
 
 smith had raised himself from his chair, and was 
 looking eagerly towards the door as Norton Perci- 
 val entered, not caring to wait for any more formal 
 invitation. The two men faced each other silently 
 in the dim light from one candle on the mantel- 
 piece, Jacoh Nowell looking intently at the bearded 
 face of his visitor. 
 
 1 You can go, Tulliver,' he said sharply to the 
 shopman. ' I wish to be alone with this gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 Luke Tulliver departed with his usual reluct- 
 ant air, closing the door as slowly as it was pos- 
 sible for him to close it, and staring at the stranger 
 till the last moment that it was possible for him 
 to stare. 
 
 When he was gone the old man took the can- 
 dle from the mantelpiece, and held it up before 
 the bearded face of the traveller. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, yes,' he said slowly.; ' at last ! It 
 is you, Percival, my only son. I thought you 
 were dead long ago. I had a right to consider 
 you dead.' 
 
 'If I had thought my existence could be a 
 matter of interest to you, I should hardly have so 
 long refrained from all communication with you.
 
 FATHER AND SON. 257 
 
 But your letters led me to suppose you utterly in- 
 different to my fate.' 
 
 1 1 offered you and your wife a home.' 
 
 1 Yes, but on conditions that were impossible 
 to me. I had some pride in those days. My 
 education had not fitted me to stand behind a 
 counter and drive hard bargains with dealers of 
 doubtful honesty. Nor could I bring my wife to 
 such a home as this.' 
 
 1 The time came when you left that poor crea- 
 ture without any home,' said the old man sternly. 
 
 1 Necessity has no law, my dear father. You 
 may imagine that my life, without a profession and 
 without any reliable resources, has been rather 
 precarious. When I seem to have acted worst, I 
 have been only the slave of circumstances.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! and have you no pity for the fate of 
 your wife, no interest in the life of your only 
 child ?' 
 
 1 My wife was a poor helpless creature, who 
 contrived to make my life wretched,' Mr. Nowell, 
 alias Percival, answered coolly. ' I gave her every 
 sixpence I possessed when I sent her home to 
 England ; but luck went dead against me for a 
 long time after that, and I could neither send her 
 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 fenton's quest. 
 
 money nor go to her. When I heard of her 
 death, I heard in an indirect way that my child 
 had been adopted by some old fool of a half-pay 
 officer ; and I was naturally glad of an accident 
 which relieved me of a heavy incubus. An oppor- 
 tunity occurred about the same time of my enter- 
 ing on a tolerably remunerative career as agent for 
 some Belgian ironworks in America ; and I had 
 no option but to close with the offer at once or 
 lose the chance altogether. I sailed for New York 
 within a fortnight after poor Lucy's death, and 
 have lived in America for the last fifteen years. 
 I have contrived to establish a tolerably flourish- 
 ing trade there on my own account ; a trade that 
 only needs capital to become one of the first in 
 New York.' 
 
 ' Capital!' echoed Jacob Nowell ; 'I thought 
 there was something wanted. It would have been 
 a foolish fancy to suppose that affection could 
 have had anything to do with your coming to me.' 
 
 ' My dear father, it is surely possible that af- 
 fection and interest may sometimes go together. 
 Were I a pauper, I would not venture to pre- 
 sent myself before you at all ; but as a tolerably 
 prosperous trader, with the ability to propose an
 
 FATHER AND SON. 259 
 
 alliance that should be to our mutual advantage, I 
 considered 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 extrava- 
 gance of your youth. If you have come to me 
 with any hope of obtaining money from me, you 
 have wasted time and trouble.' 
 
 'Let that subject drop, then,' Percival Nowell 
 said lightly. ' I suppose you have some remnant 
 •of regard for me, in spite of our old misunder- 
 standing, and that my coming is not quite indif- 
 ferent to you ?' 
 
 'No,' the other answered, with a touch of me- 
 lancholy ; ' it is not indifferent to me. I have 
 waited for your return these many years. You 
 might have found me more tenderly disposed to- 
 wards you, had you come earlier ; but there are 
 some feelings which seem to wear out as a man 
 grows older, — affections that grow paler day by 
 day, like colours fading in the sun. Still, I am 
 glad to see you once more before I die. You are 
 my only son, and you must needs be something 
 nearer to me than the rest of the world, in spite 
 of all that I have suffered at your hands.'
 
 260 fenton's quest. 
 
 * I could not come back to England sooner 
 than this,' the younger man said presently. ' I 
 had a hard battle to fight out yonder.' 
 
 There had been very little appearance of emo- 
 tion upon either side so far. Percival Nowell took 
 things as coolly as it was his habit to take every- 
 thing, while his father carefully concealed what- 
 ever deeper feeling might 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,' the old man said by and 
 
 by. 
 
 1 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 any informa- 
 tion 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 Gilbert Fenton respecting 
 Marian's marriage. Of his own advertisements, 
 and wasted endeavours to find her, he said no- 
 thing. 
 
 ' And this fellow whom she has jilted is pretty 
 well off, I suppose ?' Percival said thoughtfully.
 
 FATHER AND SON. 261 
 
 1 He is an Australian merchant, and, I should 
 imagine, in prosperous circumstances/ 
 
 ' Foolish girl ! And this Holbrook is no doubt 
 an adventurer, or he would scarcely have mar- 
 ried her in such a secret way. Have you any wish 
 that she should be found ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; I have a fancy for seeing her before I 
 die. She is my own flesh and blood, like you, and 
 has not injured me as you have. I should like to 
 see her.' 
 
 1 And if she happened to take your fancy, you 
 would leave her all your money, I suppose ?' 
 
 1 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 your extravagance ?' 
 
 ' Bah, my dear father, that is all nonsense. 
 My extravagance is a question of nearly twenty 
 years ago. If I had swamped all you possessed 
 in those days — which I don't for a moment be- 
 lieve — you have had ample time to make a fresh 
 fortune since then. You would never have lived 
 all these years in Queen-Anne's-court except for 
 the sake of money-making. Why, the place stinks 
 of money. I know your tricks : buying silver
 
 262 fenton's quest. 
 
 from men who are in too great a hurry to sell 
 it to be particular about the price ; lending money 
 at sixty per cent, a sixty which comes to eighty 
 before the transaction is finished. A man does 
 not lead such a life as yours for nothing. You 
 are rolling in money, and you mean to punish me 
 by leaving it 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 think what you please. I 
 tell you once for all, I am as poor as Job. But 
 if I had a million, I would not leave you sixpence 
 of it.' 
 
 ' So be it,' the other answered gaily. ' I have 
 not performed the duties of a parent very punc- 
 tually hitherto ; but I don't mind taking some 
 trouble to find this girl while I am in England, in 
 order that she may not lose her chances with you.' 
 
 ' You need give yourself no trouble on that 
 score. Mr. Fenton has promised to find her for 
 me.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! I should like to see this Mr. Fen- 
 ton.' 
 
 ' You can see him if you please ; but you are
 
 FATHER AND SON. 263 
 
 scarcely likely to get a warm reception in that 
 quarter. Mr. Fenton knows what you have been 
 to your daughter and to me.' 
 
 1 I am not going to fling myself into his arms. I 
 only want to hear all he can 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 that if 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 a great iron company, 
 which is likely — I may say certain — to result in 
 large gains to all concerned in it ; and I fancied I 
 should have no difficulty in securing your cooper- 
 ation. There are the prospectuses of the scheme' 
 (he flung a heap of printed papers on the table 
 before his father), ' and there is not a line in them 
 that I cannot guarantee on my credit as a man of 
 business. You can look over them at your leisure, 
 or not, as you please. I think you must know 
 that I always had an independent spirit, and would 
 be the last of mankind to degrade myself by any 
 servile attempt to alter your line of conduct to- 
 wards me.' 
 
 * Independent spirit ! Yes !' cried the old
 
 264 fenton's quest. 
 
 man in a mocking tone ; ' a son extorts every six- 
 pence he can from his father and mother — ay, 
 Percy, from his 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 glad to see you. If you come 
 to me with disinterested feelings, that is enough. 
 You may take back your prospectuses. I have 
 nothing to embark in Yankee speculations. If 
 your scheme is a good one, you will find plenty of 
 enterprising spirits willing to join you ; if it is 
 a bad one, I daresay you will contrive to find 
 dupes. You can come and see me again when 
 you please. And now good-night. I find this 
 kind of talk rather tiring at my age.' 
 
 * One word before I leave you,' said Percival. 
 ' On reflection, I think it will 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 cooperation, even supposing 
 he were inclined to give it. You have told me all 
 that he could tell me, I daresay.'
 
 FATHER AND SOX. 265 
 
 ' I believe I have.' 
 
 ' Precisely. Therefore no possible good could 
 come of an encounter between him 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.' 
 
 1 It is not a question of secrecy, but only of 
 prudential reserve.' 
 
 'It maybe as you wish,' answered the old man 
 carelessly. ' Good-night.' 
 
 He shook hands with his son, who departed 
 without having broken bread in his father's house, 
 a little dashed by the coldness of his reception, 
 but not entirely without hope that some profit 
 might arise to him out of this connection in the 
 future. 
 
 ' The girl must be found,' he said to himself. 
 ■ I am convinced there has been a great fortune 
 made in that dingy hole. Better that it should 
 go to her than to a stranger. I'm very sorry she's 
 married ; but if this Holbrook is the adventurer I 
 suppose him, the marriage may come to nothing. 
 Yes ; I must find her. A father returned from 
 foreign lands is rather a romantic notion — the sort 
 of notion a girl is pretty sure to take kindly to.'
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ON THE TEACK. 
 
 Gilbert Fenton saw no more of his friend John 
 Saltram after that Sunday evening which they had 
 spent together in Cavendish-square. He called 
 upon Mrs. Branston before the week was ended, 
 and was so fortunate as to find that lady alone ; 
 Mrs. Pallinson having gone on a shopping expe- 
 dition in her kinswoman's dashing brougham. 
 
 The pretty little widow received Gilbert very 
 graciously; but there was a slight shade of melan- 
 choly in her manner, a pensiveness which softened 
 and refined her, Gilbert thought. Nor was it long 
 before she allowed him to discover the cause of 
 her sadness. After a little conventional talk upon 
 indifferent subjects, she began to speak of John 
 Saltram. 
 
 ' Have you seen much of your friend Mr. Sal- 
 tram since Sunday ?' she asked, with that vain en-
 
 ON THE TRACK. 267 
 
 cleavour to speak carelessly with which a woman 
 generally betrays her real feeling. 
 
 ' I have not seen him at all since Sunday. He 
 told me he was going back to Oxford — or the 
 neighbourhood of Oxford, I believe — almost im- 
 mediately; and I have not troubled myself to hunt 
 him up at his chambers.' 
 
 1 Gone back already!' Mrs. Branston exclaimed, 
 with a disappointed petulant look that was half- 
 childish, half-womanly. * I cannot imagine what 
 charm he finds in a dull village on the banks of 
 the river. He has confessed that the place is the 
 dreariest and most obscure in the world, and that 
 he has neither shooting nor any other land of 
 amusement. There must be some mysterious 
 attraction, Mr. Fenton. I think your friend is 
 a good deal changed of late. Haven't you found 
 him so ?' 
 
 ' Xo, Mrs. Branston, I cannot say that I have 
 discovered any marked alteration in him since my 
 return from Australia. John Saltram was always 
 wayward and fitful. He may have been a little 
 more so lately, perhaps, but that is all.' 
 
 1 You have a very high opinion of him, I sup- 
 pose ?'
 
 268 fenton's quest. 
 
 ' He is very clear to me. We are something 
 more than friends in the ordinary acceptation of 
 the word. Do you remember the story of those 
 two noble young Venetians who inscribed upon 
 their shield Fratres, non amici ? 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 a noble-hearted and honourable 
 man ; a little neglectful or disdainful of conven- 
 tionalities, wearing his faith in God and his more 
 sacred feelings anywhere than upon his sleeve ; 
 but a man who cannot fail to come right in the 
 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 such a positive 
 air at times, that I have been almost inclined 
 to think she must be right. I am very inexpe- 
 rienced in the ways of the world, and am natu- 
 rally disposed to lean a little upon the opinions 
 of others.'
 
 ON THE TRACK. 269 
 
 ' But don't you think there may he a reason 
 for Mrs. Pallinson's dislike of my friend ?' 
 
 Adela Branston hlushed at this question, and 
 then laughed a little. 
 
 ' 1 think I know what you mean,' she said. 
 ' Yes, it is just possible that Mrs. Pallinson may 
 he jealously disposed towards any acquaintance of 
 mine, on account of that paragon of perfection, 
 her son Theobald. I have not been so blind as 
 not to see her views in that quarter. But be as- 
 sured, Mr. Fenton, that whatever may happen to 
 me, I shall never become Mrs. Theobald Pallin- 
 son.' 
 
 1 1 hope not. I am quite ready to acknowledge 
 Mr. Pallinson's merits and accomplishments, but 
 I do not think him worthy of you.' 
 
 ' It is rather awful, isn't it, for me to speak of 
 marriage at all within a few months of my hus- 
 band's death ? But when a woman has money, 
 people will not allow her to forget that she is a 
 widow for ever so short a time. But it is quite a 
 question if I shall ever marry again. I have very 
 little doubt that real happiness is most likely to 
 be found in a wise avoidance of all the perils and 
 perplexities of that foolish passion which we read
 
 270 
 
 FENTON S QUEST. 
 
 of in novels, if one could only be wise ; don't you 
 think so, Mr. Fenton ?' 
 
 ' My own experience inclines me to agree with 
 you, Mrs. Branston,' Gilbert answered, smiling at 
 the little woman's naivete. 
 
 ' Your own experience has been unfortunate, 
 then ? I wish I were worthy of your confidence. 
 Mr. Saltram told me some time ago that you were 
 engaged to 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 for the scoundrel who stole 
 her from me.' 
 
 ' It is very generous of you to make excuses 
 for the lady,' Mrs. Branston said ; and would fain 
 have talked longer of this subject, but Gilbert con- 
 cluded his visit at this juncture, not caring to 
 discuss his troubles with the sympathetic widow. 
 
 He left the great gloomy gorgeous house in 
 Cavendish - square more than ever convinced of 
 Adela Branston's affection for his friend, more 
 than ever puzzled by John Saltram's indifference 
 to so advantageous an alliance.
 
 OX THE TRACK. 271 
 
 Within a few clays of this visit Gilbert Fenton 
 left London. He had devoted himself unflinch- 
 ingly to his business since his return to England. 
 and had so planned and organised his affairs as to 
 be able now to absent himself for some little time 
 from the City. He was going upon what most 
 men would have called a fool's errand — his quest 
 of Marian's husband ; but he was going with a 
 steady purpose in his breast — a determination 
 never to abandon this search till it should result 
 in success. He might have to suspend it from 
 time to time, should he determine to continue 
 his commercial career : but the purpose would 
 be nevertheless the ruling influence of his life. 
 
 He had but one clue for his guidance in set- 
 ting out upon this voyage of discovery. Miss 
 Long had told him that the newly-married couple 
 were to go to some farmhouse in Hampshire. 
 which had been lent to Mr. Holbrook by a friend. 
 It was in Hampshire, therefore, that Gilbert re- 
 solved to make his first inquiries. He told him- 
 self that success was merely a question of time 
 and patience. The business of tracing these peo- 
 ple, who were not to be found by any public inquiry, 
 would be slow and wearisome no doubt. He was
 
 272 fenton's quest. 
 
 prepared for that. He was prepared for a thousand 
 failures and disappointments before he alighted 
 on the one place in which Mr. Holbrook's name 
 must needs be known, the town or village nearest 
 to the farmhouse that had been lent to him. And 
 even if, after unheard-of trouble and perseverance 
 on his part, he should find the place he wanted, it 
 was quite possible that Marian and her husband 
 would have gone elsewhere, and his quest would 
 have to begin afresh. But he fancied that he 
 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 from place to place, making 
 careful inquiries at post-offices and in all likely 
 quarters at every stage of his journey. He went 
 straight to Winchester, having a fancy for the 
 quiet old city and the fair pastoral scenery sur- 
 rounding it, and thinking that Mr. Holbrook's 
 borrowed retreat might possibly be in this neigh- 
 bourhood. The business proved even slower and 
 more tedious than he had supposed ; there were 
 so many farms round about Winchester, so many 
 places which seemed likely enough, and to which
 
 ON THE TRACK. 273 
 
 he went, only to find that no person of the name 
 of Holbrook had ever been heard of by the inhab- 
 itants. 
 
 He made his head-quarters in the cathedral 
 city for nearly a week, and explored the country 
 round, in a radius of thirty miles, without the 
 faintest success. It was fine autumn weather, 
 calm and clear, the foliage still upon the trees, 
 in all its glory of gold and brown, with patches of 
 green lingering here and there in sheltered places. 
 The country was very beautiful, and Gilbert Fen- 
 ton's work would have been pleasant enough if the 
 elements of peace had been in his breast. But 
 they were not. Bitter regrets for all he had lost, 
 uneasy fears and wild imaginings about the fate 
 of her whom he still loved with a fond useless pas- 
 sion, — these and other gloom} 7 thoughts haunted 
 him day by day, clouding the calm loveliness of 
 the scenes on which he looked, until all outer 
 things seemed to take their colour from his own 
 mind. He had loved Marian Nowell as it is not 
 given to many men to love ; and with the loss of 
 her, it seemed to him as if the very springs of 
 his life were broken. All the machinery of his 
 existence was loosened and out of gear, and he 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 fenton's quest. 
 
 could scarcely have borne the dreary burden of his 
 days, had it not been for that one feverish hope 
 of finding the man who had wronged him. 
 
 The week ended without bringing him in the 
 smallest degree nearer the chance of success. 
 Happily for himself, he had not expected to suc- 
 ceed in a week. On leaving Winchester he started 
 on a kind of vagabond tour through the county, 
 on a horse which he hired in the cathedral city, 
 and which carried him from twenty to thirty miles 
 a day. This mode of travelling enabled him to 
 explore obscure villages and out-of-the-way places 
 that lay off the line of railway. Everywhere he 
 made the same inquiries, 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 he 
 left London. 
 
 He spent his Sunday at a comfortable inn in 
 a quiet little town, where there was a curious old 
 church, and a fine peal of bells that seemed to 
 him to be ringing all day long. It was a dull 
 rainy day. He went to church in the morning, 
 and in the afternoon stood at the coffee-room win-
 
 ON THE TRACK. 275 
 
 dow watching the townspeople going by to their 
 devotions in an absent unseeing way, and think- 
 ing of his own troubles ; pausing, just a little, 
 now and then, from that egotistical brooding to 
 wonder how these people endured the dull mono- 
 tonous round of their lives, and what crosses and 
 disappointments they had to suffer in their small 
 obscure way. 
 
 The inn was very empty, and the landlord 
 waited upon Mr. Fenton in person at his dinner. 
 Gilbert had the coffee-room all to himself, and it 
 looked comfortable enough when the curtains were 
 drawn, the lamps lighted, and the small dinner- 
 table wheeled in front of a blazing fire. 
 
 'I have been thinking over what you were 
 asking me last night, sir,' the host of the White 
 Swan began, while Gilbert was eating his fish ; 
 ' and though I can't say that I ever heard the 
 name of Holbrook, I fancy I may have seen the 
 lady and gentleman you are looking for.' 
 
 'Indeed!' exclaimed Gilbert eagerly, pushing 
 away his plate, and turning full on the landlord. 
 
 1 1 hope you won't let me spoil your dinner, 
 sir ; I know that sole's fresh. I'm a pretty good 
 judge of those things, and choose every bit of fish
 
 276 fenton's quest. 
 
 that's cooked in this house. But as I was say- 
 ing, sir, with regard to this lady and gentleman, 
 I think you said that the people you are looking 
 for were strangers to this part of the country, and 
 were occupying a farmhouse that had heen lent to 
 them.' 
 
 * Precisely.' 
 
 ' Well, sir, I remember some time in the early 
 part of the year, I think it 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 gentleman coming here from 
 the railway station — we've got a station close by 
 our town, as you know, sir, I daresay. They 
 wanted a fly to take them and their luggage on 
 somewhere — I can't for the life of me remember 
 the name of the place — but it was a ten-mile 
 drive, and it was a farm — that I could swear to — 
 Something Farm. If it had been a place I'd 
 known, I think I should have remembered the 
 name.' 
 
 ' Can I see the man who drove them ?' Gilbert 
 asked quickly.
 
 ON THE TRACK. 277 
 
 ' The young man that drove them, sir, has 
 left me, and has left these parts a month come 
 next Tuesday. Where he has gone is more than 
 I can tell you. He was very good with horses; 
 but he turned out badly, cheated me up hill and 
 down dale, as you may say — though what hills 
 and dales have got to do with it is more than I 
 can tell — and I was obliged to get rid of him.' 
 
 ' That's provoking. But if the people I want 
 are anywhere within ten miles of this place, I 
 don't suppose I should be long finding them. 
 Yet the mere fact of two strangers coming here, 
 and going on to some place called a farm, seems 
 very slight ground to go upon. The month cer- 
 tainly corresponds with the time at which Mr. 
 and Mrs. Holbrook came to Hampshire. Did you 
 take any particular notice of them ?' 
 
 'I took particular notice of the lady. She 
 was as pretty a woman as ever I set eyes upon — 
 quite a girl. I noticed that the gentleman was 
 very careful and tender with her when he put her 
 into the carriage, wrapping her up, and so on. He 
 looked a good deal older than her, and I didn't 
 much like his looks altogether.' 
 ' Could you describe him ?'
 
 278 fenton's quest. 
 
 1 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 had dark eyes, I remember, and rather a stern 
 look in them.' 
 
 This was rather too vague a description to 
 make any impression upon Gilbert. It was some- 
 thing certainly to know that his rival had dark 
 eyes, if indeed this man of whom the landlord 
 spoke really were his rival. He had never been 
 able to make any mental picture of the stranger 
 who had come between him and his betrothed. 
 He had been inclined to fancy that the man must 
 needs be much handsomer than himself, possessed 
 of every outward attribute calculated to subjugate 
 the mind of an inexperienced girl like Marian; 
 but the parish-clerk at Wygrove and Miss Long 
 had both spoken in a disparaging tone of Mr. 
 Holbrook's personal appearance ; and, remember- 
 ing this, he was fain to believe that Marian had 
 been won by some charm more subtle than that 
 of a handsome face. 
 
 He went on eating his dinner in silence for 
 some little time, meditating upon what the land- 
 lord had told him. Then, as the man cleared the
 
 OX THE TRACK. 279 
 
 table, lingering over his work, as if eager to im- 
 part any stray scraps of information he might 
 possess, Gilbert spoke to him again. 
 
 ' 1 should have fancied that, as a settled in- 
 habitant of the place, you would be likely to know 
 every farm and farmhouse within ten miles — or 
 within twenty miles,' he said. 
 
 ' "Well, sir, I daresay I do know the neighbour- 
 hood pretty well, in a general way. But I think, 
 if I'd known the name of the place this lady and 
 gentleman were going to, it would have struck 
 me more than it did, and I should have remem- 
 bered it. I was uncommonly busy through that 
 afternoon, for it was market-day, and there were 
 a mort of people going in and out. I never did 
 interfere much with the fly business ; it was only 
 by taking the gentleman out some soda - and - 
 brandy that I came to take the notice I did of the 
 lady's looks and his care of her. I know it was 
 a ten-mile drive, and that I told the gentleman 
 the fare, so as there might be no bother between 
 him and W r illiam Tyler, my man, at the end ; 
 and he agreed to it in a liberal off-hand kind of 
 way, like a man who doesn't care much for money. 
 As to farms within ten miles of here, there are
 
 280 fenton's quest. 
 
 a dozen 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 be likely to lend his 
 house to a friend ?' 
 
 ' I can't say I do, sir. They're tenant-farmers 
 about here mostly, and rather a roughish lot, as 
 you may say. There's a place over beyond Cros- 
 ber, ten miles off and more ; I don't know the 
 name of it, or the person 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 of Crosber, with a large gar- 
 den before it. A queer lonesome place altogether. 
 I should take it to be two or three hundred years 
 old ; and I shouldn't think the house had had 
 money spent upon it within the memory of man. 
 It's a dilapidated tumbledown old gazabo of a 
 place, and yet there's a kind of prettiness about 
 it in summer-time, when the garden is full of 
 flowers. There's a river runs through some of 
 the land about half a mile from the house.' 
 
 f What kind of a place is Crosber ?' 
 
 ' A bit of a village on the road from here to 
 Portsmouth. The house I'm telling you about is
 
 ON THE TRACK. 281 
 
 a mile from Crosber at the least, away from the 
 main road. There's two or three lanes or by- 
 roads about there, and it lies in one of them that 
 turns sharp off by the Blue Boar, which is about 
 the only inn where you can bait a horse there- 
 abouts.' 
 
 ' 111 ride over there to-morrow morning, and 
 have a look at this queer old house. You might 
 give me the names of any other farms you know 
 about this neighbourhood, and their occupants.' 
 
 This the landlord was very ready to do. He 
 ran over the names of from ten to fifteen places, 
 which Gilbert jotted down upon a leaf of his 
 pocket-book, afterwards planning his route upon 
 the map of the county which he carried for his 
 guidance. He set out earlv the next morning 
 under a low gray sky, with clouds in the distance 
 that threatened rain. The road from the [little 
 market - town to Crosber possessed no especial 
 beauty. The country was flat and uninteresting 
 about here, and needed the 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 at this time ; the world 
 around and about him was all of one colour — the
 
 282 fenton's quest. 
 
 sunless gray which pervaded his own life. To- 
 day the low dull sky and the threatening clouds 
 far away upon the level horizon harmonised well 
 with his own thoughts — with the utter hopeless- 
 ness of his mind. Hopelessness ! — yes, that was 
 the word. He had hazarded all upon this one 
 chance, and its failure was the shipwreck of his 
 life. The ruin was complete. He could not 
 build-up a new scheme of happiness. In the full 
 maturity of his manhood, his fate had come to 
 him. He was not the kind of man who can sur- 
 vive the ruin of his plans, and begin afresh with 
 other hopes and still fairer dreams. It was his 
 nature to be constant. In all his life he had 
 chosen for himself only one friend — in all his life 
 he had 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 case- 
 ments below; and where here and there a few 
 pennyworths of gingerbread, that seemed mouldy 
 with the mould of ages, a glass pickle-bottle of 
 bull's-eyes or sugar- sticks, and half a dozen penny 
 bottles of ink, indicated the commercial tenden- 
 cies of Crosber. A little farther on, he came to
 
 OX THE TRACK. 283 
 
 a rickety - looking corner - house, with a steep 
 thatched roof overgrown by stonecrop and other 
 parasites, which was evidently the shop of the vil- 
 lage, inasmuch as one side of the window exhi- 
 bited a show of homely drapery, while the other 
 side was devotee! to groceries, and a shelf above 
 laden with great sprawling loaves of bread. This 
 establishment was also the post-office, and here 
 Gilbert resolved to make his customary inquiries, 
 when he had put up his horse. 
 
 Almost immediately opposite this general 
 emporium the sign of the Blue Boar swung 
 proudly across the street in front of a low rather 
 dilapidated-looking hostelry, with a wide frontage, 
 and an archway leading into a spacious desolate 
 yard, where one gloomy cock of Spanish descent 
 was crowing hoarsely on the broken roof of a 
 shed, surrounded by four or five shabby-looking 
 hens, all in the most wobegone stage of moult- 
 ing, and appearing as if eggs were utterly remote 
 from their intentions. This Blue Boar was popu- 
 larly supposed to have been a most distinguished 
 and prosperous place in the coaching-days, when 
 twenty coaches passed daily through the village 
 of Crosber ; and was even now much affected as
 
 284 fenton's quest. 
 
 a place of resort by the villagers, to the sore vexa- 
 tion of the rector and such good people as believed 
 in the perfectibility of the human race and the 
 ultimate suppression of public-houses. 
 
 Here Mr. Fenton dismounted, and surrendered 
 his horse to the keeping of an unkempt bare- 
 headed youth who emerged from one of the 
 dreary-looking buildings in the yard, announced 
 himself as the hostler, and led off the steed in 
 triumph to a wilderness of a stable, where the 
 landlord's pony and a fine colony of rats were 
 luxuriating in the space designed for some twelve 
 or fifteen horses. 
 
 Having done this, Gilbert crossed the road 
 to the post-office, where he found the proprietor, 
 a deaf old man, weighing half-pounds of sugar in 
 the background, while a brisk sharp-looking girl 
 stood behind the counter sorting a little packet of 
 letters. 
 
 It was to the damsel, as the more intelligent 
 of these two, that Gilbert addressed himself, be- 
 ginning of course with the usual question, Did 
 -she know any one, a stranger, sojourning in that 
 neighbourhood called Holbrook ? 
 
 The girl shook her head without a mo-
 
 ON THE TRACK. 285 
 
 ment's hesitation. No, she knew no one of that 
 name. 
 
 * And I suppose all the letters for people in 
 this neighbourhood pass through your hands ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, all of them ; I couldn't have failed to 
 notice if there had been any one of that name.' 
 
 Gilbert gave a little weary sigh. The infor- 
 mation given him by the landlord of the White 
 Swan had seemed to bring him so very near the 
 object of his search, and here he was thrown back 
 all at once upon the wide field of conjecture, not 
 a whit nearer any certain knowledge. It was 
 true that Crosber was only one among several 
 places within ten miles of the market-town, and 
 the strangers who had been driven from the 
 White Swan 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; ' a house belonging to 
 a farm, in the lane yonder that turns off by the 
 Blue Boar. Have you any notion to whom it 
 belongs, or who lives there ?' 
 
 1 An old house in that lane across the way ?' 
 the girl said, reflecting. ' That's Golder's-lane,
 
 286 fenton's quest. 
 
 and leads to Golder's-green. There's not many 
 houses there ; it's rather a lonesome kind of place. 
 Do you mean a big old-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 ; but there's only a bailiff 
 lives there now. The farm belongs to some gen- 
 tleman down in Midlandshire, a baronet ; I can't 
 call to mind his name at this moment, though 
 I've heard it often enough. Mr. Carley's daughter 
 — Carley is the name of the bailiff at the Grange 
 — comes here for all they want.' 
 
 Gilbert gave a little start at the name of Mid- 
 landshire. Lidford was in Midlandshire. Was 
 it not likely to be a Midlandshire man who had 
 lent Marian's husband his house ? 
 
 1 Do you know if these people at the Grange 
 have had any one staying with them lately — any 
 lodgers?' he asked the girl. 
 
 ' Yes ; they have lodgers pretty well every 
 summer. There were some people this year, a 
 lady and gentleman; but they never seemed to 
 have any letters, and I can't tell you their names.'
 
 OX THE TRACK. 287 
 
 I Are they living there still ?' 
 
 I I can't tell you that. I used to see them at 
 church now and then in the summer-time; but 
 I haven't seen them lately. There's a church at 
 Golder's-green almost as near, and they have been 
 there.' 
 
 'Will you tell me what they were like ?' Gil- 
 bert asked eagerly. 
 
 His heart was beating loud and fast, making 
 a painful tumult in his breast. He felt assured 
 that he was on the track of the people whom the 
 innkeeper 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 gentleman older, dark, and not hand- 
 some.' 
 
 1 Yes. Has the lady gray eyes, and dark- 
 brown hair, and a very bright expressive face ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 1 Pray try to remember the name of the gentle- 
 man to whom the Grange belongs. It is of great 
 importance to me to know that.' 
 
 * I'll ask my father, sir,' the girl answered 
 good-naturedly ; ' he's pretty sure to know.' 
 
 She went across the shop to the old man who
 
 288 fenton's quest. 
 
 was weighing sugar, and bawled her question into 
 his ear. He scratched his head in a meditative 
 way for some moments. 
 
 ' I've heard the name times and often,' he said, 
 ' though I never set eyes upon the gentleman. 
 William Carley has been bailiff at the Grange 
 these twenty years, and I don't believe as the 
 owner has ever come nigh the place in all that 
 time. Let me see, it's a common name enough 
 though the 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 at the Grange had been 
 Marian and her husband. Treachery, blackest 
 treachery somewhere. He had questioned Sir 
 David, and had received his positive assurance 
 that this man Holbrook was unknown to him ; 
 and now, against that there was the fact that the 
 baronet was the owner of a place in Hampshire, 
 to be taken in conjunction with that other fact 
 that a place in Hampshire had been lent to Mr. 
 Holbrook by a friend. At the very first he had
 
 ON THE TRACK. 289 
 
 been inclined to believe that Marian's lover must 
 needs be one of the worthless bachelor crew with 
 which the baronet was accustomed to surround 
 himself. He had only abandoned that notion 
 after his interview with Sir David Forster ; and 
 now it seemed that the baronet had deliberately 
 lied to him. It was, of course, just possible that 
 he was on a false scent after all, and that it was 
 to some other part of the county Mr. Holbrook 
 had brought his bride ; but such a coincidence 
 seemed, at the least, highly improbable. There 
 was no occasion for him to remain in doubt very 
 long, however. At the Grange he must needs 
 be able to obtain more definite information. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 london : 
 
 ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.Tf.
 
 /