The furniture was old and worm-eaten,--furniture that had once been
handsome,--and was of a ponderous fashion that defied time. There was a
massive oaken cabinet on one side of the room, a walnut-wood bureau with
brass handles on the other. A comfortable looking sofa, of an antiquated
design, with chintz-covered cushions, had been wheeled near the
fire-place; and close beside it there was a small table with an open desk
upon it, and some papers scattered loosely about. There were a few autumn
flowers in a homely vase upon the centre table, and a work-basket with
some slippers, in Berlin wool work, unfinished.
Gilbert Fenton contemplated all these things with supreme tenderness. It
was here that Marian had lived for so many months--alone most likely for
the greater part of the time. He had a fixed idea that the man who had
stolen his treasure was some dissipated worldling, altogether unworthy so
sacred a trust. The room had a look of loneliness to him. He could fancy
the long solitary hours in this remote seclusion.
He had to wait for some little time, walking slowly up and down; very
eager for the interview that was to come, yet with a consciousness that
his fate would seem only so much the darker to him afterwards, when he
had to turn his back upon this place, with perhaps no hope of ever seeing
Marian again.
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