"Speak to me, John Saltram," he said. "You know me, don't you--the man
who was once your friend, Gilbert Fenton?"
The other burst into a wild bitter laugh. "Gilbert Fenton--my friend, the
man who trusts me still! Poor old Gilbert! and I fancied that I loved
him, that I would have freely sacrificed my own happiness for his."
"And yet you betrayed him," Gilbert said in a low distinct voice. "But
that may be forgiven, if you have been guilty of no deeper wrong than
that. John Saltram, as you have a soul to be saved, what have you done
with Marian--with--your wife?"
It cost him something, even in that moment of excitement, to pronounce
those two words.
"Killed her!" the sick man answered with the same mad laugh. "She was too
good for me, you see; and I grew weary of her calm beauty, and I sickened
of her tranquil goodness. First I sacrificed honour, friendship,
everything to win her; and then I got tired of my prize. It is my nature,
I suppose; but I loved her all the time; she had twined herself about my
heart somehow. I knew it when she was lost."
"What have you done with her?" repeated Gilbert, in a low stern voice,
with his grasp upon John Saltram's arm.
"What have I done with her? I forget. She is gone--I wanted my freedom;
I felt myself fettered, a ruined man. She is gone; and I am free, free to
make a better marriage.
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