But Adela Branston was not a proud woman; and even in the midst of her
regret for having done this foolish thing, she was always ready to make
excuses for the man she loved, always in danger of committing some new
folly in his behalf.
Gilbert Fenton felt for the poor foolish little woman, whose fair face
was turned to him with such a pleading look in the wintry twilight. He
knew that what he had to tell her must needs carry desolation to her
heart--knew that in the background of John Saltram's life there lurked
even a deeper cause of grief for this gentle impressionable little soul.
"You will not wonder that Mr. Saltram has not called upon you lately when
you know the truth," he said gravely: "he has been very ill."
Mrs. Branston clasped her hands, with a faint cry of terror.
"Very ill--that means dangerously ill?"
"Yes; for some time he was in great danger. I believe that is past now;
but I am not quite sure of his safety even yet. I can only hope that he
may recover."
Hope that he might recover, yes; but to be a friend of his, Gilbert's,
never more. It was a dreary prospect at best. John Saltram would recover,
to seek and reclaim his wife, and then those two must needs pass for ever
out of Gilbert Fenton's life. The story would be finished, and his own
part of it bald enough to be told on the fly-leaf at the end of the book.
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