Nor was
she sorry that there should be some little pause--a brief interval of
ignorance and tranquillity--in Marian's life before she heard of her
husband's useless voyage across the Atlantic. She was in sad need of rest
of mind and body, and even in those few days gained considerable
strength, by the aid of Mrs. Whitelaw's tender nursing. She had not left
her room during the time that death was in the darkened house, and it was
only on the morning after the funeral that she came downstairs for the
first time. Her appearance had improved wonderfully in that interval of
little more than a week. Her eyes had lost their dim weary look, the
deathly pallor of her complexion had given place to a faint bloom. But
grateful as she was for her own deliverance, she was full of anxiety
about her husband. Ellen Whitelaw's vague assurances that all would be
well, that he would soon be restored to her, were not enough to set her
mind at ease.
Ellen had not the courage to tell her the truth. It was better that
Gilbert Fenton should do that, she thought. He who knew all the
circumstances of Mr. Holbrook's journey, and the probabilities as to his
return, would be so much better able to comfort and reassure his wife.
"He will come to-day, I have no doubt," Ellen said to herself on the
morning after her husband's funeral.
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