MARIAN'S STORY.
The days passed, and there was no more dulness or emptiness for Gilbert
Fenton in his life at Lidford. He went every day to the white-walled
cottage 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 character. 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 home-like 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 master of some pretty villa in the suburbs--at Kingston or
Twickenham, perhaps--with a garden sloping 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, sipping 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 going back 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 reason 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, simple, easy-going life
had been clouded by anxious 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 realize 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 thoroughly 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 doubt. He was not quite so clear about the feelings of
the other. There was a perfect frankness and ease about Marian that
seemed scarcely compatible 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.
"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."
"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 Nowell--more than I 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 rector 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 repast; but he was able to make up for this afterwards, 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, 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 Nowell," 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 distinct from all other places."
She looked up at him, wondering a little at 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 amusement," 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. "I'll 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, detaining her. "I have
something to say to you this afternoon,--something that it is wiser to
say at once, perhaps, though I have 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
Nowell. 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 have
I to do with that?"
"Everything. It is you who have made the little country village my
paradise. O Marian, tell me that it has not been a fool's paradise! My
darling, I love you with all my heart and soul, with an honest man's
first and only love. Promise 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 even know who my 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 darling, 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. O 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 wonderingly. "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, "and I am proud--I have
reason to be proud--of your preference. But I have known you such a short
time. I am afraid to give you any promise."
"Afraid of me, or of yourself, Marian?"
"Of myself."
"In what way?"
"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."
"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
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 was 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. Surprise had appeared the chief
sentiment caused by his revelation. Surprise was natural to such girlish
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 pleasantly, 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
Sedgewick listened to him with profound attention and a grave anxious
face.
"She didn't reject you?" he said, when Gilbert had finished his story.
"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 contemptible
for a man to talk about a broken heart; but I shall carry an empty one to
my grave unless I win Marian Nowell for my wife."
"You shall win her!" cried the Captain energetically. "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 affection. 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.
"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 confess 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 Rothschilds, 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 estimation of
her."
"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 meantime, 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?"
"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.
"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 countenance.
"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!"
"Yes, my dear. Haven't you something pleasant to tell your old
uncle--something that a girl generally likes telling? You had a visitor
yesterday afternoon while I was asleep."
"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."
"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."
"That will soon grow into a warmer feeling, Marian; at least I trust in
God that it will do so."
"Why, dear uncle?"
"Because I have set my heart upon this marriage. O Marian, my love, I
have never ventured 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."
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 Fenton a good deal during the rest of that day;
thought that it was a pleasant thing to be 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 specimen 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 Nowell 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 away 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 children; 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 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
pleasantest part of my day. There was a winning grace about this Mrs.
Nowell'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. Nowell'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 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
woman, and how was she to pay her rent and taxes if her best floor was
occupied by a non-paying tenant?
"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
landlady that I would be answerable for Mrs. Nowell'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 doctor 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 became my dear little companion every afternoon. She
had taken to me, as the phrase goes, from the very first. She was the
gentlest, most engaging child I had ever met with--a little grave for her
years, and tenderly thoughtful of others.
"One evening Mrs. Nowell sent for me. I went up to the drawing-room
immediately, and 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.
"'I can give you nothing but thanks and blessings,' she said, 'for I am
the most helpless creature 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 account; but I could not
help saying, that I thought her husband had behaved shamefully in not
coming to England to her long ere this.
"'He knows that you are ill, I suppose?' I said.
"'O 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 what he 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 summer evenings, the dismal winter days--if
it had not been for my darling child. She has been all the world to me.
And, O 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
business to watch over her career as well as I can.'
"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!
"After this I went up to her room every evening, and read to her a
little, and cheered her as well as I could; but I believe her heart was
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
matters.
"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, and laid her there still asleep. She
cried piteously 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. Nowell at an address in Brussels which I found at the top
of his last letter to his wife. No 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 began to fancy that Providence
intended I should keep her with me for the rest of her days. She told me,
in her innocent 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 morning, 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.
"I put an advertisement, addressed to Mr. Percival Nowell, in the
_Times_ and in _Galignani_, for I felt that the child's future might
depend upon her father's acknowledgment of her in the present; but no
reply came to these advertisements, and I settled in my own mind that
this Nowell was a scoundrel, who had deliberately deserted 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 religiously, 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 farm-house 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 what she has been to me since that time, I could never
tell you."
"The story does you credit, sir; and I honour you for your goodness,"
said Gilbert Fenton.
"Goodness, pshaw!" cried the Captain, impetuously; "it has been a mere
matter of self-indulgence 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 Nowell has
been the sunshine of my life!"
"You never made any farther discoveries about Mr. Nowell?"
"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 I ought to have sought out the grandfather.
But, you see, it would have been uncommonly difficult to 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 indifferent 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,
inexperienced girl could scarcely help responding to the hopes of such a
lover. To his mind Gilbert Fenton seemed eminently adapted to win a
woman'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.