"GOOD-BYE."
The hour for the final parting came at last, and Gilbert Fenton turned
his back upon the little gate by which he had watched Marian Nowell
standing upon that first summer Sunday evening which sealed his destiny.
He left Lidford weary at heart, weighed down by a depression he had
vainly struggled against, and he brooded over his troubles all the way
back to town. It seemed as if all the hopes that had made life so sweet
to him only a week ago had been swept away. He could not look beyond that
dreary Australian exile; he could not bring his thoughts to bear upon the
time that was to come afterwards, and which need be no less bright
because of this delay.
"She may die while I am away," he thought. "O God, if that were to
happen! If I were to come back and find her dead! Such things have been;
and men and women have borne them, and gone on living."
He had one more duty to perform before he left England. He had to say
good-bye to John Saltram, whom he had not seen since they parted that
night at Lidford. He could not leave England without some kind of
farewell to his old friend, and he had reserved this last evening for the
duty.
He went to the Pnyx on the chance of finding Saltram there, and failing
in that, ate his solitary dinner in the coffee-room. The waiters told him
that Mr. Saltram had not been at the club for some weeks. Gilbert did not
waste much time over his dinner, and went straight from the Pnyx to the
Temple, where John Saltram had a second-floor in Figtree-court.
Mr. Saltram was at home. It was his own sonorous voice which answered
Gilbert's knock, bidding him enter with a muttered curse upon the
interruption by way of addendum. The room into which Mr. Fenton went upon
receiving this unpromising invitation was in a state of chaotic
confusion. An open portmanteau sprawled upon the floor, and a whole
wardrobe of masculine garments seemed to have been shot at random on to
the chairs near it; a dozen soda-water bottles, full and empty, were
huddled in one corner; a tea-tray tottered on the extreme edge of a table
heaped with dusty books and papers; and at a desk in the centre of the
room, with a great paraffin lamp flaring upon his face as he wrote, sat
John Saltram, surrounded by fallen slips of copy, writing as if to win a
wager.
"Who is it? and what do you want?" he asked in a husky voice, without
looking up from his paper or suspending the rapid progress of his pen.
"Why, Jack, I don't think I ever caught you so hard at work before."
John Saltram dropped his pen at the sound of his friend's voice and got
up. He gave Gilbert his hand in a mechanical kind of way.
"No, I don't generally go at it quite so hard; but you know I have a
knack of doing things against time. I have been giving myself a spell of
hard work in order to pick up a little cash for the children of Israel."
He dropped back into his chair, and Gilbert took one opposite him. The
lamp shone full upon John Saltram's face as he sat at his desk; and after
looking at him for a moment by that vivid light, Gilbert Fenton gave a
cry of surprise.
"What is the matter, Gil?"
"You are the matter. You are looking as worn and haggard as if you'd had
a long illness since I saw you last. I never remember you looking so ill.
This kind of thing won't do, John. You'd soon kill yourself at this
rate."
"Not to be done, my dear fellow. I am the toughest thing in creation. I
have been sitting up all night for the last week or so, and that does
rather impair the freshness of one's complexion; but I assure you
there's nothing so good for a man as a week or two of unbroken work. I
have been doing an exhaustive review of Roman literature for one of the
quarterlies, and the subject involved a little more reading than I was
quite prepared for."
"And you have really not been ill?"
"Not in the least. I am never ill."
He pushed aside his papers, and sat with his elbow on the desk and his
head leaning on his hand, waiting for Gilbert to talk. He was evidently
in one of those silent moods which were common to him at times.
Gilbert told him of his Melbourne troubles, and of his immediate
departure. The announcement roused him from his absent humour. He dropped
his arm from the table suddenly, and sat looking full at Gilbert with a
very intent expression.
"This is strange news," he said, "and it will cause the postponement of
your marriage, I suppose?"
"Unhappily, yes; that is unavoidable. Hard lines, isn't it, Jack?"
"Well, yes; I daresay the separation seems rather a hardship; but you are
young enough to stand a few months' delay. When do you sail?"
"To-morrow."
"So soon?"
"Yes. It is a case in which everything depends upon rapidity of action. I
leave Liverpool to-morrow afternoon. I came up from Lidford to-day on
purpose to spend a few farewell hours with you. And I have been thinking,
Jack, that you might run down to Liverpool with me to-morrow, and see the
last of me, eh, old fellow?"
John Saltram hesitated, looking doubtfully at his papers.
"It would be only a kind thing to do, Jack, and a wholesome change for
yourself into the bargain. Anything would be better for you than being
shut up in these chambers another day."
"Well, Gilbert, I'll go with you," said Mr. Saltram presently with a kind
of recklessness. "It is a small thing to do for friendship. Yes, I'll see
you off, dear boy. Egad, I wish I could go to Australia with you. I
would, if it were not for my engagements with the children and sundry
other creditors. I think a new country might do me good. But there's no
use in talking about that. I'm bound hand and foot to the old one."
"That reminds me of something I had to say to you, John. There must have
been some reason for your leaving Lidford in that sudden way the other
day, and your note explained nothing. I thought you and I had no secrets
from each other, It's scarcely fair to treat me like that."
"The business was hardly worth explaining," answered the other moodily.
"A bill that I had forgotten for the time fell due just then, and I
hurried off to set things straight."
"Let me help you somehow or other, Jack."
"No, Gilbert; I will never suffer you to become entangled in the
labyrinth of my affairs. You don't know what a hopeless wilderness you
would enter if you were desperate enough to attempt my rescue. I have
been past redemption for the last ten years, ever since I left Oxford.
Nothing but a rich marriage will ever set me straight; and I sometimes
doubt if that game is worth the candle, and whether it would not be
better to make a clean sweep of my engagements, offer up my name to the
execration of mankind and the fiery indignation of solvent
journalists,--who would find subject for sensation leaders in my
iniquities,--emigrate, and turn bushranger. A wild free life in the
wilderness must be a happy exchange for all the petty worries and
perplexities of this cursed existence."
"And how about Mrs. Branston, John? By the way, I thought that she might
have had something to do with your sudden journey to London."
"No; she had nothing to do with it. I have not seen her since I came back
from Lidford."
"Indeed!"
"No. Your lecture had a potent effect, you see," said Mr. Saltram, with
something of a sneer. "You have almost cured me of that passion."
"My opinion would have very little influence if you were far gone, John.
The fact is, Mrs. Branston, pretty and agreeable as she may be, is not
the sort of woman to acquire any strong hold upon you."
"You think not?"
"I am sure of it."
After this John Saltram became more expansive. They sat together until
late in the night, talking chiefly of the past, old friends, and
half-forgotten days; recalling the scenes through which they had
travelled together with a pensive tenderness, and dwelling regretfully
upon that careless bygone time when life was fresh for both of them, and
the future seemed to lie across the straightest, easiest high-road to
reputation and happiness.
Gilbert spoke of that perilous illness of his in Egypt, the fever in
which he had been given over by every one, and only saved at last by the
exemplary care and devotion of his friend. John Saltram had a profound
objection to this thing being talked about, and tried immediately to
change the drift of the conversation; but to-night Gilbert was not to be
stopped.
"You refuse the help of my purse, Jack," he said, "and forget that I owe
you my life. I should never have been to the fore to navigate the good
ship Fenton and Co., if it hadn't been for your care. The doctor fellow
at Cairo told me as much in very plain terms. Yes, John, I consider
myself your debtor to the amount of a life."
"Saving a man's life is sometimes rather a doubtful boon. I think if I
had a fever, and some officious fool dragged me through it when I was in
a fair way to make a decent end, I should be very savagely disposed
towards him."
"Why, John Saltram, you are the last man in the world from whom I should
expect that dreary kind of talk. Yet I suppose it's only a natural
consequence of shutting yourself up in these rooms for ten days at a
stretch."
"What good use have I made of my life in the past, Gilbert?" demanded the
other bitterly; "and what have I to look forward to in the future? To
marry, and redeem my position by the aid of a woman's money. That's
hardly the noblest destiny that can befall a man. And yet I think if
Adela Branston were free, and willing to marry me, I might make something
of my life. I might go into Parliament, and make something of a name for
myself. I could write books instead of anonymous articles. I should
scarcely sink down into an idle mindless existence of dinner-giving and
dinner-eating. Yes, I think the best thing that could happen to me would
be to marry Adela Branston."
They parted at last, John Saltram having faithfully promised his friend
to work no more that night, and they met at Euston Square early the next
morning for the journey to Liverpool. Gilbert had never found his
friend's company more delightful than on this last day. It seemed as if
John Saltram put away every thought of self in his perfect sympathy with
the thoughts and feelings of the traveller. They dined together, and it
was dusk when they wished each other good-bye on the deck of the vessel.
"Good-bye, Gilbert, and God bless you! If--if anything should happen to
me--if I should have gone to the bad utterly before you come back, you
must try to remember our friendship of the past. Think that I have loved
you very dearly--as well as one man ever loved another, perhaps."
"My dear John, you have no need to tell me to think that. Nothing can
ever weaken the love between us. And you are not likely to go to the bad.
Good bye, dear old friend. I shall remember you every day of my life. You
are second only to Marian in my heart. I shall write you an account of my
proceedings, and shall expect to hear from you. Once more, good bye."
The bell rang. Gilbert Fenton and his friend shook hands in silence for
the last time, and in the next moment John Saltram ran down the steps to
the little steamer which had brought them out to the larger vessel. The
sails spread wide in the cool evening wind, and the mighty ship glided
away into the dusk. John Saltram's last look showed him his friend's face
gazing down upon him over the bulwarks full of trust and affection.
He went back to London by the evening express, and reached his chambers
at a late hour that night. There had been some attempt at tidying the
rooms in his absence; but his books and papers had been undisturbed. Some
letters were lying on the desk, amongst them one in a big scrawling hand
that was very familiar to Mr. Saltram, the envelope stamped "Lidford." He
tore this open eagerly. It was from Sir David Forster.
"DEAR SALTRAM" (wrote the Baronet),--"What do you mean by this
iniquitous conduct? You only obtained my consent to your hurried
departure the other day on condition you should come back in a
week, yet there are no signs of you. Foljambe and the lawyer are
gone, and I am alone with Harker, whose stupidity is something
marvellous. I am dying by inches of this dismal state of things. I
can't tell the man to go, you see, for he is really a most worthy
creature, although such a consummate fool. For pity's sake come to
me. You can do your literary work down here as well as in London,
and I promise to respect your laborious hours.--Ever yours,
"DAVID FORSTER."
John Saltram stood with this letter open in his hand, staring blankly at
it, like a man lost in a dream.
"Go back!" he muttered at last--"go back, when I thought I did such a
great thing in coming away! No, I am not weak enough for that folly."