TORMENTED BY DOUBT.
The long homeward walk gave Gilbert ample leisure for reflection upon his
interview with Sir David; a very unsatisfactory interview at the best.
Yes, the conviction that the man who had wronged him was no other than
his own familiar friend, had flashed upon him with a new force as the
Baronet answered his questions about John Holbrook. The suspicion which
had entered his mind after he left the lonely farm-house near Crosber,
and which he had done his uttermost to banish, as if it had been a
suggestion of the evil one, came back to him to-day with a form and
reality which it had lacked before. It seemed no longer a vague fancy, a
dark unwelcome thought that bordered on folly. It had taken a new shape
altogether, and appeared to him almost a certainty.
Sir David's refusal to make any direct denial of the fact seemed to
confirm his suspicion. Yet it was, on the other hand, just possible that
Sir David, finding him on a false scent, should have been willing to let
him follow it, and that the real offender should be screened by this
suspicion of John Saltram. But then there arose in his mind a doubt that
had perplexed him sorely for a long time. If his successful rival had
been indeed a stranger to him, what reason could there be for so much
mystery in the circumstances of the marriage? and why should Marian have
so carefully avoided telling him anything about her husband? That his
friend, having betrayed him, should shrink from the revelation of his
falsehood, should adopt any underhand course to avoid discovery, seemed
natural enough. Yet to believe this was to think meanly of the man whom
he had loved so well, whom he had confided in so implicitly until the
arising of this cruel doubt.
He had known long ago, when the first freshness of his boyish delusions
faded away before the penetrating clear daylight of reality, he had known
long ago that his friend was not faultless; that except in that one
faithful alliance with himself, John Saltram had been fickle, wayward,
vacillating, unstable, and inconstant, true to no dream of his youth, no
ambition of his early manhood, content to drop one purpose after another,
until his life was left without any exalted aim. But Gilbert had fancied
his friend's nature was still a noble one in spite of the comparative
failure of his life. It was very difficult for him to imagine it possible
that this friend could act falsely and ungenerously, could steal his
betrothed from him, and keep the secret of his guilt, pretending to
sympathise with the jilted lover all the while.
But though Mr. Fenton told himself at one moment that this was
impossible, his thoughts travelled back to the same point immediately
afterwards, and the image of John Saltram arose before him as that of his
hidden foe. He remembered the long autumn days which he and his friend
had spent with Marian--those unclouded utterly happy days, which he
looked back upon now with a kind of wonder. They had been so much
together, Marian so bright and fascinating in her innocent enjoyment of
the present, brighter and happier just then than she had ever seemed to
him before, Gilbert remembered with a bitter pang. He had been completely
unsuspicious at the time, untroubled by one doubtful thought; but it
appeared to him now that there had been a change in Marian from the time
of his friend's coming--a new joyousness and vivacity, a keener delight
in the simple pleasures of their daily life, and withal a fitfulness, a
tendency to change from gaiety to thoughtful silence, that he had not
remarked in her before.
Was it strange if John Saltram had fallen in love with her? was it
possible to see her daily in all the glory of her girlish loveliness,
made doubly bewitching by the sweetness of her nature, the indescribable
charm of her manner--was it possible to be with her often, as John
Saltram had been, and not love her? Gilbert Fenton had thought of his
friend as utterly impregnable to any such danger; as a man who had spent
all his stock of tender emotion long ago, and who looked upon matrimony
as a transaction by which he might mend his broken fortunes. That this
man should fall a victim to the same subtle charm which had subjugated
himself, was a possibility that never occurred to Gilbert's mind, in this
happy period of his existence. He wanted his friend's approval of his
choice; he wished to see his passion justified in the eyes of the man
whom it was his habit to regard in somewise as a superior creature; and
it had been a real delight to him to hear Mr. Saltram's warm praises of
Marian.
Looking back at the past to-day from a new point of view, he wondered at
his own folly. What was more natural than that John Saltram should have
found his doom, as he had found it, unthought of, undreamed of, swift,
and fatal? Nor was it difficult for him to believe that Marian--who had
perhaps never really loved him, who had been induced to accept him by his
own pertinacity and her uncle's eager desire for the match--should find a
charm and a power in John Saltram that had been wanting in himself. He
had seen too many instances of his friend's influence over men and women,
to doubt his ability to win this innocent inexperienced girl, had he set
himself to win her. He recalled with a bitter smile how his informants
had all described his rival in a disparaging tone, as unworthy of so fair
a bride; and he knew that it was precisely those qualities which these
common people were unable to appreciate that constituted the subtle charm
by which John Saltram influenced others. The rugged power and grandeur of
that dark face, which vulgar critics denounced as plain and unattractive,
the rare fascination of a manner that varied from an extreme reserve to a
wild reckless vivacity, the magic of the deep full voice, with its
capacity for the expression of every shade of emotion--these were
attributes to be passed over and ignored by the vulgar, yet to exercise a
potent influence upon sensitive sympathetic natures.
"How that poor little Anglo-Indian widow loves him, without any effort to
win or hold her affection on his side!" Gilbert said to himself, as he
walked back to Lidford in the darkening November afternoon, brooding
always on the one subject which occupied all his thoughts; "and can I
doubt his power to supersede me if he cared to do so--if he really loved
Marian, as he never has loved Mrs. Branston? What shall I do? Go to him
at once, and tell him my suspicion, tax him broadly with treachery, and
force him to a direct confession or denial? Shall I do this? Or shall I
bide my time, wait and watch with dull dogged patience, till I can
collect some evidence of his guilt? Yes, let it be so. If he has been
base enough to do me this great wrong--mean enough to steal my betrothed
under a false name, and to keep the secret of his wrong-doing at any cost
of lies and deceit--let him go on to the end, let him act out the play to
the last; and when I bring his falsehood home to him, as I must surely
do, sooner or later,--yes, if he is capable of deceiving me, he shall
continue the lie to the last, he shall endure all the infamy of his false
position."
And then, after a pause, he said to himself,--
"And at the end, if my suspicions are confirmed, I shall have lost all I
have ever valued in life since my mother died--my plighted wife, and the
one chosen friend whose companionship could make existence pleasant to
me. God grant that this fancy of mine is as baseless as Sir David Forster
declared it to be! God grant that I may never find a secret enemy in
John Saltram!"
Tossed about thus upon a sea of doubts, Mr. Fenton returned to Lidford
House, where he was expected to be bright and cheerful, and entertain his
host and hostess with the freshest gossip of the London world. He did
make a great effort to keep up a show of cheerfulness at the
dinner-table; but he felt that his sister's eyes were watching him with a
pitiless scrutiny, and he knew that the attempt was an ignominious
failure.
When honest Martin was snoring in his easy-chair before the drawing-room
fire, with the red light shining full upon his round healthy countenance,
Mrs. Lister beckoned her brother over to her side of the hearth, where
she had an embroidery-frame, whereon was stretched some grand design in
Berlin wool-work, to which she devoted herself every now and then with a
great show of industry. She had been absorbed in a profound calculation
of the stitches upon the canvas and on the coloured pattern before her
until this moment; but she laid aside her work with a solemn air when
Gilbert went over to her, and he knew at once what was coming.
"Sit down, Gilbert," she said; and her brother dropped into a chair by
her side with a faint sigh of resignation. "I want to talk to you
seriously, as a sister ought to talk to a brother, without any fear of
offending. I'm very sorry to see you have not yet forgotten that wicked
ungrateful girl Marian Nowell."
"Who told you that I have not forgotten her?"
"Your own face, Gilbert. It's no use for you to put on a pretence of
being cheerful and light-hearted with me. I know you too well to be
deceived by that kind of thing--I could see how absent-minded you were
all dinner-time, in spite of your talk. You can't hoodwink an
affectionate sister."
"I don't wish to hoodwink you, my dear," Mr. Fenton answered quietly, "or
to affect a happiness which I do not feel, any more than I wish to make a
parade of my grief. It is natural for an Englishman to be reticent on
such matters; but I do not mind owning to you that Marian Nowell is
unforgotten by me, and that the loss of her will have an enduring
influence upon my life; and having said as much as that, Belle, I must
request that you will not expatiate any more upon this poor girl's breach
of faith. I have forgiven her long ago, and I shall always regard her as
the purest and dearest of women."
"What! you can hold her up as a paragon of perfection after she has
thrown you over in the most heartless manner? Upon my word, Gilbert, I
have no common patience with such folly. Your weakness in this affair
from first to last has been positively deplorable."
"I am sorry you disapprove of my conduct, Belle; but as it is not a very
pleasant subject, don't you think we may as well avoid it now and
henceforward?"
"O, very well, Gilbert," the lady exclaimed, with an offended air; "of
course, if you choose to exclude me from your confidence, I must submit;
but I do think it rather hard that your only sister should not be allowed
to speak of a business that concerns you so nearly."
"What good can arise out of any discussion of this subject, Belle? You
think me weak and foolish; granted that I am both, you cannot cure me of
my weakness or my folly."
"And am I never to hope that you will find some one else, better worthy
of your regard than Marian Nowell?"
"I fear not, Belle. For me there is no one else."
Mrs. Lister breathed a profound sigh, and resumed the counting of her
stitches. Yet perhaps, after all, it was better that her brother should
cherish the memory of this unlucky attachment. It would preserve him from
the hazard of any imprudent alliance in the future, and leave his fortune
free, to descend by-and-by to the juvenile Listers. Isabella was not a
particularly mercenary person, but she was a woman of the world, and had
an eye to the future aggrandisement of her children.
She was very kind and considerate to Gilbert after this, carefully
avoiding any farther allusions to his lost love, and taking all possible
pains to make his visit pleasant to him. She was so affectionate and
cordial, and seemed so really anxious for him to stay, that he could not
in common decency hurry back to town quite so soon as he had intended. He
prolonged his visit to the end of that week, and then to the beginning of
the next; and when he did at last find himself free to return to London,
the second week was nearly ended.