“Then you do not know where she went on leaving this place?”
“Not in the faintest degree. Her departure was altogether unexpected by us. My wife and daughters called upon her two or three times after the Captain’s death, and were even anxious that she should come here to stay for a short time; but she would not do that. She seemed grateful, and touched by their anxiety about her, but they could not bring her to talk of her future.”
“And she told them nothing of her intention to leave Lidford?”
“Not a word.”
This was all that Gilbert Fenton could learn. His interview with the Rector lasted some time longer; but it told him nothing. Whom next could he question? He knew all Marian’s friends, and he spent the next day in calling upon them, but with the same result; no one could tell him her reason for leaving Hazel Cottage, or where she had gone.
There remained only one person whom he could question, and that was the old servant who had lived with Captain Sedgewick nearly all the time of his residence at Lidford, and whom Gilbert had conciliated by numerous gifts during his visits to Hazel Cottage. She was a good-humoured honest creature, of about fifty, and had been devoted to the Captain and Marian.
After a good deal of trouble, Gilbert ascertained that this woman had not accompanied her young mistress when she left Lidford, but had taken service in a grocer’s family at Fairleigh. Having discovered this, Mr. Fenton set off immediately for the little market-town, on foot this time, and with his mind full of the days when he and Marian had walked this way together.
He found the shop to which he had been directed — a roomy old-fashioned emporium in the High-street, sunk three or four feet below the level of the pavement, and approached by a couple of steps; a shop with a low ceiling, that was made lower by bunches of candles, hams, bacon, and other merchandise hanging from the massive beams that spanned it. Mr. Fenton, having duly stated his business, was shown into the grocer’s best parlour — a resplendent apartment, where there were more ornaments in the way of shell-and-feather flowers under glass shades, and Bohemian glass scent-bottles, than were consistent with luxurious occupation, and where every chair and sofa was made a perfect veiled prophet by enshrouding antimacassors. Here Sarah Down, the late Captain’s servant, came to Mr. Fenton, wiping her hands and arms upon a spotless canvas apron, and generally apologetic as to her appearance. To this woman Gilbert repeated the question he had asked of others, with the same disheartening result.
“The poor dear young lady felt the Captain’s loss dreadfully; as well she might, when they had been so fond of each other,” Sarah Down said, in answer to one of Gilbert’s inquiries. “I never knew any one grieve so deeply. She wouldn’t go anywhere, and she couldn’t bear to see any one who came to see her. She used to shut herself up in the Captain’s room day after day, kneeling by his bedside, and crying as if her heart would break. I have looked through the keyhole sometimes, and seen her there on her knees, with her face buried in the bedclothes. She didn’t care to talk about him even to me, and I had hard work to persuade her to eat or drink enough to keep life in her at this time. When the days were fine, I used to try and get her to walk out a little, for she looked as white as a ghost for want of air; and after a good deal of persuasion, she did go out sometimes of an afternoon, but she wouldn’t ask any one to walk with her, though there were plenty she might have asked — the young ladies from the Rectory and others. She preferred being alone, she told me, and I was glad that she should get the air and the change anyhow. She brightened a little after this, but very little. It was all of a sudden one day that she told me she was going away. I wanted to go with her, but she said that couldn’t be. I asked her where she was going, and she told me, after hesitating a little, that she was going to friends in London. I knew she had been very fond of two young ladies that she went to school with at Lidford, whose father lived in London; and I thought it was to their house she was going. I asked her if it was, and she said yes. She made arrangements with the landlord about selling the furniture. He is an auctioneer himself, and there was no difficulty about that. The money was to be sent to her at a post-office in London. I wondered at that, but she said it was better so. She paid every sixpence that was owing, and gave me a handsome present over and above my wages; though I didn’t want to take anything from her, poor dear young lady, knowing that there was very little left after the Captain’s death, except the furniture, which wasn’t likely to bring much. And so she went away about two days after she first mentioned that she was going to leave Lidford. It was all very sudden, and I don’t think she bade good-bye to any one in the place. She seemed quite broken down with grief in those two last days. I shall never forget her poor pale face when she got into the fly.”
“How did she go? From the station here?”
“I don’t know anything about that, except that the fly came to the cottage for her and her luggage. I wanted to go to the station with her, to see her off, but she wouldn’t let me.”
“Did she mention me during the time that followed Captain Sedgewick’s death?”
“Only when I spoke about you, sir. I used to try to comfort her, telling her she had you still left to care for her, and to make up for him she’d lost. But she used to look at me in a strange pitiful sort of way, and shake her head. ‘I am very miserable, Sarah,’ she would say to me; ‘I am quite alone in the world now my dear uncle is gone, and I don’t know what to do.’ I told her she ought to look forward to the time when she would be married, and would have a happy home of her own; but I could never get her to talk of that.”
“Can you tell me the name and address of her friends in London — the young ladies with whom she went to school?”
“The name is Bruce, sir; and they live, or they used to live at that time, in St. John’s-wood. I have heard Miss Nowell say that, but I don’t know the name of the street or number of the house.”
“I daresay I shall be able to find them. It is a strange business, Sarah. It is most unaccountable that my dearest girl should have left Lidford without writing me word of her removal and her intentions with regard to the future — that she should have sent me no announcement of her uncle’s death, although she must have known how well I loved him. I am going to ask you a question that is very painful to me, but which must be asked sooner or later. Do you know of any one else whom she may have liked better than me — any one whose influence may have governed her at the time she left Lidford?”
“No, indeed, sir,” replied the woman, promptly. “Who else was there? Miss Nowell knew so few gentlemen, and saw no one except the Rector’s family and two or three ladies after the uncle’s death.”
“Not at the cottage, perhaps. But she may have seen some one out-of-doors. You say she always went out alone at that time, and preferred to do so.”
“Yes, sir, that is true. But it seemed natural enough that she should like to be alone on account of her grief.”
“There must have been some reason for her silence towards me, Sarah. She could not have acted so cruelly without some powerful motive. Heaven only knows what it may have been. The business of my life will be to find her — to see her face to face once more, and hear the explanation of her conduct from her own lips.”
He thanked the woman for her information, slipped a sovereign into her hand, and departed. He called upon the proprietor of Hazel Cottage, an auctioneer, surveyor, and house-agent in the High-street of Fairleigh, but could obtain no fresh tidings from this gentleman, except the fact that the money realised by the Captain’s furniture had been sent to Miss Nowell at a post-office in the City, and had been duly acknowledged by her, after a delay of about a week. The auctioneer showed Gilbert the letter of receipt, which was worded in a very formal business-like manner, and bore no address but “London.” The sight of the familiar hand gave him a sharp pang. O God, how he had languished for a letter in that handwriting!
He had nothing more to do after this in the neighbourhood of Lidford, except to pay a pious vi
sit to the Captain’s grave, where a handsome slab of granite recorded the virtues of the dead. It lay in the prettiest, most retired part of the churchyard, half-hidden under a wide-spreading yew. Gilbert Fenton sat down upon a low wall near at hand for a long time, brooding over his broken life, and wishing himself at rest beneath that solemn shelter.
“She never loved me,” he said to himself bitterly. “I shut my eyes obstinately to the truth, or I might have discovered the secret of her indifference by a hundred signs and tokens. I fancied that a man who loved a woman as I loved her must succeed in winning her heart at last. And I accepted her girlish trust in me, her innocent gratitude for my attentions, as the evidence of her love. Even at the last, when she wanted to release me, I would not understand. I did not expect to be loved as I loved her. I would have given so much, and been content to take so little. What is there I would not have done — what sacrifice of my own pride that I would not have happily made to win her! O my darling, even in your desertion of me you might have trusted me better than this! You would have found me fond and faithful through every trial, your friend in spite of every wrong.”
He knelt down by the grave, and pressed his lips to the granite on which George Sedgewick’s name was chiselled.
“I owe it to the dead to discover her fate,” he said to himself, as he rose from that reverent attitude. “I owe it to the dead to penetrate the secret of her new life, to assure myself that she is happy, and has fallen under no fatal influence.”
The Listers were still abroad, and Gilbert was very glad that it was so. It would have excruciated him to hear his sister’s comments on Marian’s conduct, and to perceive the suppressed exultation with which she would most likely have discussed this unhappy termination to an engagement which had been entered on in utter disregard of her counsel.
* * *
CHAPTER IX
JOHN SALTRAM’S ADVICE
Mr. Fenton discovered the Bruce family in Boundary-road, St. John’s-wood, after a good deal of trouble. But they could tell him nothing of their dear friend Miss Nowell, of whom they spoke with the warmest regard. They had never seen her since they had left the school at Lidford, where they had been boarders, and she a daily pupil. They had not even heard of Captain Sedgewick’s death.
Gilbert asked these young ladies if they knew of any other acquaintance of Marian’s living in or near London. They both answered promptly in the negative. The school was a small one, and they had been the only pupils who came from town; nor had they ever heard Marian speak of any London friends.
Thus ended Mr. Fenton’s inquiries in this direction, leaving him no wiser than when he left Lidford. He had now exhausted every possible channel by which he might obtain information. The ground lay open before him, and there was nothing left for him but publicity. He took an advertisement to the Times office that afternoon, and paid for six insertions in the second column: —
“Miss MARIAN NOWELL, late of Lidford, Midlandshire, is requested to communicate immediately with G.F., Post-office, Wigmore-street, to whom her silence has caused extreme anxiety. She may rely upon the advertiser’s friendship and fidelity under all possible circumstances.”
Gilbert felt a little more hopeful after having done this. He fancied this advertisement must needs bring him some tidings of his lost love. The mystery might be happily solved after all, and Marian prove true to him. He tried to persuade himself that this was possible; but it was very difficult to reconcile her line of conduct with the fact of her regard for him.
In the evening he went to the Temple, eager to see John Saltram, from whom he had no intention to keep the secret of his trouble. He found his friend at home, writing, with his desk pushed against the open window, and the dust and shabbiness of his room dismally obvious in the hot July sunshine. He started up as Gilbert entered, and the dark face grew suddenly pale.
“You took me by surprise,” he said. “I didn’t know you were in England.”
“I only landed two days ago,” answered Gilbert, as they shook hands. “I daresay I startled you a little, dear old fellow, coming in upon you without a moment’s notice, when you fancied I was at the Antipodes. But, you see, I hunted you up directly I was free.”
“You have done well out yonder, I hope, Gilbert?”
“Yes; everything has gone well enough with me in business. But my coming home has been a dreary one.”
“How is that?”
“Captain Sedgewick is dead, and Marian Nowell is lost.”
“Lost! What do you mean by that?”
Mr. Fenton told his friend all that had befallen him since his arrival in England.
“I come to you for counsel and help, John,” he said, when he had finished his story.
“I will give you my help, so far as it is possible for one man to help another in such a business, and my counsel in all honesty,” answered John Saltram; “but I doubt if you will be inclined to receive it.”
“Why should you doubt that?”
“Because it is not likely to agree with your own ideas.”
“Speak out, John.”
“I think that if Miss Nowell had really loved you, she would never have taken this step. I think that she must have left Lidford in order to escape from her engagement, perhaps expecting your early return. I believe your pursuit of her can only end in failure and disappointment; and although I am ready to assist you in any manner you wish, I warn you against sacrificing your life to a delusion.”
“It is not under the delusion that Marian Nowell loves me that I am going to search for her,” Gilbert Fenton said slowly, after an interval of silence. “I am not so weak as to believe that after what has happened, though I have tried to argue with myself, only this afternoon, that she may still be true to me and that there may have been some hidden reason for her conduct. Granted that she wished to escape from her engagement, she might have trusted to my honour to give her a prompt release the moment I became acquainted with the real state of her feelings. There must have been some stronger influence than this at work when she left Lidford. I want to know the true cause of that hurried departure, John. I want to be sure that Marian Nowell is happy, and in safe hands.”
“By what means do you hope to discover this?”
“I rely a good deal upon repeated advertisements in the Times. They may bring me tidings of Marian — if not directly, from some person who has seen her since she left Lidford.”
“If she really wished to hide herself from you, she would most likely change her name.”
“Why should she wish to hide herself from me? She must know that she might trust me. Of her own free will she would never do this cruel thing. There must have been some secret influence at work upon my darling’s mind. It shall be my business to discover what that influence was; or, in plainer words still, to discover the man who has robbed me of Marian Nowell’s heart.”
“It comes to that, then,” said John Saltram. “You suspect some unknown rival?”
“Yes; that is the most natural conclusion to arrive at. And yet heaven knows how unwillingly I take that into consideration.”
“There is no particular person whom you suspect?”
“No one.”
“If there should be no result from your advertisement, what will you do?”
“I cannot tell you just yet. Unless I get some kind of clue, the business will seem a hopeless one. But I cannot imagine that the advertisements will fail completely. If she left Lidford to be married, there must be some record of her marriage. Should my first advertisements fail, my next shall be inserted with a view to discover such a record.”
“And if, after infinite trouble, you should find her the wife of another man, what reward would you have for your wasted time and lost labour?”
“The happiness of knowing her to be in a safe and honourable position. I love her too dearly to remain in ignorance of her fate.”
“Well, Gilbert, I know that good advice is generally thrown away in such a case as this; but I have
a fixed opinion on the subject. To my mind, there is only one wise course open to you, and that is, to let this thing alone, and resign yourself to the inevitable. I acknowledge that Miss Nowell was eminently worthy of your affection; but you know the old song—’If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be.’ There are plenty of women in the world. The choice is wide enough.”
“Not for me, John. Marian Nowell is the only woman I have ever loved, the only woman I ever can love.”
“My dear boy, it is so natural for you to believe that just now; and a year hence you will think so differently!”
“No, John. But I am not going to make any protestations of my constancy. Let the matter rest. I knew that my life is broken — that this blow has left me nothing to hope for or to live for, except the hope of finding the girl who has wronged me. I won’t weary you with lamentations. My talk has been entirely of self since I came into this room. Tell me your own affairs, Jack, old friend. How has the world gone with you since we parted at Liverpool last year?”
“Not too smoothly. My financial position becomes a little more obscure and difficult of comprehension every year, as you know; but I rub on somehow. I have been working at literature like a galley-slave; have contributed no end of stuff to the Quarterlies; and am engaged upon a book, — yes Gil, positively a book, — which I hope may do great things for me if ever I can finish it.”
“Is it a novel?”
“A novel! no!” cried John Saltram, with a wry face; “it is the romance of reality I deal with. My book is a Life of Jonathan Swift. He was always a favourite study of mine, you know, that brilliant, unprincipled, intolerant, cynical, irresistible, miserable man. Scott’s biography seems to me to give but a tame picture, and others are only sketches. Mine will be a pre-Raphaelite study — faithful as a photograph, careful as a miniature on ivory, and life-size.”
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 486