Mrs. Branston clasped her hands, with a faint cry of terror.

“Very ill—­that means dangerously ill?”

“Yes; for some time he was in great danger.  I believe that is past now; but I am not quite sure of his safety even yet.  I can only hope that he may recover.”

Hope that he might recover, yes; but to be a friend of his, Gilbert’s, never more.  It was a dreary prospect at best.  John Saltram would recover, to seek and reclaim his wife, and then those two must needs pass for ever out of Gilbert Fenton’s life.  The story would be finished, and his own part of it bald enough to be told on the fly-leaf at the end of the book.

Mrs. Branston bore the shock of his ill news better than Gilbert had expected.  There is good material even in the weakest of womankind when the heart is womanly and true.

She was deeply shocked, intensely sorry; and she made no attempt to mask her sorrow by any conventional speech or pretence whatsoever.  She made Gilbert give her all the details of John Saltram’s illness, and when he had told her all, asked him plainly if she might be permitted to see the sick man.

“Do let me see him, if it is possible,” she said; “it would be such a comfort to me to see him.”

“I do not say such a thing is not possible, my dear Mrs. Branston; but I am sure it would be very foolish.”

“O, never mind that; I am always doing foolish things.  It would only be one folly more, and would hardly count in my history.  Dear Mr. Fenton, do let me see him.”

“I don’t think you quite know what you are asking, Mrs. Branston.  Such a sick-bed as John Saltram’s would be a most painful scene for you.  He has been delirious from the beginning of his illness, and is so still.  He rarely has an interval of anything like consciousness, and in all the time that I have been with him has never yet recognised me; indeed, there are moments when I am inclined to fear that his brain may be permanently deranged.”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Adela, in a voice that was choked with tears.

“Yes, such a result as that would be indeed a sore calamity.  I have every wish to set your mind at ease, believe me, Mrs. Branston, but in John Saltram’s present state I am sure it would be ill-advised for you to see him.”

“Of course I cannot press the question if you say that,” Adela answered despondently; “but I should have been so glad if you could have allowed me to see him.  Not that I pretend to the smallest right to do so; but we were very good friends once—­before my husband’s death.  He has changed to me strangely since that time.”

Gilbert felt that it was almost cruel to keep this poor little soul in utter ignorance of the truth.  He did not consider himself at liberty to say much; but some vague word of warning might serve as a slight check upon the waste of feeling which was going on in the widow’s heart.

“There may be a reason for that change, Mrs. Branston,” he said.  “Mr. Saltram may have formed some tie of a kind to withdraw him from all other friendships.”