Nor was there any sign in the intercourse of those two that the bond of friendship between them was broken.  There was, it is true, a something deprecating in John Saltram’s manner that had not been common to him of old, and in Gilbert Fenton a deeper gravity than was quite natural; but that was all.  It was difficult to believe that any latent spirit of animosity could lurk in the mind of either.  In sober truth, Gilbert, in his heart of hearts, had forgiven his treacherous friend.  Again and again he had told himself that the wrong he had suffered was an unpardonable offence, a thing not to be forgiven upon any ground whatever.  But, lo, when he looked into his mind to discover the smouldering fires of that burning anger which he had felt at first against the traitor, he could find nothing but the gray ashes of a long-expired flame.  The wrong had been suffered, and he loved his old friend still.  Yes, there was that in his heart for John Saltram which no ill-doing could blot out.

So he tended the convalescent’s couch with a quiet devotion that touched the sinner very deeply, and there was a peace between those two which had in it something almost sacred.  In the mind of the one there was a remorseful sense of guilt, in the heart of the other a pitying tenderness too deep for words.

One night, as they were together on opposite sides of the fire, John Saltram lying on a low sofa drawn close to the hearth, Gilbert seated lazily in an easy-chair, the invalid broke out suddenly into a kind of apology for his wrong-doing.

The conversation had flagged between them after the tea-things had been removed by the brisk little serving-maid of the lodgings; Gilbert gazing meditatively at the fire, John Saltram so quiet that his companion had thought him asleep.

“I said once that I would tell you all about that business,” he began at last, in a sudden spasmodic way; “but, after all there is so little to tell.  There is no excuse for what I did; I know that better than you can know it.  A man in my position, who had a spark of generosity or honour, would have strangled his miserable passion in its birth, would have gone away directly he discovered his folly, and never looked upon Marian Nowell’s face again.  I did try to do that, Gilbert.  You remember that last night we ever spent together at Lidford—­what a feverishly-happy night it was; only a cottage-parlour with a girl’s bright face shining in the lamplight, and a man over head and ears in love, but a glimpse of paradise to that man.  I meant that it should be the last of my weakness, Gilbert.  I had pledged myself to that by all the outspoken oaths wherewith a man can bind himself to do his duty.  And I did turn my back upon the scene of my temptation, as you know, heartily resolved never to approach the edge of the pit again.  I think if you had stayed in England, Gilbert, if you had been on the spot to defend your own rights, all would have gone well, I should have kept the promise I had made for myself.”