This was hard; but that two hundred pounds had saved the bailiff from imminent destruction.  He was obliged to be satisfied with this advantage, and to bide his time.

“I’ll have it out of the mean hound sooner or later,” he muttered to himself as he walked homewards, after a social evening with the master of Wyncomb.

One evening Mr. Carley brought his daughter a letter.  It was from Gilbert Fenton, who was quite unaware of Ellen’s marriage, and had written to her at the Grange.  This letter afforded her the only pleasure she had known since fate had united her to Stephen Whitelaw.  It told her that Marian Holbrook was living, and in all probability safe—­though by no means in good hands.  She had sailed for America with her father; but her husband was in hot pursuit of her, and her husband was faithful.

“I have schooled myself to forgive him,” Gilbert went on to say, “for I know that he loves her—­and that must needs condone my wrongs.  I look forward anxiously to their return from America, and hope for a happy reunion amongst us all—­when your warm friendship shall not be forgotten.  I am waiting impatiently for news from New York, and will write to you again directly I hear anything definite.  We have suffered the torments of suspense for a long weary time, but I trust and believe that the sky is clearing.”

This was not much, but it was more than enough to relieve Ellen Carley’s mind of a heavy load.  Her dear young lady, as she called Marian, was not dead—­not lying at the bottom of that cruel river, at which Ellen had often looked with a shuddering horror, of late, thinking of what might be.  She was safe, and would no doubt be happy.  This was something.  Amid the wreck of her own fortunes, Ellen Whitelaw was unselfish enough to rejoice in this.

Her husband asked to see Mr. Fenton’s letter, which he spelt over with his usual deliberate air, and which seemed to interest him more than Ellen would have supposed likely—­knowing as she did how deeply he had resented Marian’s encouragement of Frank Randall’s courtship.

“So she’s gone to America with her father, has she?” he said, when he had perused the document twice.  “I shouldn’t have thought anybody could have persuaded her to leave that precious husband of hers.  And she’s gone off to America, and he after her!  That’s rather a queer start, ain’t it, Nell?” Mrs. Whitelaw did not care to discuss the business with her husband.  There was something in his tone, a kind of veiled malice, which made her angry.

“I don’t suppose you care whether she’s alive or dead,” she said impatiently; “so you needn’t trouble yourself to talk about her.”

“Needn’t I?  O, she’s too grand a person to be talked of by such as me, is she?  Never mind, Nell; don’t be cross.  And when Mrs. Holbrook comes back to England, you shall go and see her.”

“I will,” answered Ellen; “if I have to walk to London to do it.”