e. Very nearly, but not quite, to
that agreeable consummation did matters proceed; for, on the very verge
of the final words which could have spoken the sentence of separation,
Mrs. Pallinson was suddenly melted, and declared that nothing, no
outrage of her feelings--"and heaven knows how they have been trodden on
this day," the injured matron added in parenthesis--should induce her to
desert her dearest Adela. And so there was a hollow peace patched up, and
Mrs. Branston felt that the blessings of freedom, the delightful relief
of an escape from Pallinsonian influences, were not yet to be hers.
Directly she heard from Gilbert that change of air had been ordered for
the patient, she was eager to offer her villa near Maidenhead for his
accommodation. "The house is always kept in apple-pie order," she wrote
to Gilbert; "and I can send down more servants to make everything
comfortable for the invalid."

"I know he is fond of the place," she added in conclusion, after setting
out all the merits of the villa with feminine minuteness; "at least I
know he used to like it, and I think it would please him to get well
there. I can only say that it would make _me_ very happy; so do arrange
it, dear Mr. Fenton, if possible, and oblige yours ever faithfully, ADELA
BRANSTON."

"Poor little woman," murmured Gilbert, as he finished the letter. "No; we
will not impose upon her kindness; we will go somewhere else. Better for
her that she should see and hear but little of John Saltram for all time
to come; and then the foolish fancy will wear itself out perhaps, and she
may live to be a happy wife yet; unless she, too, is afflicted with the
fatal capability of constancy. Is that such a common quality, I wonder?
are there many so luckless as to love once and once only, and who,
setting all their hopes upon one cast, lose all if that be fatal?"

Gilbert told John Saltram of Mrs. Branston's offer, which he was as
prompt to decline as Gilbert himself had been. "It is like her to wish
it," he said; "but no, I should feel myself a double traitor and impostor
under her roof. I have done her wrong enough already. If I could have
loved her, Gilbert, all might have been well for you and me. God knows I
tried to love her, poor little woman; and she is just the kind of woman
who might twine herself about any man's heart--graceful, pretty,
gracious, tender, bright and intelligent enough for any man; and not too
clever. But _my_ heart she never touch