"
"He is married, then? I did net even know that."
"Yes, he is married; and I could see at a glance that an unequal
marriage has been one among the causes of his ruin. The woman is well
enough--pretty, with a kind of vulgar prettiness, and evidently fond of
him. But such a marriage is moral death to any man. I contrived to get a
little talk with him alone--told him of my acquaintance with you and of
the promise that I had made to you. His manner had been all gaiety and
lightness until then; but at the mention of your name he fairly broke down.
'Tell her that I have never ceased to love her,' he said; 'tell her there
are times when I dare not think of her.'"
"He has not forgotten me, then. But pray go on; tell me everything."
"There is not much more to tell. He gave me a brief sketch of his
adventures since he sold out. Fortune had gone against him. He went to
Melbourne, soon after his marriage, which he confessed was the chief
cause of his quarrel with his father; but in Melbourne, as in every other
Australian city to which he pushed his way, he found art at a discount.
It was the old story: the employers of labour wanted skilled mechanics or
stalwart navigators; there was no field for a gentleman or a genius. Your
brother and his wife just escaped starvation in the new world, and just
contrived to pay their way back to the old world. There were reasons why he
should not show himself in England, so he shipped himself and his family in
a French vessel bound for Havre, and came straight on to Paris, where he
told me he found it tolerably easy to get employment for his pencil.
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