‘I beg your pardon,’ Gilbert said, passing his hand over his brow, ‘I did not hear.’
‘I was only asking you to tell my sister that I would not disturb her, and leaving my good-byes with you.’
‘You are not going?’
‘Thank you; I think my wife will grow anxious.’
‘I had hoped’—Gilbert sighed and paused—‘I had thought that perhaps—’
The wretchedness of his tone drove away Mr. Ferrars’s purpose of immediate departure, and returning to the drawing-room he said, ‘If there were any way in which I could be of use.’
‘Then you do not know?’ said Gilbert, veiling his face with his hand, as he leant on the mantel-shelf.
‘I know nothing. I could only see that something was amiss. I was wishing to know whether my presence or absence would be best for you all.’
‘Oh! don’t go!’ cried Gilbert. Nobody must go who can be any comfort to Mrs. Kendal.’
A few kind words drew forth the whole piteous history that lay so heavily on his heart. Reserves were all over now; and irregularly and incoherently he laid open his griefs and errors, his gradual absorption into the society with which he had once broken, and the inextricable complication of mischief in which he had been involved by his debt.