Mr. Ferrars had finished the newspaper, and was writing an unimportant note; his back was to the door, and hearing the rustle of his wife's dress, and knowing her step, he did not turn his head sufficiently to observe her countenance, but he said, good-humoredly,
"At last! What have you been about? I thought we were to go out before luncheon to look at the bracelet I mentioned to you."
"No, Walter—no bracelet—you must never give me any jewels again;" and as Lady Lucy spoke she leaned against a chair for support. At such words her husband turned quickly round, started up, and exclaimed.
"Lucy, my love!—in tears—what has happened?" and, finding that even when he wound his arm around her she was still mute, he continued, "Speak—this silence breaks my heart—what have I done to lose your confidence?"
"Not you—I—" gasped the wife. "Your words at breakfast—this letter—have rolled the stone from my heart—I must confess—the truth—I am like Mrs. Beaufort—in debt—frightfully in debt." And with a gesture, as if she would crush herself into the earth, she slipped from his arms and sank literally on the floor.
Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge of her fault, it seemed Overpowered by the sense of her present anguish—an anguish that proved how bitter had been the expiation; and he lifted his wife to the sofa, bent over her with fondness, called her by all the dear pet names to which her ear was accustomed, and nearer twenty times than once gave her the "kiss of forgiveness."
"And it is of you I have been frightened!" cried Lady Lucy, clinging to his hand. "You who I thought would never make any excuses for faults you yourself could not have committed!"
"I have never been tempted."
"Have I? I dare not say so."
"Tell me how it all came about," said Mr. Farrars, drawing her to him; "tell me from the beginning."