It was quite true that Lawrence Gerald showed far more affection for his wife after than he ever had before their marriage, and Mrs. Ferrier scarcely exaggerated in saying that he followed her about like her shadow. He perceived more and more every day how strong and reliable she was, and how full of resources for every emergency. Besides, he had a cause for gratitude toward her of which her mother was not aware. During that time when they had been alone, undisturbed by discordant interruptions, undisturbed also by any excessive happiness in each other's society, she had perceived that something more than indifference to herself preyed upon his spirits, and had at length succeeded in drawing from him a confession of his difficulties. He owned that the story her mother had heard of his debts was true, and that he had been able to silence his persecutors only for a short time. On the very day of his marriage one of them had demanded payment, and a second letter had followed him to their bridal retreat.
"My dear Lawrence, why did you not tell me at once?" his wife interrupted as soon as she caught the purport of his stammering explanation. "It was not treating me with confidence; and surely I deserve your confidence."
"It isn't pleasant for a man to own that he has been a fool, and a liar besides," he replied bitterly. "You know I denied it to your mother. I couldn't very well tell her that it was none of her business, though I wanted to."
"It isn't pleasant for any one to own that he has failed to live quite up to his own idea of what is right," she said quickly. "I often blush at the recollection of some mistake or folly in my life. But where one understands you, Lawrence, and is bound to you for life, for better or for worse, you should not be too reserved. All that I have is yours. My first wish is to spare you pain, and I could have no greater pleasure than to have you confide in me. Do not be afraid of hearing any lectures or of seeing me assume the right to criticise you. I only ask to help you when I can."
This had been said with a haste that gave him no time to interpose or reply; and before the last words were well spoken she had left his side, and was opening a little writing-desk in another part of the room. Her husband leaned on the window-ledge and looked out, appearing to regard intently the mist that hung over the unseen cataract before him, and to listen to the soft thunder of its fall; but the color of his face, burning with a mortification inseparable from such an avowal as he had made, and the faint lines of a frown that seemed to be graven between his brows, showed that his mind was far from being occupied with the beauties of nature. The only thought Niagara suggested to him at that moment escaped his lips in a whisper as he leaned out into the air: "If my foot had but slipped a little further to-day!"
Annette came back and leaned out beside him. "How soft and sunny the air is for September!" she said. "It is more like June."
He felt her small hand slip under his arm, and push a roll of paper into his breast-pocket while she spoke.
"Do you not think, husband," she went on, "that we might like to go to Montreal instead of South? It would be pleasanter to go to Washington during the season."
And that was all that was said about the matter, except that, the day after their return to Crichton, Lawrence told his wife that the debt was paid.
"Oh! yes," she said lightly, as if such a debt were quite a matter of course. "I'm glad that is off your mind." And would have changed the subject.