“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.”

But his gentleness unnerved her—­she felt choking—­loosened the collar of her dress for breathing space-and gave him the knowledge he asked in broken exclamations.

“Before I was married—­it—­began.  They persuaded me so many—­oh, so many—­unnecessary things—­were—­needed.  Then they would not send the bills—­and I—­for a long time—­never knew—­what I owed—­and then—­and then—­I thought I should have the power—­but—­”

“Your allowance was not sufficient?” asked Mr. Ferrars, pressing her hand as he spoke.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes! most generous, and yet it was always forestalled to pay old bills:  and then—­and then my wants were so many.  I was so weak.  Madame Dalmas has had dresses I could have worn when I had new ones on credit instead, and—­and Harris has had double wages to compensate for what a lady’s maid thinks her perquisites; even articles I might have given to poor gentlewomen I have been mean enough to sell.  Oh, Walter!  I have been very wrong; but I have been miserable for at least three years.  I felt as if an iron cage were rising around me,—­from which you only could free me—­and yet, till to-day, I think I could have died rather than confess to you.”

“My poor girl!  Why should you have feared me?  Have I ever been harsh?”

“Oh, no!—­no—­but you are so just—­so strict in all these things—­”

“I hope I am; and yet not the less do I understand how all this has come about.  Now, Lucy,—­now that you have ceased to fear me—­tell me the amount.”

She strove to speak, but could not.

“Three figures or four? tell me.”

“I am afraid—­yes, I am afraid four,” murmured Lady Lucy, and hiding her face from his view; “yes, four figures, and my quarter received last week gone every penny.”