Kendal had ridden
out, and then she went up and knocked at Gilbert's door. He was
better, he said, and was getting up, he would be down-stairs
presently. She watched for him as he came down, looking still very
pale and unwell. She took him into her room, made him sit by the
fire, and get a little life and warmth into his chilled hands before
she spoke. 'Yes, Gilbert, I don't wonder you cannot lift up your
head while so much is on your mind.'
Gilbert started and hid his face.
'Did you think I did not know, and was not grieved?'
'Well,' he cried, peevishly, 'I'm sure I have the most ill-natured
pair of sisters in the world.'
'Then you meant to deceive us again, Gilbert.'
He had relapsed into the old habit--as usual, a burst of tears and a
declaration that no one was ever so badly off, and he did not know
what to do.
'You _do_ know perfectly well what to do, Gilbert. There is nothing
for it but to tell me the whole meaning of this terrible affair, and
I will see whether I can help you.'
It was always the same round, a few words would always bring the
confession, and that pitiful kind of helpless repentance, which had
only too often given her hope.
Gilbert assured her that he had fully purposed following his sisters,
but that on the way he had unluckily fallen in with Archie Tritton
and a friend, who had driven in to hear a man from London singing
comic songs at the King's Head, and they had persuaded him to come
in.
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