Yes, there was that in his heart for John Saltram which no ill-doing could blot out.
So he tended the convalescent's couch with a quiet devotion that touched the sinner very deeply, and there was a peace between those two which had in it something almost sacred.

In the mind of the one there was a remorseful sense of guilt, in the heart of the other a pitying tenderness too deep for words.
One night, as they were together on opposite sides of the fire, John Saltram lying on a low sofa drawn close to the hearth, Gilbert seated lazily in an easy-chair, the invalid broke out suddenly into a kind of apology for his wrong-doing.
The conversation had flagged between them after the tea-things had been removed by the brisk little serving-maid of the lodgings; Gilbert gazing meditatively at the fire, John Saltram so quiet that his companion had thought him asleep.
"I said once that I would tell you all about that business," he began at last, in a sudden spasmodic way; "but, after all there is so little to tell.

There is no excuse for what I did; I know that better than you can know it.

A man in my position, who had a spark of generosity or honour, would have strangled his miserable passion in its birth, would have gone away directly he discovered his folly, and never looked upon Marian Nowell's face again.

I did try to do that, Gilbert.