summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/1623-h/1623-h.htm
blob: 3f6866e546e27e71b338b637169d43bd4d36e91c (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663
12664
12665
12666
12667
12668
12669
12670
12671
12672
12673
12674
12675
12676
12677
12678
12679
12680
12681
12682
12683
12684
12685
12686
12687
12688
12689
12690
12691
12692
12693
12694
12695
12696
12697
12698
12699
12700
12701
12702
12703
12704
12705
12706
12707
12708
12709
12710
12711
12712
12713
12714
12715
12716
12717
12718
12719
12720
12721
12722
12723
12724
12725
12726
12727
12728
12729
12730
12731
12732
12733
12734
12735
12736
12737
12738
12739
12740
12741
12742
12743
12744
12745
12746
12747
12748
12749
12750
12751
12752
12753
12754
12755
12756
12757
12758
12759
12760
12761
12762
12763
12764
12765
12766
12767
12768
12769
12770
12771
12772
12773
12774
12775
12776
12777
12778
12779
12780
12781
12782
12783
12784
12785
12786
12787
12788
12789
12790
12791
12792
12793
12794
12795
12796
12797
12798
12799
12800
12801
12802
12803
12804
12805
12806
12807
12808
12809
12810
12811
12812
12813
12814
12815
12816
12817
12818
12819
12820
12821
12822
12823
12824
12825
12826
12827
12828
12829
12830
12831
12832
12833
12834
12835
12836
12837
12838
12839
12840
12841
12842
12843
12844
12845
12846
12847
12848
12849
12850
12851
12852
12853
12854
12855
12856
12857
12858
12859
12860
12861
12862
12863
12864
12865
12866
12867
12868
12869
12870
12871
12872
12873
12874
12875
12876
12877
12878
12879
12880
12881
12882
12883
12884
12885
12886
12887
12888
12889
12890
12891
12892
12893
12894
12895
12896
12897
12898
12899
12900
12901
12902
12903
12904
12905
12906
12907
12908
12909
12910
12911
12912
12913
12914
12915
12916
12917
12918
12919
12920
12921
12922
12923
12924
12925
12926
12927
12928
12929
12930
12931
12932
12933
12934
12935
12936
12937
12938
12939
12940
12941
12942
12943
12944
12945
12946
12947
12948
12949
12950
12951
12952
12953
12954
12955
12956
12957
12958
12959
12960
12961
12962
12963
12964
12965
12966
12967
12968
12969
12970
12971
12972
12973
12974
12975
12976
12977
12978
12979
12980
12981
12982
12983
12984
12985
12986
12987
12988
12989
12990
12991
12992
12993
12994
12995
12996
12997
12998
12999
13000
13001
13002
13003
13004
13005
13006
13007
13008
13009
13010
13011
13012
13013
13014
13015
13016
13017
13018
13019
13020
13021
13022
13023
13024
13025
13026
13027
13028
13029
13030
13031
13032
13033
13034
13035
13036
13037
13038
13039
13040
13041
13042
13043
13044
13045
13046
13047
13048
13049
13050
13051
13052
13053
13054
13055
13056
13057
13058
13059
13060
13061
13062
13063
13064
13065
13066
13067
13068
13069
13070
13071
13072
13073
13074
13075
13076
13077
13078
13079
13080
13081
13082
13083
13084
13085
13086
13087
13088
13089
13090
13091
13092
13093
13094
13095
13096
13097
13098
13099
13100
13101
13102
13103
13104
13105
13106
13107
13108
13109
13110
13111
13112
13113
13114
13115
13116
13117
13118
13119
13120
13121
13122
13123
13124
13125
13126
13127
13128
13129
13130
13131
13132
13133
13134
13135
13136
13137
13138
13139
13140
13141
13142
13143
13144
13145
13146
13147
13148
13149
13150
13151
13152
13153
13154
13155
13156
13157
13158
13159
13160
13161
13162
13163
13164
13165
13166
13167
13168
13169
13170
13171
13172
13173
13174
13175
13176
13177
13178
13179
13180
13181
13182
13183
13184
13185
13186
13187
13188
13189
13190
13191
13192
13193
13194
13195
13196
13197
13198
13199
13200
13201
13202
13203
13204
13205
13206
13207
13208
13209
13210
13211
13212
13213
13214
13215
13216
13217
13218
13219
13220
13221
13222
13223
13224
13225
13226
13227
13228
13229
13230
13231
13232
13233
13234
13235
13236
13237
13238
13239
13240
13241
13242
13243
13244
13245
13246
13247
13248
13249
13250
13251
13252
13253
13254
13255
13256
13257
13258
13259
13260
13261
13262
13263
13264
13265
13266
13267
13268
13269
13270
13271
13272
13273
13274
13275
13276
13277
13278
13279
13280
13281
13282
13283
13284
13285
13286
13287
13288
13289
13290
13291
13292
13293
13294
13295
13296
13297
13298
13299
13300
13301
13302
13303
13304
13305
13306
13307
13308
13309
13310
13311
13312
13313
13314
13315
13316
13317
13318
13319
13320
13321
13322
13323
13324
13325
13326
13327
13328
13329
13330
13331
13332
13333
13334
13335
13336
13337
13338
13339
13340
13341
13342
13343
13344
13345
13346
13347
13348
13349
13350
13351
13352
13353
13354
13355
13356
13357
13358
13359
13360
13361
13362
13363
13364
13365
13366
13367
13368
13369
13370
13371
13372
13373
13374
13375
13376
13377
13378
13379
13380
13381
13382
13383
13384
13385
13386
13387
13388
13389
13390
13391
13392
13393
13394
13395
13396
13397
13398
13399
13400
13401
13402
13403
13404
13405
13406
13407
13408
13409
13410
13411
13412
13413
13414
13415
13416
13417
13418
13419
13420
13421
13422
13423
13424
13425
13426
13427
13428
13429
13430
13431
13432
13433
13434
13435
13436
13437
13438
13439
13440
13441
13442
13443
13444
13445
13446
13447
13448
13449
13450
13451
13452
13453
13454
13455
13456
13457
13458
13459
13460
13461
13462
13463
13464
13465
13466
13467
13468
13469
13470
13471
13472
13473
13474
13475
13476
13477
13478
13479
13480
13481
13482
13483
13484
13485
13486
13487
13488
13489
13490
13491
13492
13493
13494
13495
13496
13497
13498
13499
13500
13501
13502
13503
13504
13505
13506
13507
13508
13509
13510
13511
13512
13513
13514
13515
13516
13517
13518
13519
13520
13521
13522
13523
13524
13525
13526
13527
13528
13529
13530
13531
13532
13533
13534
13535
13536
13537
13538
13539
13540
13541
13542
13543
13544
13545
13546
13547
13548
13549
13550
13551
13552
13553
13554
13555
13556
13557
13558
13559
13560
13561
13562
13563
13564
13565
13566
13567
13568
13569
13570
13571
13572
13573
13574
13575
13576
13577
13578
13579
13580
13581
13582
13583
13584
13585
13586
13587
13588
13589
13590
13591
13592
13593
13594
13595
13596
13597
13598
13599
13600
13601
13602
13603
13604
13605
13606
13607
13608
13609
13610
13611
13612
13613
13614
13615
13616
13617
13618
13619
13620
13621
13622
13623
13624
13625
13626
13627
13628
13629
13630
13631
13632
13633
13634
13635
13636
13637
13638
13639
13640
13641
13642
13643
13644
13645
13646
13647
13648
13649
13650
13651
13652
13653
13654
13655
13656
13657
13658
13659
13660
13661
13662
13663
13664
13665
13666
13667
13668
13669
13670
13671
13672
13673
13674
13675
13676
13677
13678
13679
13680
13681
13682
13683
13684
13685
13686
13687
13688
13689
13690
13691
13692
13693
13694
13695
13696
13697
13698
13699
13700
13701
13702
13703
13704
13705
13706
13707
13708
13709
13710
13711
13712
13713
13714
13715
13716
13717
13718
13719
13720
13721
13722
13723
13724
13725
13726
13727
13728
13729
13730
13731
13732
13733
13734
13735
13736
13737
13738
13739
13740
13741
13742
13743
13744
13745
13746
13747
13748
13749
13750
13751
13752
13753
13754
13755
13756
13757
13758
13759
13760
13761
13762
13763
13764
13765
13766
13767
13768
13769
13770
13771
13772
13773
13774
13775
13776
13777
13778
13779
13780
13781
13782
13783
13784
13785
13786
13787
13788
13789
13790
13791
13792
13793
13794
13795
13796
13797
13798
13799
13800
13801
13802
13803
13804
13805
13806
13807
13808
13809
13810
13811
13812
13813
13814
13815
13816
13817
13818
13819
13820
13821
13822
13823
13824
13825
13826
13827
13828
13829
13830
13831
13832
13833
13834
13835
13836
13837
13838
13839
13840
13841
13842
13843
13844
13845
13846
13847
13848
13849
13850
13851
13852
13853
13854
13855
13856
13857
13858
13859
13860
13861
13862
13863
13864
13865
13866
13867
13868
13869
13870
13871
13872
13873
13874
13875
13876
13877
13878
13879
13880
13881
13882
13883
13884
13885
13886
13887
13888
13889
13890
13891
13892
13893
13894
13895
13896
13897
13898
13899
13900
13901
13902
13903
13904
13905
13906
13907
13908
13909
13910
13911
13912
13913
13914
13915
13916
13917
13918
13919
13920
13921
13922
13923
13924
13925
13926
13927
13928
13929
13930
13931
13932
13933
13934
13935
13936
13937
13938
13939
13940
13941
13942
13943
13944
13945
13946
13947
13948
13949
13950
13951
13952
13953
13954
13955
13956
13957
13958
13959
13960
13961
13962
13963
13964
13965
13966
13967
13968
13969
13970
13971
13972
13973
13974
13975
13976
13977
13978
13979
13980
13981
13982
13983
13984
13985
13986
13987
13988
13989
13990
13991
13992
13993
13994
13995
13996
13997
13998
13999
14000
14001
14002
14003
14004
14005
14006
14007
14008
14009
14010
14011
14012
14013
14014
14015
14016
14017
14018
14019
14020
14021
14022
14023
14024
14025
14026
14027
14028
14029
14030
14031
14032
14033
14034
14035
14036
14037
14038
14039
14040
14041
14042
14043
14044
14045
14046
14047
14048
14049
14050
14051
14052
14053
14054
14055
14056
14057
14058
14059
14060
14061
14062
14063
14064
14065
14066
14067
14068
14069
14070
14071
14072
14073
14074
14075
14076
14077
14078
14079
14080
14081
14082
14083
14084
14085
14086
14087
14088
14089
14090
14091
14092
14093
14094
14095
14096
14097
14098
14099
14100
14101
14102
14103
14104
14105
14106
14107
14108
14109
14110
14111
14112
14113
14114
14115
14116
14117
14118
14119
14120
14121
14122
14123
14124
14125
14126
14127
14128
14129
14130
14131
14132
14133
14134
14135
14136
14137
14138
14139
14140
14141
14142
14143
14144
14145
14146
14147
14148
14149
14150
14151
14152
14153
14154
14155
14156
14157
14158
14159
14160
14161
14162
14163
14164
14165
14166
14167
14168
14169
14170
14171
14172
14173
14174
14175
14176
14177
14178
14179
14180
14181
14182
14183
14184
14185
14186
14187
14188
14189
14190
14191
14192
14193
14194
14195
14196
14197
14198
14199
14200
14201
14202
14203
14204
14205
14206
14207
14208
14209
14210
14211
14212
14213
14214
14215
14216
14217
14218
14219
14220
14221
14222
14223
14224
14225
14226
14227
14228
14229
14230
14231
14232
14233
14234
14235
14236
14237
14238
14239
14240
14241
14242
14243
14244
14245
14246
14247
14248
14249
14250
14251
14252
14253
14254
14255
14256
14257
14258
14259
14260
14261
14262
14263
14264
14265
14266
14267
14268
14269
14270
14271
14272
14273
14274
14275
14276
14277
14278
14279
14280
14281
14282
14283
14284
14285
14286
14287
14288
14289
14290
14291
14292
14293
14294
14295
14296
14297
14298
14299
14300
14301
14302
14303
14304
14305
14306
14307
14308
14309
14310
14311
14312
14313
14314
14315
14316
14317
14318
14319
14320
14321
14322
14323
14324
14325
14326
14327
14328
14329
14330
14331
14332
14333
14334
14335
14336
14337
14338
14339
14340
14341
14342
14343
14344
14345
14346
14347
14348
14349
14350
14351
14352
14353
14354
14355
14356
14357
14358
14359
14360
14361
14362
14363
14364
14365
14366
14367
14368
14369
14370
14371
14372
14373
14374
14375
14376
14377
14378
14379
14380
14381
14382
14383
14384
14385
14386
14387
14388
14389
14390
14391
14392
14393
14394
14395
14396
14397
14398
14399
14400
14401
14402
14403
14404
14405
14406
14407
14408
14409
14410
14411
14412
14413
14414
14415
14416
14417
14418
14419
14420
14421
14422
14423
14424
14425
14426
14427
14428
14429
14430
14431
14432
14433
14434
14435
14436
14437
14438
14439
14440
14441
14442
14443
14444
14445
14446
14447
14448
14449
14450
14451
14452
14453
14454
14455
14456
14457
14458
14459
14460
14461
14462
14463
14464
14465
14466
14467
14468
14469
14470
14471
14472
14473
14474
14475
14476
14477
14478
14479
14480
14481
14482
14483
14484
14485
14486
14487
14488
14489
14490
14491
14492
14493
14494
14495
14496
14497
14498
14499
14500

<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
  <head>
    <meta charset="utf-8">
    <title>
      The New Magdalen | Project Gutenberg
    </title>
    <style>

    body { margin:5%; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

</style>
  </head>
  <body>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1623 ***</div>

    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE NEW MAGDALEN
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Wilkie Collins
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h4>
      TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES ALLSTON COLLINS. (9th April, 1873.)
    </h4>
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <span style="font-size: larger"><b>CONTENTS</b></span>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br >
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>FIRST SCENE.&mdash;The Cottage on the
        Frontier.</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. THE TWO WOMEN. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. MAGDALEN&mdash;IN MODERN TIMES.
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. THE GERMAN SHELL. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. THE TEMPTATION. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. THE GERMAN SURGEON. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br >
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> <b>SECOND SCENE.&mdash;Mablethorpe House.</b>
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. LADY JANET&rsquo;S COMPANION. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. THE MAN IS COMING. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN APPEARS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. NEWS FROM MANNHEIM. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. A COUNCIL OF THREE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. THE DEAD ALIVE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. EXIT JULIAN. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. ENTER JULIAN. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS
        BEFORE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. A WOMAN&rsquo;S REMORSE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. THEY MEET AGAIN. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. THE SEARCH IN THE GROUNDS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. THE EVIL GENIUS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. THE POLICEMAN IN PLAIN CLOTHES.
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. THE FOOTSTEP IN THE CORRIDOR. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. THE MAN IN THE DINING-ROOM. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. LADY JANET AT BAY. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. LADY JANET&rsquo;S LETTER. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. THE CONFESSION </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. GREAT HEART AND LITTLE HEART.
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. MAGDALEN&rsquo;S APPRENTICESHIP. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. SENTENCE IS PRONOUNCED ON HER.
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. THE LAST TRIAL. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE: </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      FIRST SCENE.&mdash;The Cottage on the Frontier.
    </h2>
    <p>
      PREAMBLE.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE place is France.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time is autumn, in the year eighteen hundred and seventy&mdash;the
      year of the war between France and Germany.
    </p>
    <p>
      The persons are, Captain Arnault, of the French army; Surgeon Surville, of
      the French ambulance; Surgeon Wetzel, of the German army; Mercy Merrick,
      attached as nurse to the French ambulance; and Grace Roseberry, a
      traveling lady on her way to England.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I. THE TWO WOMEN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT was a dark night. The rain was pouring in torrents.
    </p>
    <p>
      Late in the evening a skirmishing party of the French and a skirmishing
      party of the Germans had met, by accident, near the little village of
      Lagrange, close to the German frontier. In the struggle that followed, the
      French had (for once) got the better of the enemy. For the time, at least,
      a few hundreds out of the host of the invaders had been forced back over
      the frontier. It was a trifling affair, occurring not long after the great
      German victory of Weissenbourg, and the newspapers took little or no
      notice of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Arnault, commanding on the French side, sat alone in one of the
      cottages of the village, inhabited by the miller of the district. The
      Captain was reading, by the light of a solitary tallow-candle, some
      intercepted dispatches taken from the Germans. He had suffered the wood
      fire, scattered over the large open grate, to burn low; the red embers
      only faintly illuminated a part of the room. On the floor behind him lay
      some of the miller&rsquo;s empty sacks. In a corner opposite to him was the
      miller&rsquo;s solid walnut-wood bed. On the walls all around him were the
      miller&rsquo;s colored prints, representing a happy mixture of devotional and
      domestic subjects. A door of communication leading into the kitchen of the
      cottage had been torn from its hinges, and used to carry the men wounded
      in the skirmish from the field. They were now comfortably laid at rest in
      the kitchen, under the care of the French surgeon and the English nurse
      attached to the ambulance. A piece of coarse canvas screened the opening
      between the two rooms in place of the door. A second door, leading from
      the bed-chamber into the yard, was locked; and the wooden shutter
      protecting the one window of the room was carefully barred. Sentinels,
      doubled in number, were placed at all the outposts. The French commander
      had neglected no precaution which could reasonably insure for himself and
      for his men a quiet and comfortable night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still absorbed in his perusal of the dispatches, and now and then making
      notes of what he read by the help of writing materials placed at his side,
      Captain Arnault was interrupted by the appearance of an intruder in the
      room. Surgeon Surville, entering from the kitchen, drew aside the canvas
      screen, and approached the little round table at which his superior
      officer was sitting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; said the captain, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A question to ask,&rdquo; replied the surgeon. &ldquo;Are we safe for the night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you want to know?&rdquo; inquired the captain, suspiciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon pointed to the kitchen, now the hospital devoted to the
      wounded men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poor fellows are anxious about the next few hours,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;They
      dread a surprise, and they ask me if there is any reasonable hope of their
      having one night&rsquo;s rest. What do you think of the chances?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The captain shrugged his shoulders. The surgeon persisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely you ought to know?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that we are in possession of the village for the present,&rdquo;
       retorted Captain Arnault, &ldquo;and I know no more. Here are the papers of the
      enemy.&rdquo; He held them up and shook them impatiently as he spoke. &ldquo;They give
      me no information that I can rely on. For all I can tell to the contrary,
      the main body of the Germans, outnumbering us ten to one, may be nearer
      this cottage than the main body of the French. Draw your own conclusions.
      I have nothing more to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having answered in those discouraging terms, Captain Arnault got on his
      feet, drew the hood of his great-coat over his head, and lit a cigar at
      the candle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; asked the surgeon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To visit the outposts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want this room for a little while?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not for some hours to come. Are you thinking of moving any of your
      wounded men in here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was thinking of the English lady,&rdquo; answered the surgeon. &ldquo;The kitchen
      is not quite the place for her. She would be more comfortable here; and
      the English nurse might keep her company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Arnault smiled, not very pleasantly. &ldquo;They are two fine women,&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;and Surgeon Surville is a ladies&rsquo; man. Let them come in, if they
      are rash enough to trust themselves here with you.&rdquo; He checked himself on
      the point of going out, and looked back distrustfully at the lighted
      candle. &ldquo;Caution the women,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to limit the exercise of their
      curiosity to the inside of this room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The captain&rsquo;s forefinger pointed significantly to the closed
      window-shutter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever know a woman who could resist looking out of window?&rdquo; he
      asked. &ldquo;Dark as it is, sooner or later these ladies of yours will feel
      tempted to open that shutter. Tell them I don&rsquo;t want the light of the
      candle to betray my headquarters to the German scouts. How is the weather?
      Still raining?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pouring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better. The Germans won&rsquo;t see us.&rdquo; With that consolatory
      remark he unlocked the door leading into the yard, and walked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon lifted the canvas screen and called into the kitchen:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Merrick, have you time to take a little rest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plenty of time,&rdquo; answered a soft voice with an underlying melancholy in
      it, plainly distinguishable though it had only spoken three words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in, then,&rdquo; continued the surgeon, &ldquo;and bring the English lady with
      you. Here is a quiet room all to yourselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He held back the canvas, and the two women appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      The nurse led the way&mdash;tall, lithe, graceful&mdash;attired in her
      uniform dress of neat black stuff, with plain linen collar and cuffs, and
      with the scarlet cross of the Geneva Convention embroidered on her left
      shoulder. Pale and sad, her expression and manner both eloquently
      suggestive of suppressed suffering and sorrow, there was an innate
      nobility in the carriage of this woman&rsquo;s head, an innate grandeur in the
      gaze of her large gray eyes and in the lines of her finely proportioned
      face, which made her irresistibly striking and beautiful, seen under any
      circumstances and clad in any dress. Her companion, darker in complexion
      and smaller in stature, possessed attractions which were quite marked
      enough to account for the surgeon&rsquo;s polite anxiety to shelter her in the
      captain&rsquo;s room. The common consent of mankind would have declared her to
      be an unusually pretty woman. She wore the large gray cloak that covered
      her from head to foot with a grace that lent its own attractions to a
      plain and even a shabby article of dress. The languor in her movements,
      and the uncertainty of tone in her voice as she thanked the surgeon
      suggested that she was suffering from fatigue. Her dark eyes searched the
      dimly-lighted room timidly, and she held fast by the nurse&rsquo;s arm with the
      air of a woman whose nerves had been severely shaken by some recent alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have one thing to remember, ladies,&rdquo; said the surgeon. &ldquo;Beware of
      opening the shutter, for fear of the light being seen through the window.
      For the rest, we are free to make ourselves as comfortable here as we can.
      Compose yourself, dear madam, and rely on the protection of a Frenchman
      who is devoted to you!&rdquo; He gallantly emphasized his last words by raising
      the hand of the English lady to his lips. At the moment when he kissed it
      the canvas screen was again drawn aside. A person in the service of the
      ambulance appeared, announcing that a bandage had slipped, and that one of
      the wounded men was to all appearance bleeding to death. The surgeon,
      submitting to destiny with the worst possible grace, dropped the charming
      Englishwoman&rsquo;s hand, and returned to his duties in the kitchen. The two
      ladies were left together in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you take a chair, madam?&rdquo; asked the nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t call me &lsquo;madam,&rsquo;&rdquo; returned the young lady, cordially. &ldquo;My name is
      Grace Roseberry. What is your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The nurse hesitated. &ldquo;Not a pretty name, like yours,&rdquo; she said, and
      hesitated again. &ldquo;Call me &lsquo;Mercy Merrick,&rsquo;&rdquo; she added, after a moment&rsquo;s
      consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had she given an assumed name? Was there some unhappy celebrity attached
      to her own name? Miss Roseberry did not wait to ask herself these
      questions. &ldquo;How can I thank you,&rdquo; she exclaimed, gratefully, &ldquo;for your
      sisterly kindness to a stranger like me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have only done my duty,&rdquo; said Mercy Merrick, a little coldly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
      speak of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must speak of it. What a situation you found me in when the French
      soldiers had driven the Germans away! My traveling-carriage stopped; the
      horses seized; I myself in a strange country at nightfall, robbed of my
      money and my luggage, and drenched to the skin by the pouring rain! I am
      indebted to you for shelter in this place&mdash;I am wearing your clothes&mdash;I
      should have died of the fright and the exposure but for you. What return
      can I make for such services as these?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy placed a chair for her guest near the captain&rsquo;s table, and seated
      herself, at some little distance, on an old chest in a corner of the room.
      &ldquo;May I ask you a question?&rdquo; she said, abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A hundred questions,&rdquo; cried Grace, &ldquo;if you like.&rdquo; She looked at the
      expiring fire, and at the dimly visible figure of her companion seated in
      the obscurest corner of the room. &ldquo;That wretched candle hardly gives any
      light,&rdquo; she said, impatiently. &ldquo;It won&rsquo;t last much longer. Can&rsquo;t we make
      the place more cheerful? Come out of your corner. Call for more wood and
      more lights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy remained in her corner and shook her head. &ldquo;Candles and wood are
      scarce things here,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;We must be patient, even if we are
      left in the dark. Tell me,&rdquo; she went on, raising her quiet voice a little,
      &ldquo;how came you to risk crossing the frontier in wartime?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s voice dropped when she answered the question. Grace&rsquo;s momentary
      gayety of manner suddenly left her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had urgent reasons,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;for returning to England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alone?&rdquo; rejoined the other. &ldquo;Without any one to protect you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s head sank on her bosom. &ldquo;I have left my only protector&mdash;my
      father&mdash;in the English burial-ground at Rome,&rdquo; she answered simply.
      &ldquo;My mother died, years since, in Canada.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shadowy figure of the nurse suddenly changed its position on the
      chest. She had started as the last word passed Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know Canada?&rdquo; asked Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; was the brief answer&mdash;reluctantly given, short as it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you ever near Port Logan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I once lived within a few miles of Port Logan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some time since.&rdquo; With those words Mercy Merrick shrank back into her
      corner and changed the subject. &ldquo;Your relatives in England must be very
      anxious about you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace sighed. &ldquo;I have no relatives in England. You can hardly imagine a
      person more friendless than I am. We went away from Canada, when my
      father&rsquo;s health failed, to try the climate of Italy, by the doctor&rsquo;s
      advice. His death has left me not only friendless but poor.&rdquo; She paused,
      and took a leather letter-case from the pocket of the large gray cloak
      which the nurse had lent to her. &ldquo;My prospects in life,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;are
      all contained in this little case. Here is the one treasure I contrived to
      conceal when I was robbed of my other things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy could just see the letter-case as Grace held it up in the deepening
      obscurity of the room. &ldquo;Have you got money in it?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; only a few family papers, and a letter from my father, introducing me
      to an elderly lady in England&mdash;a connection of his by marriage, whom
      I have never seen. The lady has consented to receive me as her companion
      and reader. If I don&rsquo;t return to England soon, some other person may get
      the place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you no other resource?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None. My education has been neglected&mdash;we led a wild life in the far
      West. I am quite unfit to go out as a governess. I am absolutely dependent
      on this stranger, who receives me for my father&rsquo;s sake.&rdquo; She put the
      letter-case back in the pocket of her cloak, and ended her little
      narrative as unaffectedly as she had begun it. &ldquo;Mine is a sad story, is it
      not?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of the nurse answered her suddenly and bitterly in these strange
      words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are sadder stories than yours. There are thousands of miserable
      women who would ask for no greater blessing than to change places with
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace started. &ldquo;What can there possibly be to envy in such a lot as mine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your unblemished character, and your prospect of being established
      honorably in a respectable house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace turned in her chair, and looked wonderingly into the dim corner of
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How strangely you say that!&rdquo; she exclaimed. There was no answer; the
      shadowy figure on the chest never moved. Grace rose impulsively, and
      drawing her chair after her, approached the nurse. &ldquo;Is there some romance
      in your life?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Why have you sacrificed yourself to the
      terrible duties which I find you performing here? You interest me
      indescribably. Give me your hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy shrank back, and refused the offered hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are we not friends?&rdquo; Grace asked, in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can never be friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The nurse was dumb. Grace called to mind the hesitation that she had shown
      when she had mentioned her name, and drew a new conclusion from it.
      &ldquo;Should I be guessing right,&rdquo; she asked, eagerly, &ldquo;if I guessed you to be
      some great lady in disguise?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy laughed to herself&mdash;low and bitterly. &ldquo;I a great lady!&rdquo; she
      said, contemptuously. &ldquo;For Heaven&rsquo;s sake, let us talk of something else!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s curiosity was thoroughly roused. She persisted. &ldquo;Once more,&rdquo; she
      whispered, persuasively, &ldquo;let us be friends.&rdquo; She gently laid her hand as
      she spoke on Mercy&rsquo;s shoulder. Mercy roughly shook it off. There was a
      rudeness in the action which would have offended the most patient woman
      living. Grace drew back indignantly. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;you are cruel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am kind,&rdquo; answered the nurse, speaking more sternly than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it kind to keep me at a distance? I have told you my story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The nurse&rsquo;s voice rose excitedly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tempt me to speak out,&rdquo; she said;
      &ldquo;you will regret it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace declined to accept the warning. &ldquo;I have placed confidence in you,&rdquo;
       she went on. &ldquo;It is ungenerous to lay me under an obligation, and then to
      shut me out of your confidence in return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You <i>will</i> have it?&rdquo; said Mercy Merrick. &ldquo;You <i>shall</i> have it!
      Sit down again.&rdquo; Grace&rsquo;s heart began to quicken its beat in expectation of
      the disclosure that was to come. She drew her chair closer to the chest on
      which the nurse was sitting. With a firm hand Mercy put the chair back to
      a distance from her. &ldquo;Not so near me!&rdquo; she said, harshly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so near,&rdquo; repeated the sternly resolute voice. &ldquo;Wait till you have
      heard what I have to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace obeyed without a word more. There was a momentary silence. A faint
      flash of light leaped up from the expiring candle, and showed Mercy
      crouching on the chest, with her elbows on her knees, and her face hidden
      in her hands. The next instant the room was buried in obscurity. As the
      darkness fell on the two women the nurse spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II. MAGDALEN&mdash;IN MODERN TIMES.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WHEN your mother was alive were you ever out with her after nightfall in
      the streets of a great city?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In those extraordinary terms Mercy Merrick opened the confidential
      interview which Grace Roseberry had forced on her. Grace answered, simply,
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will put it in another way,&rdquo; said the nurse. Its unnatural hardness and
      sternness of tone passed away from her voice, and its native gentleness
      and sadness returned, as she made that reply. &ldquo;You read the newspapers
      like the rest of the world,&rdquo; she went on; &ldquo;have you ever read of your
      unhappy fellow-creatures (the starving outcasts of the population) whom
      Want has driven into Sin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still wondering, Grace answered that she had read of such things often, in
      newspapers and in books.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you heard&mdash;when those starving and sinning fellow-creatures
      happened to be women&mdash;of Refuges established to protect and reclaim
      them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wonder in Grace&rsquo;s mind passed away, and a vague suspicion of something
      painful to come took its place. &ldquo;These are extraordinary questions,&rdquo; she
      said, nervously. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Answer me,&rdquo; the nurse insisted. &ldquo;Have you heard of the Refuges? Have you
      heard of the Women?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Move your chair a little further away from me.&rdquo; She paused. Her voice,
      without losing its steadiness, fell to its lowest tones. &ldquo;<i>I</i> was
      once of those women,&rdquo; she said, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace sprang to her feet with a faint cry. She stood petrified&mdash;
      incapable of uttering a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> have been in a Refuge,&rdquo; pursued the sweet, sad voice of the
      other woman. &ldquo;<i>I</i> have been in a Prison. Do you still wish to be my
      friend? Do you still insist on sitting close by me and taking my hand?&rdquo;
       She waited for a reply, and no reply came. &ldquo;You see you were wrong,&rdquo; she
      went on, gently, &ldquo;when you called me cruel&mdash;and I was right when I
      told you I was kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that appeal Grace composed herself, and spoke. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t wish to offend
      you&mdash;&rdquo; she began, confusedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy Merrick stopped her there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t offend me,&rdquo; she said, without the faintest note of displeasure
      in her tone. &ldquo;I am accustomed to stand in the pillory of my own past life.
      I sometimes ask myself if it was all my fault. I sometimes wonder if
      Society had no duties toward me when I was a child selling matches in the
      street&mdash;when I was a hard-working girl fainting at my needle for want
      of food.&rdquo; Her voice faltered a little for the first time as it pronounced
      those words; she waited a moment, and recovered herself. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s too late to
      dwell on these things now,&rdquo; she said, resignedly. &ldquo;Society can subscribe
      to reclaim me; but Society can&rsquo;t take me back. You see me here in a place
      of trust&mdash;patiently, humbly, doing all the good I can. It doesn&rsquo;t
      matter! Here, or elsewhere, what I <i>am</i> can never alter what I <i>was</i>.
      For three years past all that a sincerely penitent woman can do I have
      done. It doesn&rsquo;t matter! Once let my past story be known, and the shadow
      of it covers me; the kindest people shrink.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She waited again. Would a word of sympathy come to comfort her from the
      other woman&rsquo;s lips? No! Miss Roseberry was shocked; Miss Roseberry was
      confused. &ldquo;I am very sorry for you,&rdquo; was all that Miss Roseberry could
      say.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everybody is sorry for me,&rdquo; answered the nurse, as patiently as ever;
      &ldquo;everybody is kind to me. But the lost place is not to be regained. I
      can&rsquo;t get back! I can&rsquo;t get back?&rdquo; she cried, with a passionate outburst
      of despair&mdash;checked instantly the moment it had escaped her. &ldquo;Shall I
      tell you what my experience has been?&rdquo; she resumed. &ldquo;Will you hear the
      story of Magdalen&mdash;in modern times?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace drew back a step; Mercy instantly understood her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to tell you nothing that you need shrink from hearing,&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;A lady in your position would not understand the trials and the
      struggles that I have passed through. My story shall begin at the Refuge.
      The matron sent me out to service with the character that I had honestly
      earned&mdash;the character of a reclaimed woman. I justified the
      confidence placed in me; I was a faithful servant. One day my mistress
      sent for me&mdash;a kind mistress, if ever there was one yet. &lsquo;Mercy, I am
      sorry for you; it has come out that I took you from a Refuge; I shall lose
      every servant in the house; you must go.&rsquo; I went back to the matron&mdash;another
      kind woman. She received me like a mother. &lsquo;We will try again, Mercy;
      don&rsquo;t be cast down.&rsquo; I told you I had been in Canada?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace began to feel interested in spite of herself. She answered with
      something like warmth in her tone. She returned to her chair&mdash;placed
      at its safe and significant distance from the chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The nurse went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My next place was in Canada, with an officer&rsquo;s wife: gentlefolks who had
      emigrated. More kindness; and, this time, a pleasant, peaceful life for
      me. I said to myself, &lsquo;Is the lost place regained? <i>Have</i> I got
      back?&rsquo; My mistress died. New people came into our neighborhood. There was
      a young lady among them&mdash;my master began to think of another wife. I
      have the misfortune (in my situation) to be what is called a handsome
      woman; I rouse the curiosity of strangers. The new people asked questions
      about me; my master&rsquo;s answers did not satisfy them. In a word, they found
      me out. The old story again! &lsquo;Mercy, I am very sorry; scandal is busy with
      you and with me; we are innocent, but there is no help for it&mdash;we
      must part.&rsquo; I left the place; having gained one advantage during my stay
      in Canada, which I find of use to me here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our nearest neighbors were French-Canadians. I learned to speak the
      French language.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you return to London?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where else could I go, without a character?&rdquo; said Mercy, sadly. &ldquo;I went
      back again to the matron. Sickness had broken out in the Refuge; I made
      myself useful as a nurse. One of the doctors was struck with me&mdash;&lsquo;fell
      in love&rsquo; with me, as the phrase is. He would have married me. The nurse,
      as an honest woman, was bound to tell him the truth. He never appeared
      again. The old story! I began to be weary of saying to myself, &lsquo;I can&rsquo;t
      get back! I can&rsquo;t get back!&rsquo; Despair got hold of me, the despair that
      hardens the heart. I might have committed suicide; I might even have
      drifted back into my old life&mdash;but for one man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At those last words her voice&mdash;quiet and even through the earlier
      part of her sad story&mdash;began to falter once more. She stopped,
      following silently the memories and associations roused in her by what she
      had just said. Had she forgotten the presence of another person in the
      room? Grace&rsquo;s curiosity left Grace no resource but to say a word on her
      side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was the man?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;How did he befriend you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Befriend me? He doesn&rsquo;t even know that such a person as I am is in
      existence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That strange answer, naturally enough, only strengthened the anxiety of
      Grace to hear more. &ldquo;You said just now&mdash;&rdquo; she began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said just now that he saved me. He did save me; you shall hear how. One
      Sunday our regular clergyman at the Refuge was not able to officiate. His
      place was taken by a stranger, quite a young man. The matron told us the
      stranger&rsquo;s name was Julian Gray. I sat in the back row of seats, under the
      shadow of the gallery, where I could see him without his seeing me. His
      text was from the words, &lsquo;Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that
      repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no
      repentance. &lsquo;What happier women might have thought of his sermon I cannot
      say; there was not a dry eye among us at the Refuge. As for me, he touched
      my heart as no man has touched it before or since. The hard despair melted
      in me at the sound of his voice; the weary round of my life showed its
      nobler side again while he spoke. From that time I have accepted my hard
      lot, I have been a patient woman. I might have been something more, I
      might have been a happy woman, if I could have prevailed on myself to
      speak to Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What hindered you from speaking to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afraid of what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afraid of making my hard life harder still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A woman who could have sympathized with her would perhaps have guessed
      what those words meant. Grace was simply embarrassed by her; and Grace
      failed to guess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no alternative for Mercy but to own the truth in plain words.
      She sighed, and said the words. &ldquo;I was afraid I might interest him in my
      sorrows, and might set my heart on him in return.&rdquo; The utter absence of
      any fellow-feeling with her on Grace&rsquo;s side expressed itself unconsciously
      in the plainest terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You!&rdquo; she exclaimed, in a tone of blank astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The nurse rose slowly to her feet. Grace&rsquo;s expression of surprise told her
      plainly&mdash;almost brutally&mdash;that her confession had gone far
      enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I astonish you?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Ah, my young lady, you don&rsquo;t know what rough
      usage a woman&rsquo;s heart can bear, and still beat truly! Before I saw Julian
      Gray I only knew men as objects of horror to me. Let us drop the subject.
      The preacher at the Refuge is nothing but a remembrance now&mdash;the one
      welcome remembrance of my life! I have nothing more to tell you. You
      insisted on hearing my story&mdash;you have heard it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not heard how you found employment here,&rdquo; said Grace, continuing
      the conversation with uneasy politeness, as she best might.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy crossed the room, and slowly raked together the last living embers
      of the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The matron has friends in France,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;who are connected with
      the military hospitals. It was not difficult to get me the place, under
      those circumstances. Society can find a use for me here. My hand is as
      light, my words of comfort are as welcome, among those suffering wretches&rdquo;
       (she pointed to the room in which the wounded men were lying) &ldquo;as if I was
      the most reputable woman breathing. And if a stray shot comes my way
      before the war is over&mdash;well! Society will be rid of me on easy
      terms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stood looking thoughtfully into the wreck of the fire&mdash;as if she
      saw in it the wreck of her own life. Common humanity made it an act of
      necessity to say something to her. Grace considered&mdash;advanced a step
      toward her&mdash;stopped&mdash;and took refuge in the most trivial of all
      the common phrases which one human being can address to another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If there is anything I can do for you&mdash;&rdquo; she began. The sentence,
      halting there, was never finished. Miss Roseberry was just merciful enough
      toward the lost woman who had rescued and sheltered her to feel that it
      was needless to say more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The nurse lifted her noble head and advanced slowly toward the canvas
      screen to return to her duties. &ldquo;Miss Roseberry might have taken my hand!&rdquo;
       she thought to herself, bitterly. No! Miss Roseberry stood there at a
      distance, at a loss what to say next. &ldquo;What can you do for me?&rdquo; Mercy
      asked, stung by the cold courtesy of her companion into a momentary
      outbreak of contempt. &ldquo;Can you change my identity? Can you give me the
      name and the place of an innocent woman? If I only had your chance! If I
      only had your reputation and your prospects!&rdquo; She laid one hand over her
      bosom, and controlled herself. &ldquo;Stay here,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;while I go back
      to my work. I will see that your clothes are dried. You shall wear my
      clothes as short a time as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With those melancholy words&mdash;touchingly, not bitterly spoken&mdash;she
      moved to pass into the kitchen, when she noticed that the pattering sound
      of the rain against the window was audible no more. Dropping the canvas
      for the moment, she retraced her steps, and, unfastening the wooden
      shutter, looked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moon was rising dimly in the watery sky; the rain had ceased; the
      friendly darkness which had hidden the French position from the German
      scouts was lessening every moment. In a few hours more (if nothing
      happened) the English lady might resume her journey. In a few hours more
      the morning would dawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy lifted her hand to close the shutter. Before she could fasten it the
      report of a rifle-shot reached the cottage from one of the distant posts.
      It was followed almost instantly by a second report, nearer and louder
      than the first. Mercy paused, with the shutter in her hand, and listened
      intently for the next sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III. THE GERMAN SHELL.
    </h2>
    <p>
      A THIRD rifle-shot rang through the night air, close to the cottage. Grace
      started and approached the window in alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does that firing mean?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Signals from the outposts,&rdquo; the nurse quietly replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any danger? Have the Germans come back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Surgeon Surville answered the question. He lifted the canvas screen, and
      looked into the room as Miss Roseberry spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Germans are advancing on us,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Their vanguard is in sight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace sank on the chair near her, trembling from head to foot. Mercy
      advanced to the surgeon, and put the decisive question to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do we defend the position?&rdquo; she inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Surgeon Surville ominously shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible! We are outnumbered as usual&mdash;ten to one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shrill roll of the French drums was heard outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is the retreat sounded!&rdquo; said the surgeon. &ldquo;The captain is not a
      man to think twice about what he does. We are left to take care of
      ourselves. In five minutes we must be out of this place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A volley of rifle-shots rang out as he spoke. The German vanguard was
      attacking the French at the outposts. Grace caught the surgeon
      entreatingly by the arm. &ldquo;Take me with you,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Oh, sir, I have
      suffered from the Germans already! Don&rsquo;t forsake me, if they come back!&rdquo;
       The surgeon was equal to the occasion; he placed the hand of the pretty
      Englishwoman on his breast. &ldquo;Fear nothing, madam,&rdquo; he said, looking as if
      he could have annihilated the whole German force with his own invincible
      arm. &ldquo;A Frenchman&rsquo;s heart beats under your hand. A Frenchman&rsquo;s devotion
      protects you.&rdquo; Grace&rsquo;s head sank on his shoulder. Monsieur Surville felt
      that he had asserted himself; he looked round invitingly at Mercy. She,
      too, was an attractive woman. The Frenchman had another shoulder at <i>her</i>
      service. Unhappily the room was dark&mdash;the look was lost on Mercy. She
      was thinking of the helpless men in the inner chamber, and she quietly
      recalled the surgeon to a sense of his professional duties.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is to become of the sick and wounded?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur Surville shrugged one shoulder&mdash;the shoulder that was free.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The strongest among them we can take away with us,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The others
      must be left here. Fear nothing for yourself, dear lady. There will be a
      place for you in the baggage-wagon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for me, too?&rdquo; Grace pleaded, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon&rsquo;s invincible arm stole round the young lady&rsquo;s waist, and
      answered mutely with a squeeze.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take her with you,&rdquo; said Mercy. &ldquo;My place is with the men whom you leave
      behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace listened in amazement. &ldquo;Think what you risk,&rdquo; she said &ldquo;if you stop
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy pointed to her left shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t alarm yourself on my account,&rdquo; she answered; &ldquo;the red cross will
      protect me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another roll of the drum warned the susceptible surgeon to take his place
      as director-general of the ambulance without any further delay. He
      conducted Grace to a chair, and placed both her hands on his heart this
      time, to reconcile her to the misfortune of his absence. &ldquo;Wait here till I
      return for you,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;Fear nothing, my charming friend. Say to
      yourself, &lsquo;Surville is the soul of honor! Surville is devoted to me!&rsquo;&rdquo; He
      struck his breast; he again forgot the obscurity in the room, and cast one
      look of unutterable homage at his charming friend. &ldquo;A <i>bientot!</i>&rdquo; he
      cried, and kissed his hand and disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the canvas screen fell over him the sharp report of the rifle-firing
      was suddenly and grandly dominated by the roar of cannon. The instant
      after a shell exploded in the garden outside, within a few yards of the
      window.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace sank on her knees with a shriek of terror. Mercy, without losing her
      self-possession, advanced to the window and looked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The moon has risen,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The Germans are shelling the village.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace rose, and ran to her for protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take me away!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;We shall be killed if we stay here.&rdquo; She
      stopped, looking in astonishment at the tall black figure of the nurse,
      standing immovably by the window. &ldquo;Are you made of iron?&rdquo; she exclaimed.
      &ldquo;Will nothing frighten you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy smiled sadly. &ldquo;Why should I be afraid of losing my life?&rdquo; she
      answered. &ldquo;I have nothing worth living for!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The roar of the cannon shook the cottage for the second time. A second
      shell exploded in the courtyard, on the opposite side of the building.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bewildered by the noise, panic-stricken as the danger from the shells
      threatened the cottage more and more nearly, Grace threw her arms round
      the nurse, and clung, in the abject familiarity of terror, to the woman
      whose hand she had shrunk from touching not five minutes since. &ldquo;Where is
      it safest?&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Where can I hide myself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I tell where the next shell will fall?&rdquo; Mercy answered, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The steady composure of the one woman seemed to madden the other.
      Releasing the nurse, Grace looked wildly round for a way of escape from
      the cottage. Making first for the kitchen, she was driven back by the
      clamor and confusion attending the removal of those among the wounded who
      were strong enough to be placed in the wagon. A second look round showed
      her the door leading into the yard. She rushed to it with a cry of relief.
      She had just laid her hand on the lock when the third report of cannon
      burst over the place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Starting back a step, Grace lifted her hands mechanically to her ears. At
      the same moment the third shell burst through the roof of the cottage, and
      exploded in the room, just inside the door. Mercy sprang forward, unhurt,
      from her place at the window. The burning fragments of the shell were
      already firing the dry wooden floor, and in the midst of them, dimly seen
      through the smoke, lay the insensible body of her companion in the room.
      Even at that dreadful moment the nurse&rsquo;s presence of mind did not fail
      her. Hurrying back to the place that she had just left, near which she had
      already noticed the miller&rsquo;s empty sacks lying in a heap, she seized two
      of them, and, throwing them on the smoldering floor, trampled out the
      fire. That done, she knelt by the senseless woman, and lifted her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was she wounded? or dead?
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy raised one helpless hand, and laid her fingers on the wrist. While
      she was still vainly trying to feel for the beating of the pulse, Surgeon
      Surville (alarmed for the ladies) hurried in to inquire if any harm had
      been done.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy called to him to approach. &ldquo;I am afraid the shell has struck her,&rdquo;
       she said, yielding her place to him. &ldquo;See if she is badly hurt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon&rsquo;s anxiety for his charming patient expressed itself briefly in
      an oath, with a prodigious emphasis laid on one of the letters in it&mdash;the
      letter R. &ldquo;Take off her cloak,&rdquo; he cried, raising his hand to her neck.
      &ldquo;Poor angel! She has turned in falling; the string is twisted round her
      throat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy removed the cloak. It dropped on the floor as the surgeon lifted
      Grace in his arms. &ldquo;Get a candle,&rdquo; he said, impatiently; &ldquo;they will give
      you one in the kitchen.&rdquo; He tried to feel the pulse: his hand trembled,
      the noise and confusion in the kitchen bewildered him. &ldquo;Just Heaven!&rdquo; he
      exclaimed. &ldquo;My emotions overpower me!&rdquo; Mercy approached him with the
      candle. The light disclosed the frightful injury which a fragment of the
      shell had inflicted on the Englishwoman&rsquo;s head. Surgeon Surville&rsquo;s manner
      altered on the instant. The expression of anxiety left his face; its
      professional composure covered it suddenly like a mask. What was the
      object of his admiration now? An inert burden in his arms&mdash;nothing
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The change in his face was not lost on Mercy. Her large gray eyes watched
      him attentively. &ldquo;Is the lady seriously wounded?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t trouble yourself to hold the light any longer,&rdquo; was the cool reply.
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all over&mdash;I can do nothing for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Surgeon Surville nodded and shook his fist in the direction of the
      outposts. &ldquo;Accursed Germans!&rdquo; he cried, and looked down at the dead face
      on his arm, and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. &ldquo;The fortune of war!&rdquo;
       he said as he lifted the body and placed it on the bed in one corner of
      the room. &ldquo;Next time, nurse, it may be you or me. Who knows? Bah! the
      problem of human destiny disgusts me.&rdquo; He turned from the bed, and
      illustrated his disgust by spitting on the fragments of the exploded
      shell. &ldquo;We must leave her there,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;She was once a charming
      person&mdash;she is nothing now. Come away, Miss Mercy, before it is too
      late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He offered his arm to the nurse; the creaking of the baggage-wagon,
      starting on its journey, was heard outside, and the shrill roll of the
      drums was renewed in the distance. The retreat had begun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy drew aside the canvas, and saw the badly wounded men, left helpless
      at the mercy of the enemy, on their straw beds. She refused the offer of
      Monsieur Surville&rsquo;s arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have already told you that I shall stay here,&rdquo; she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur Surville lifted his hands in polite remonstrance. Mercy held back
      the curtain, and pointed to the cottage door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;My mind is made up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even at that final moment the Frenchman asserted himself. He made his exit
      with unimpaired grace and dignity. &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are sublime!&rdquo;
       With that parting compliment the man of gallantry&mdash;true to the last
      to his admiration of the sex&mdash;bowed, with his hand on his heart, and
      left the cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy dropped the canvas over the doorway. She was alone with the dead
      woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last tramp of footsteps, the last rumbling of the wagon wheels, died
      away in the distance. No renewal of firing from the position occupied by
      the enemy disturbed the silence that followed. The Germans knew that the
      French were in retreat. A few minutes more and they would take possession
      of the abandoned village: the tumult of their approach should become
      audible at the cottage. In the meantime the stillness was terrible. Even
      the wounded wretches who were left in the kitchen waited their fate in
      silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alone in the room, Mercy&rsquo;s first look was directed to the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two women had met in the confusion of the first skirmish at the close
      of twilight. Separated, on their arrival at the cottage, by the duties
      required of the nurse, they had only met again in the captain&rsquo;s room. The
      acquaintance between them had been a short one; and it had given no
      promise of ripening into friendship. But the fatal accident had roused
      Mercy&rsquo;s interest in the stranger. She took the candle, and approached the
      corpse of the woman who had been literally killed at her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood by the bed, looking down in the silence of the night at the
      stillness of the dead face.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a striking face&mdash;once seen (in life or in death) not to be
      forgotten afterward. The forehead was unusually low and broad; the eyes
      unusually far apart; the mouth and chin remarkably small. With tender
      hands Mercy smoothed the disheveled hair and arranged the crumpled dress.
      &ldquo;Not five minutes since,&rdquo; she thought to herself, &ldquo;I was longing to change
      places with <i>you!</i>&rdquo; She turned from the bed with a sigh. &ldquo;I wish I
      could change places now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The silence began to oppress her. She walked slowly to the other end of
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cloak on the floor&mdash;her own cloak, which she had lent to Miss
      Roseberry&mdash;attracted her attention as she passed it. She picked it up
      and brushed the dust from it, and laid it across a chair. This done, she
      put the light back on the table, and going to the window, listened for the
      first sounds of the German advance. The faint passage of the wind through
      some trees near at hand was the only sound that caught her ears. She
      turned from the window, and seated herself at the table, thinking. Was
      there any duty still left undone that Christian charity owed to the dead?
      Was there any further service that pressed for performance in the interval
      before the Germans appeared?
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy recalled the conversation that had passed between her ill-fated
      companion and herself. Miss Roseberry had spoken of her object in
      returning to England. She had mentioned a lady&mdash;a connection by
      marriage, to whom she was personally a stranger&mdash;who was waiting to
      receive her. Some one capable of stating how the poor creature had met
      with her death ought to write to her only friend. Who was to do it? There
      was nobody to do it but the one witness of the catastrophe now left in the
      cottage&mdash;Mercy herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      She lifted the cloak from the chair on which she had placed it, and took
      from the pocket the leather letter-case which Grace had shown to her. The
      only way of discovering the address to write to in England was to open the
      case and examine the papers inside. Mercy opened the case&mdash;and
      stopped, feeling a strange reluctance to carry the investigation any
      farther.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment&rsquo;s consideration satisfied her that her scruples were misplaced.
      If she respected the case as inviolable, the Germans would certainly not
      hesitate to examine it, and the Germans would hardly trouble themselves to
      write to England. Which were the fittest eyes to inspect the papers of the
      deceased lady&mdash;the eyes of men and foreigners, or the eyes of her own
      countrywoman? Mercy&rsquo;s hesitation left her. She emptied the contents of the
      case on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      That trifling action decided the whole future course of her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV. THE TEMPTATION.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Some letters, tied together with a ribbon, attracted Mercy&rsquo;s attention
      first. The ink in which the addresses were written had faded with age. The
      letters, directed alternately to Colonel Roseberry and to the Honorable
      Mrs. Roseberry, contained a correspondence between the husband and wife at
      a time when the Colonel&rsquo;s military duties had obliged him to be absent
      from home. Mercy tied the letters up again, and passed on to the papers
      that lay next in order under her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      These consisted of a few leaves pinned together, and headed (in a woman&rsquo;s
      handwriting) &ldquo;My Journal at Rome.&rdquo; A brief examination showed that the
      journal had been written by Miss Roseberry, and that it was mainly devoted
      to a record of the last days of her father&rsquo;s life.
    </p>
    <p>
      After replacing the journal and the correspondence in the case, the one
      paper left on the table was a letter. The envelope, which was unclosed,
      bore this address: &ldquo;Lady Janet Roy, Mablethorpe House, Kensington,
      London.&rdquo; Mercy took the inclosure from the open envelope. The first lines
      she read informed her that she had found the Colonel&rsquo;s letter of
      introduction, presenting his daughter to her protectress on her arrival in
      England.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy read the letter through. It was described by the writer as the last
      efforts of a dying man. Colonel Roseberry wrote affectionately of his
      daughter&rsquo;s merits, and regretfully of her neglected education&mdash;ascribing
      the latter to the pecuniary losses which had forced him to emigrate to
      Canada in the character of a poor man. Fervent expressions of gratitude
      followed, addressed to Lady Janet. &ldquo;I owe it to you,&rdquo; the letter
      concluded, &ldquo;that I am dying with my mind at ease about the future of my
      darling girl. To your generous protection I commit the one treasure I have
      left to me on earth. Through your long lifetime you have nobly used your
      high rank and your great fortune as a means of doing good. I believe it
      will not be counted among the least of your virtues hereafter that you
      comforted the last hours of an old soldier by opening your heart and your
      home to his friendless child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the letter ended. Mercy laid it down with a heavy heart. What a chance
      the poor girl had lost! A woman of rank and fortune waiting to receive her&mdash;a
      woman so merciful and so generous that the father&rsquo;s mind had been easy
      about the daughter on his deathbed&mdash;and there the daughter lay,
      beyond the reach of Lady Janet&rsquo;s kindness, beyond the need of Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      help!
    </p>
    <p>
      The French captain&rsquo;s writing-materials were left on the table. Mercy
      turned the letter over so that she might write the news of Miss
      Roseberry&rsquo;s death on the blank page at the end. She was still considering
      what expressions she should use, when the sound of complaining voices from
      the next room caught her ear. The wounded men left behind were moaning for
      help&mdash;the deserted soldiers were losing their fortitude at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      She entered the kitchen. A cry of delight welcomed her appearance&mdash;the
      mere sight of her composed the men. From one straw bed to another she
      passed with comforting words that gave them hope, with skilled and tender
      hands that soothed their pain. They kissed the hem of her black dress,
      they called her their guardian angel, as the beautiful creature moved
      among them, and bent over their hard pillows her gentle, compassionate
      face. &ldquo;I will be with you when the Germans come,&rdquo; she said, as she left
      them to return to her unwritten letter. &ldquo;Courage, my poor fellows! you are
      not deserted by your nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Courage, madam!&rdquo; the men replied; &ldquo;and God bless you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If the firing had been resumed at that moment&mdash;if a shell had struck
      her dead in the act of succoring the afflicted, what Christian judgment
      would have hesitated to declare that there was a place for this woman in
      heaven? But if the war ended and left her still living, where was the
      place for her on earth? Where were her prospects? Where was her home?
    </p>
    <p>
      She returned to the letter. Instead, however, of seating herself to write,
      she stood by the table, absently looking down at the morsel of paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      A strange fancy had sprung to life in her mind on re-entering the room;
      she herself smiled faintly at the extravagance of it. What if she were to
      ask Lady Janet Roy to let her supply Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s place? She had met
      with Miss Roseberry under critical circumstances, and she had done for her
      all that one woman could do to help another. There was in this
      circumstance some little claim to notice, perhaps, if Lady Janet had no
      other companion and reader in view. Suppose she ventured to plead her own
      cause&mdash;what would the noble and merciful lady do? She would write
      back, and say, &ldquo;Send me references to your character, and I will see what
      can be done.&rdquo; Her character! Her references! Mercy laughed bitterly, and
      sat down to write in the fewest words all that was needed from her&mdash;a
      plain statement of the facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      No! Not a line could she put on the paper. That fancy of hers was not to
      be dismissed at will. Her mind was perversely busy now with an imaginative
      picture of the beauty of Mablethorpe House and the comfort and elegance of
      the life that was led there. Once more she thought of the chance which
      Miss Roseberry had lost. Unhappy creature! what a home would have been
      open to her if the shell had only fallen on the side of the window,
      instead of on the side of the yard!
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy pushed the letter away from her, and walked impatiently to and fro
      in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The perversity in her thoughts was not to be mastered in that way. Her
      mind only abandoned one useless train of reflection to occupy itself with
      another. She was now looking by anticipation at her own future. What were
      her prospects (if she lived through it) when the war was over? The
      experience of the past delineated with pitiless fidelity the dreary scene.
      Go where she might, do what she might, it would always end in the same
      way. Curiosity and admiration excited by her beauty; inquiries made about
      her; the story of the past discovered; Society charitably sorry for her;
      Society generously subscribing for her; and still, through all the years
      of her life, the same result in the end&mdash;the shadow of the old
      disgrace surrounding her as with a pestilence, isolating her among other
      women, branding her, even when she had earned her pardon in the sight of
      God, with the mark of an indelible disgrace in the sight of man: there was
      the prospect! And she was only five-and-twenty last birthday; she was in
      the prime of her health and her strength; she might live, in the course of
      nature, fifty years more!
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped again at the bedside; she looked again at the face of the
      corpse.
    </p>
    <p>
      To what end had the shell struck the woman who had some hope in her life,
      and spared the woman who had none? The words she had herself spoken to
      Grace Roseberry came back to her as she thought of it. &ldquo;If I only had your
      chance! If I only had your reputation and your prospects!&rdquo; And there was
      the chance wasted! there were the enviable prospects thrown away! It was
      almost maddening to contemplate that result, feeling her own position as
      she felt it. In the bitter mockery of despair she bent over the lifeless
      figure, and spoke to it as if it had ears to hear her. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she said,
      longingly, &ldquo;if you could be Mercy Merrick, and if I could be Grace
      Roseberry, <i>now!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The instant the words passed her lips she started into an erect position.
      She stood by the bed with her eyes staring wildly into empty space; with
      her brain in a flame; with her heart beating as if it would stifle her.
      &ldquo;If you could be Mercy Merrick, and if I could be Grace Roseberry, now!&rdquo;
       In one breathless moment the thought assumed a new development in her
      mind. In one breathless moment the conviction struck her like an electric
      shock. <i>She might be Grace Roseberry if she dared!</i> There was
      absolutely nothing to stop her from presenting herself to Lady Janet Roy
      under Grace&rsquo;s name and in Grace&rsquo;s place!
    </p>
    <p>
      What were the risks? Where was the weak point in the scheme?
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace had said it herself in so many words&mdash;she and Lady Janet had
      never seen each other. Her friends were in Canada; her relations in
      England were dead. Mercy knew the place in which she had lived&mdash;the
      place called Port Logan&mdash;as well as she had known it herself. Mercy
      had only to read the manuscript journal to be able to answer any questions
      relating to the visit to Rome and to Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s death. She had no
      accomplished lady to personate: Grace had spoken herself&mdash;her
      father&rsquo;s letter spoke also in the plainest terms&mdash;of her neglected
      education. Everything, literally everything, was in the lost woman&rsquo;s
      favor. The people with whom she had been connected in the ambulance had
      gone, to return no more. Her own clothes were on Miss Roseberry at that
      moment&mdash;marked with her own name. Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s clothes, marked
      with <i>her</i> name, were drying, at Mercy&rsquo;s disposal, in the next room.
      The way of escape from the unendurable humiliation of her present life lay
      open before her at last. What a prospect it was! A new identity, which she
      might own anywhere! a new name, which was beyond reproach! a new past
      life, into which all the world might search, and be welcome! Her color
      rose, her eyes sparkled; she had never been so irresistibly beautiful as
      she looked at the moment when the new future disclosed itself, radiant
      with new hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      She waited a minute, until she could look at her own daring project from
      another point of view. Where was the harm of it? what did her conscience
      say?
    </p>
    <p>
      As to Grace, in the first place. What injury was she doing to a woman who
      was dead? The question answered itself. No injury to the woman. No injury
      to her relations. Her relations were dead also.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to Lady Janet, in the second place. If she served her new mistress
      faithfully, if she filled her new sphere honorably, if she was diligent
      under instruction and grateful for kindness&mdash;if, in one word, she was
      all that she might be and would be in the heavenly peace and security of
      that new life&mdash;what injury was she doing to Lady Janet? Once more the
      question answered itself. She might, and would, give Lady Janet cause to
      bless the day when she first entered the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      She snatched up Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s letter, and put it into the case with
      the other papers. The opportunity was before her; the chances were all in
      her favor; her conscience said nothing against trying the daring scheme.
      She decided then and there&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Something jarred on her finer sense, something offended her better nature,
      as she put the case into the pocket of her dress. She had decided, and yet
      she was not at ease; she was not quite sure of having fairly questioned
      her conscience yet. What if she laid the letter-case on the table again,
      and waited until her excitement had all cooled down, and then put the
      contemplated project soberly on its trial before her own sense of right
      and wrong?
    </p>
    <p>
      She thought once&mdash;and hesitated. Before she could think twice, the
      distant tramp of marching footsteps and the distant clatter of horses&rsquo; 
      hoofs were wafted to her on the night air. The Germans were entering the
      village! In a few minutes more they would appear in the cottage; they
      would summon her to give an account of herself. There was no time for
      waiting until she was composed again. Which should it be&mdash;the new
      life, as Grace Roseberry? or the old life, as Mercy Merrick?
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked for the last time at the bed. Grace&rsquo;s course was run; Grace&rsquo;s
      future was at her disposal. Her resolute nature, forced to a choice on the
      instant, held by the daring alternative. She persisted in the
      determination to take Grace&rsquo;s place.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tramping footsteps of the Germans came nearer and nearer. The voices
      of the officers were audible, giving the words of command.
    </p>
    <p>
      She seated herself at the table, waiting steadily for what was to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ineradicable instinct of the sex directed her eyes to her dress,
      before the Germans appeared. Looking it over to see that it was in perfect
      order, her eyes fell upon the red cross on her left shoulder. In a moment
      it struck her that her nurse&rsquo;s costume might involve her in a needless
      risk. It associated her with a public position; it might lead to inquiries
      at a later time, and those inquiries might betray her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked round. The gray cloak which she had lent to Grace attracted her
      attention. She took it up, and covered herself with it from head to foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cloak was just arranged round her when she heard the outer door thrust
      open, and voices speaking in a strange tongue, and arms grounded in the
      room behind her. Should she wait to be discovered? or should she show
      herself of her own accord? It was less trying to such a nature as hers to
      show herself than to wait. She advanced to enter the kitchen. The canvas
      curtain, as she stretched out her hand to it, was suddenly drawn back from
      the other side, and three men confronted her in the open doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V. THE GERMAN SURGEON.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE youngest of the three strangers&mdash;judging by features, complexion,
      and manner&mdash;was apparently an Englishman. He wore a military cap and
      military boots, but was otherwise dressed as a civilian. Next to him stood
      an officer in Prussian uniform, and next to the officer was the third and
      the oldest of the party. He also was dressed in uniform, but his
      appearance was far from being suggestive of the appearance of a military
      man. He halted on one foot, he stooped at the shoulders, and instead of a
      sword at his side he carried a stick in his hand. After looking sharply
      through a large pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, first at Mercy, then at
      the bed, then all round the room, he turned with a cynical composure of
      manner to the Prussian officer, and broke the silence in these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman ill on the bed; another woman in attendance on her, and no one
      else in the room. Any necessity, major, for setting a guard here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No necessity,&rdquo; answered the major. He wheeled round on his heel and
      returned to the kitchen. The German surgeon advanced a little, led by his
      professional instinct, in the direction of the bedside. The young
      Englishman, whose eyes had remained riveted in admiration on Mercy, drew
      the canvas screen over the doorway and respectfully addressed her in the
      French language.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I ask if I am speaking to a French lady?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am an Englishwoman,&rdquo; Mercy replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon heard the answer. Stopping short on his way to the bed, he
      pointed to the recumbent figure on it, and said to Mercy, in good English,
      spoken with a strong German accent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I be of any use there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His manner was ironically courteous, his harsh voice was pitched in one
      sardonic monotony of tone. Mercy took an instantaneous dislike to this
      hobbling, ugly old man, staring at her rudely through his great
      tortoiseshell spectacles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can be of no use, sir,&rdquo; she said, shortly. &ldquo;The lady was killed when
      your troops shelled this cottage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Englishman started, and looked compassionately toward the bed. The
      German refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff, and put another question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has the body been examined by a medical man?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy ungraciously limited her reply to the one necessary word &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The present surgeon was not a man to be daunted by a lady&rsquo;s disapproval of
      him. He went on with his questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who has examined the body?&rdquo; he inquired next.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy answered, &ldquo;The doctor attached to the French ambulance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The German grunted in contemptuous disapproval of all Frenchmen, and all
      French institutions. The Englishman seized his first opportunity of
      addressing himself to Mercy once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the lady a countrywoman of ours?&rdquo; he asked, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy considered before she answered him. With the object she had in view,
      there might be serious reasons for speaking with extreme caution when she
      spoke of Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe so,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We met here by accident. I know nothing of
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even her name?&rdquo; inquired the German surgeon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s resolution was hardly equal yet to giving her own name openly as
      the name of Grace. She took refuge in flat denial.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even her name,&rdquo; she repeated obstinately.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man stared at her more rudely than ever, considered with himself,
      and took the candle from the table. He hobbled back to the bed and
      examined the figure laid on it in silence. The Englishman continued the
      conversation, no longer concealing the interest that he felt in the
      beautiful woman who stood before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are very young to be alone in war-time in such
      a place as this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sudden outbreak of a disturbance in the kitchen relieved Mercy from
      any immediate necessity for answering him. She heard the voices of the
      wounded men raised in feeble remonstrance, and the harsh command of the
      foreign officers bidding them be silent. The generous instincts of the
      woman instantly prevailed over every personal consideration imposed on her
      by the position which she had assumed. Reckless whether she betrayed
      herself or not as nurse in the French ambulance, she instantly drew aside
      the canvas to enter the kitchen. A German sentinel barred the way to her,
      and announced, in his own language, that no strangers were admitted. The
      Englishman politely interposing, asked if she had any special object in
      wishing to enter the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poor Frenchmen!&rdquo; she said, earnestly, her heart upbraiding her for
      having forgotten them. &ldquo;The poor wounded Frenchmen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The German surgeon advanced from the bedside, and took the matter up
      before the Englishman could say a word more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have nothing to do with the wounded Frenchmen,&rdquo; he croaked, in the
      harshest notes of his voice. &ldquo;The wounded Frenchmen are my business, and
      not yours. They are <i>our</i> prisoners, and they are being moved to <i>our</i>
      ambulance. I am Ingatius Wetzel, chief of the medical staff&mdash;and I
      tell you this. Hold your tongue.&rdquo; He turned to the sentinel and added in
      German, &ldquo;Draw the curtain again; and if the woman persists, put her back
      into this room with your own hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy attempted to remonstrate. The Englishman respectfully took her arm,
      and drew her out of the sentinel&rsquo;s reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is useless to resist,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The German discipline never gives
      way. There is not the least need to be uneasy about the Frenchmen. The
      ambulance under Surgeon Wetzel is admirably administered. I answer for it,
      the men will be well treated.&rdquo; He saw the tears in her eyes as he spoke;
      his admiration for her rose higher and higher. &ldquo;Kind as well as
      beautiful,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;What a charming creature!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said Ignatius Wetzel, eying Mercy sternly through his spectacles.
      &ldquo;Are you satisfied? And will you hold your tongue?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She yielded: it was plainly useless to resist. But for the surgeon&rsquo;s
      resistance, her devotion to the wounded men might have stopped her on the
      downward way that she was going. If she could only have been absorbed
      again, mind and body, in her good work as a nurse, the temptation might
      even yet have found her strong enough to resist it. The fatal severity of
      the German discipline had snapped asunder the last tie that bound her to
      her better self. Her face hardened as she walked away proudly from Surgeon
      Wetzel, and took a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Englishman followed her, and reverted to the question of her present
      situation in the cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t suppose that I want to alarm you,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There is, I repeat, no
      need to be anxious about the Frenchmen, but there is serious reason for
      anxiety on your own account. The action will be renewed round this village
      by daylight; you ought really to be in a place of safety. I am an officer
      in the English army&mdash;my name is Horace Holmcroft. I shall be
      delighted to be of use to you, and I <i>can</i> be of use, if you will let
      me. May I ask if you are traveling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy gathered the cloak which concealed her nurse&rsquo;s dress more closely
      round her, and committed herself silently to her first overt act of
      deception. She bowed her head in the affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you on your way to England?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case I can pass you through the German lines, and forward you at
      once on your journey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy looked at him in unconcealed surprise. His strongly-felt interest in
      her was restrained within the strictest limits of good-breeding: he was
      unmistakably a gentleman. Did he really mean what he had just said?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can pass me through the German lines?&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;You must
      possess extraordinary influence, sir, to be able to do that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Horace Holmcroft smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I possess the influence that no one can resist,&rdquo; he answered&mdash;&ldquo;the
      influence of the Press. I am serving here as war correspondent of one of
      our great English newspapers. If I ask him, the commanding officer will
      grant you a pass. He is close to this cottage. What do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She summoned her resolution&mdash;not without difficulty, even now&mdash;and
      took him at his word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I gratefully accept your offer, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He advanced a step toward the kitchen, and stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be well to make the application as privately as possible,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;I shall be questioned if I pass through that room. Is there no
      other way out of the cottage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy showed him the door leading into the yard. He bowed&mdash;and left
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked furtively toward the German surgeon. Ignatius Wetzel was still
      at the bed, bending over the body, and apparently absorbed in examining
      the wound which had been inflicted by the shell. Mercy&rsquo;s instinctive
      aversion to the old man increased tenfold, now that she was left alone
      with him. She withdrew uneasily to the window, and looked out at the
      moonlight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had she committed herself to the fraud? Hardly, yet. She had committed
      herself to returning to England&mdash;nothing more. There was no
      necessity, thus far, which forced her to present herself at Mablethorpe
      House, in Grace&rsquo;s place. There was still time to reconsider her resolution&mdash;still
      time to write the account of the accident, as she had proposed, and to
      send it with the letter-case to Lady Janet Roy. Suppose she finally
      decided on taking this course, what was to become of her when she found
      herself in England again? There was no alternative open but to apply once
      more to her friend the matron. There was nothing for her to do but to
      return to the Refuge!
    </p>
    <p>
      The Refuge! The matron! What past association with these two was now
      presenting itself uninvited, and taking the foremost place in her mind? Of
      whom was she now thinking, in that strange place, and at that crisis in
      her life? Of the man whose words had found their way to her heart, whose
      influence had strengthened and comforted her, in the chapel of the Refuge.
      One of the finest passages in his sermon had been especially devoted by
      Julian Gray to warning the congregation whom he addressed against the
      degrading influences of falsehood and deceit. The terms in which he had
      appealed to the miserable women round him&mdash;terms of sympathy and
      encouragement never addressed to them before&mdash;came back to Mercy
      Merrick as if she had heard them an hour since. She turned deadly pale as
      they now pleaded with her once more. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she whispered to herself, as
      she thought of what she had proposed and planned, &ldquo;what have I done? what
      have I done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned from the window with some vague idea in her mind of following
      Mr. Holmcroft and calling him back. As she faced the bed again she also
      confronted Ignatius Wetzel. He was just stepping forward to speak to her,
      with a white handkerchief&mdash;the handkerchief which she had lent to
      Grace&mdash;held up in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have found this in her pocket,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Here is her name written on
      it. She must be a countrywoman of yours.&rdquo; He read the letters marked on
      the handkerchief with some difficulty. &ldquo;Her name is&mdash;Mercy Merrick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>His</i> lips had said it&mdash;not hers! <i>He</i> had given her the
      name.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Mercy Merrick&rsquo; is an English name?&rdquo; pursued Ignatius Wetzel, with his
      eyes steadily fixed on her. &ldquo;Is it not so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hold on her mind of the past association with Julian Gray began to
      relax. One present and pressing question now possessed itself of the
      foremost place in her thoughts. Should she correct the error into which
      the German had fallen? The time had come&mdash;to speak, and assert her
      own identity; or to be silent, and commit herself to the fraud.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace Holmcroft entered the room again at the moment when Surgeon
      Wetzel&rsquo;s staring eyes were still fastened on her, waiting for her reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not overrated my interest,&rdquo; he said, pointing to a little slip of
      paper in his hand. &ldquo;Here is the pass. Have you got pen and ink? I must
      fill up the form.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy pointed to the writing materials on the table. Horace seated
      himself, and dipped the pen in the ink.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t think that I wish to intrude myself into your affairs,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;I am obliged to ask you one or two plain questions. What is your
      name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sudden trembling seized her. She supported herself against the foot of
      the bed. Her whole future existence depended on her answer. She was
      incapable of uttering a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ignatius Wetzel stood her friend for once. His croaking voice filled the
      empty gap of silence exactly at the right time. He doggedly held the
      handkerchief under her eyes. He obstinately repeated: &ldquo;Mercy Merrick is an
      English name. Is it not so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace Holmcroft looked up from the table. &ldquo;Mercy Merrick?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Who
      is Mercy Merrick?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Surgeon Wetzel pointed to the corpse on the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have found the name on the handkerchief,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;This lady, it
      seems, had not curiosity enough to look for the name of her own
      countrywoman.&rdquo; He made that mocking allusion to Mercy with a tone which
      was almost a tone of suspicion, and a look which was almost a look of
      contempt. Her quick temper instantly resented the discourtesy of which she
      had been made the object. The irritation of the moment&mdash;so often do
      the most trifling motives determine the most serious human actions&mdash;decided
      her on the course that she should pursue. She turned her back scornfully
      on the rude old man, and left him in the delusion that he had discovered
      the dead woman&rsquo;s name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace returned to the business of filling up the form. &ldquo;Pardon me for
      pressing the question,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You know what German discipline is by
      this time. What is your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She answered him recklessly, defiantly, without fairly realizing what she
      was doing until it was done.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grace Roseberry,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The words were hardly out of her mouth before she would have given
      everything she possessed in the world to recall them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss?&rdquo; asked Horace, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could only answer him by bowing her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wrote: &ldquo;Miss Grace Roseberry&rdquo;&mdash;reflected for a moment&mdash;and
      then added, interrogatively, &ldquo;Returning to her friends in England?&rdquo; Her
      friends in England? Mercy&rsquo;s heart swelled: she silently replied by another
      sign. He wrote the words after the name, and shook the sandbox over the
      wet ink. &ldquo;That will be enough,&rdquo; he said, rising and presenting the pass to
      Mercy; &ldquo;I will see you through the lines myself, and arrange for your
      being sent on by the railway. Where is your luggage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy pointed toward the front door of the building. &ldquo;In a shed outside
      the cottage,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;It is not much; I can do everything for
      myself if the sentinel will let me pass through the kitchen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace pointed to the paper in her hand. &ldquo;You can go where you like now,&rdquo;
       he said. &ldquo;Shall I wait for you here or outside?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy glanced distrustfully at Ignatius Wetzel. He was again absorbed in
      his endless examination of the body on the bed. If she left him alone with
      Mr. Holmcroft, there was no knowing what the hateful old man might not say
      of her. She answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait for me outside, if you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sentinel drew back with a military salute at the sight of the pass.
      All the French prisoners had been removed; there were not more than
      half-a-dozen Germans in the kitchen, and the greater part of them were
      asleep. Mercy took Grace Roseberry&rsquo;s clothes from the corner in which they
      had been left to dry, and made for the shed&mdash;a rough structure of
      wood, built out from the cottage wall. At the front door she encountered a
      second sentinel, and showed her pass for the second time. She spoke to
      this man, asking him if he understood French. He answered that he
      understood a little. Mercy gave him a piece of money, and said: &ldquo;I am
      going to pack up my luggage in the shed. Be kind enough to see that nobody
      disturbs me.&rdquo; The sentinel saluted, in token that he understood. Mercy
      disappeared in the dark interior of the shed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Left alone with Surgeon Wetzel, Horace noticed the strange old man still
      bending intently over the English lady who had been killed by the shell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything remarkable,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;in the manner of that poor creature&rsquo;s
      death?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing to put in a newspaper,&rdquo; retorted the cynic, pursuing his
      investigations as attentively as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Interesting to a doctor&mdash;eh?&rdquo; said Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Interesting to a doctor,&rdquo; was the gruff reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace good-humoredly accepted the hint implied in those words. He quitted
      the room by the door leading into the yard, and waited for the charming
      Englishwoman, as he had been instructed, outside the cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Left by himself, Ignatius Wetzel, after a first cautious look all round
      him, opened the upper part of Grace&rsquo;s dress, and laid his left hand on her
      heart. Taking a little steel instrument from his waistcoat pocket with the
      other hand, he applied it carefully to the wound, raised a morsel of the
      broken and depressed bone of the skull, and waited for the result. &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo;
       he cried, addressing with a terrible gayety the senseless creature under
      his hands. &ldquo;The Frenchman says you are dead, my dear&mdash;does he? The
      Frenchman is a Quack! The Frenchman is an Ass!&rdquo; He lifted his head, and
      called into the kitchen. &ldquo;Max!&rdquo; A sleepy young German, covered with a
      dresser&rsquo;s apron from his chin to his feet, drew the curtain, and waited
      for his instructions. &ldquo;Bring me my black bag,&rdquo; said Ignatius Wetzel.
      Having given that order, he rubbed his hands cheerfully, and shook himself
      like a dog. &ldquo;Now I am quite happy,&rdquo; croaked the terrible old man, with his
      fierce eyes leering sidelong at the bed. &ldquo;My dear, dead Englishwoman, I
      would not have missed this meeting with you for all the money I have in
      the world. Ha! you infernal French Quack, you call it death, do you? I
      call it suspended animation from pressure on the brain!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Max appeared with the black bag.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ignatius Wetzel selected two fearful instruments, bright and new, and
      hugged them to his bosom. &ldquo;My little boys,&rdquo; he said, tenderly, as if they
      were his children; &ldquo;my blessed little boys, come to work!&rdquo; He turned to
      the assistant. &ldquo;Do you remember the battle of Solferino, Max&mdash;and the
      Austrian soldier I operated on for a wound on the head?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The assistant&rsquo;s sleepy eyes opened wide; he was evidently interested. &ldquo;I
      remember,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I held the candle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The master led the way to the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not satisfied with the result of that operation at Solferino,&rdquo; he
      said; &ldquo;I have wanted to try again ever since. It&rsquo;s true that I saved the
      man&rsquo;s life, but I failed to give him back his reason along with it. It
      might have been something wrong in the operation, or it might have been
      something wrong in the man. Whichever it was, he will live and die mad.
      Now look here, my little Max, at this dear young lady on the bed. She
      gives me just what I wanted; here is the case at Solferino once more. You
      shall hold the candle again, my good boy; stand there, and look with all
      your eyes. I am going to try if I can save the life and the reason too
      this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He tucked up the cuffs of his coat and began the operation. As his fearful
      instruments touched Grace&rsquo;s head, the voice of the sentinel at the nearest
      outpost was heard, giving the word in German which permitted Mercy to take
      the first step on her journey to England:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass the English lady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The operation proceeded. The voice of the sentinel at the next post was
      heard more faintly, in its turn: &ldquo;Pass the English lady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The operation ended. Ignatius Wetzel held up his hand for silence and put
      his ear close to the patient&rsquo;s mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first trembling breath of returning life fluttered over Grace
      Roseberry&rsquo;s lips and touched the old man&rsquo;s wrinkled cheek. &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; he
      cried. &ldquo;Good girl! you breathe&mdash;you live!&rdquo; As he spoke, the voice of
      the sentinel at the final limit of the German lines (barely audible in the
      distance) gave the word for the last time:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass the English lady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      SECOND SCENE.&mdash;Mablethorpe House.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      PREAMBLE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      THE place is England.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time is winter, in the year eighteen hundred and seventy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The persons are, Julian Gray, Horace Holmcroft, Lady Janet Roy, Grace
      Roseberry, and Mercy Merrick.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI. LADY JANET&rsquo;S COMPANION.
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT is a glorious winter&rsquo;s day. The sky is clear, the frost is hard, the
      ice bears for skating.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dining-room of the ancient mansion called Mablethorpe House, situated
      in the London suburb of Kensington, is famous among artists and other
      persons of taste for the carved wood-work, of Italian origin, which covers
      the walls on three sides. On the fourth side the march of modern
      improvement has broken in, and has va ried and brightened the scene by
      means of a conservatory, forming an entrance to the room through a
      winter-garden of rare plants and flowers. On your right hand, as you stand
      fronting the conservatory, the monotony of the paneled wall is relieved by
      a quaintly patterned door of old inlaid wood, leading into the library,
      and thence, across the great hall, to the other reception-rooms of the
      house. A corresponding door on the left hand gives access to the
      billiard-room, to the smoking-room next to it, and to a smaller hall
      commanding one of the secondary entrances to the building. On the left
      side also is the ample fireplace, surmounted by its marble mantelpiece,
      carved in the profusely and confusedly ornate style of eighty years since.
      To the educated eye the dining-room, with its modern furniture and
      conservatory, its ancient walls and doors, and its lofty mantelpiece
      (neither very old nor very new), presents a startling, almost a
      revolutionary, mixture of the decorative workmanship of widely differing
      schools. To the ignorant eye the one result produced is an impression of
      perfect luxury and comfort, united in the friendliest combination, and
      developed on the largest scale.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clock has just struck two. The table is spread for luncheon.
    </p>
    <p>
      The persons seated at the table are three in number. First, Lady Janet
      Roy. Second, a young lady who is her reader and companion. Third, a guest
      staying in the house, who has already appeared in these pages under the
      name of Horace Holmcroft&mdash;attached to the German army as war
      correspondent of an English newspaper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet Roy needs but little introduction. Everybody with the slightest
      pretension to experience in London society knows Lady Janet Roy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who has not heard of her old lace and her priceless rubies? Who has not
      admired her commanding figure, her beautifully dressed white hair, her
      wonderful black eyes, which still preserve their youthful brightness,
      after first opening on the world seventy years since? Who has not felt the
      charm of her frank, easily flowing talk, her inexhaustible spirits, her
      good-humored, gracious sociability of manner? Where is the modern hermit
      who is not familiarly acquainted, by hearsay at least, with the fantastic
      novelty and humor of her opinions; with her generous encouragement of
      rising merit of any sort, in all ranks, high or low; with her charities,
      which know no distinction between abroad and at home; with her large
      indulgence, which no ingratitude can discourage, and no servility pervert?
      Everybody has heard of the popular old lady&mdash;the childless widow of a
      long-forgotten lord. Everybody knows Lady Janet Roy.
    </p>
    <p>
      But who knows the handsome young woman sitting on her right hand, playing
      with her luncheon instead of eating it? Nobody really knows her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She is prettily dressed in gray poplin, trimmed with gray velvet, and set
      off by a ribbon of deep red tied in a bow at the throat. She is nearly as
      tall as Lady Janet herself, and possesses a grace and beauty of figure not
      always seen in women who rise above the medium height. Judging by a
      certain innate grandeur in the carriage of her head and in the expression
      of her large melancholy gray eyes, believers in blood and breeding will be
      apt to guess that this is another noble lady. Alas! she is nothing but
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s companion and reader. Her head, crowned with its lovely light
      brown hair, bends with a gentle respect when Lady Janet speaks. Her fine
      firm hand is easily and incessantly watchful to supply Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      slightest wants. The old lady&mdash;affectionately familiar with her&mdash;speaks
      to her as she might speak to an adopted child. But the gratitude of the
      beautiful companion has always the same restraint in its acknowledgment of
      kindness; the smile of the beautiful companion has always the same
      underlying sadness when it responds to Lady Janet&rsquo;s hearty laugh. Is there
      something wrong here, under the surface? Is she suffering in mind, or
      suffering in body? What is the matter with her?
    </p>
    <p>
      The matter with her is secret remorse. This delicate and beautiful
      creature pines under the slow torment of constant self-reproach.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the mistress of the house, and to all who inhabit it or enter it, she
      is known as Grace Roseberry, the orphan relative by marriage of Lady Janet
      Roy. To herself alone she is known as the outcast of the London streets;
      the inmate of the London Refuge; the lost woman who has stolen her way
      back&mdash;after vainly trying to fight her way back&mdash;to Home and
      Name. There she sits in the grim shadow of her own terrible secret,
      disguised in another person&rsquo;s identity, and established in another
      person&rsquo;s place. Mercy Merrick had only to dare, and to become Grace
      Roseberry if she pleased. She has dared, and she has been Grace Roseberry
      for nearly four months past.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, while Lady Janet is talking to Horace Holmcroft, something
      that has passed between them has set her thinking of the day when she took
      the first fatal step which committed her to the fraud.
    </p>
    <p>
      How marvelously easy of accomplishment the act of personation had been! At
      first sight Lady Janet had yielded to the fascination of the noble and
      interesting face. No need to present the stolen letter; no need to repeat
      the ready-made story. The old lady had put the letter aside unopened, and
      had stopped the story at the first words. &ldquo;Your face is your introduction,
      my dear; your father can say nothing for you which you have not already
      said for yourself.&rdquo; There was the welcome which established her firmly in
      her false identity at the outset. Thanks to her own experience, and thanks
      to the &ldquo;Journal&rdquo; of events at Rome, questions about her life in Canada and
      questions about Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s illness found her ready with answers
      which (even if suspicion had existed) would have disarmed suspicion on the
      spot. While the true Grace was slowly and painfully winning her way back
      to life on her bed in a German hospital, the false Grace was presented to
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s friends as the relative by marriage of the Mistress of
      Mablethorpe House. From that time forward nothing had happened to rouse in
      her the faintest suspicion that Grace Roseberry was other than a
      dead-and-buried woman. So far as she now knew&mdash;so far as any one now
      knew&mdash;she might live out her life in perfect security (if her
      conscience would let her), respected, distinguished, and beloved, in the
      position which she had usurped.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose abruptly from the table. The effort of her life was to shake
      herself free of the remembrances which haunted her perpetually as they
      were haunting her now. Her memory was her worst enemy; her one refuge from
      it was in change of occupation and change of scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She bent her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with a steady,
      compassionate attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowly crossing the
      room, entered the winter-garden. The eyes of Horace followed her, as long
      as she was in view, with a curious contradictory expression of admiration
      and disapproval. When she had passed out of sight the admiration vanished,
      but the disapproval remained. The face of the young man contracted into a
      frown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand, playing absently with the
      fragments on his plate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take some French pie, Horace,&rdquo; said Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some more chicken, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more chicken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will nothing tempt you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will take some more wine, if you will allow me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret, and emptied
      it sullenly at a draught. Lady Janet&rsquo;s bright eyes watched him with
      sardonic attention; Lady Janet&rsquo;s ready tongue spoke out as freely as usual
      what was passing in her mind at the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The air of Kensington doesn&rsquo;t seem to suit you, my young friend,&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;The longer you have been my guest, the oftener you fill your glass
      and empty your cigar-case. Those are bad signs in a young man. When you
      first came here you arrived invalided by a wound. In your place, I should
      not have exposed myself to be shot, with no other object in view than
      describing a battle in a newspaper. I suppose tastes differ. Are you ill?
      Does your wound still plague you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in the least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you out of spirits?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace Holmcroft dropped his fork, rested his elbows on the table, and
      answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Awfully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even Lady Janet&rsquo;s large toleration had its limits. It embraced every human
      offense except a breach of good manners. She snatched up the nearest
      weapon of correction at hand&mdash;a tablespoon&mdash;and rapped her young
      friend smartly with it on the arm that was nearest to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My table is not the club table,&rdquo; said the old lady. &ldquo;Hold up your head.
      Don&rsquo;t look at your fork&mdash;look at me. I allow nobody to be out of
      spirits in My house. I consider it to be a reflection on Me. If our quiet
      life here doesn&rsquo;t suit you, say so plainly, and find something else to do.
      There is employment to be had, I suppose&mdash;if you choose to apply for
      it? You needn&rsquo;t smile. I don&rsquo;t want to see your teeth&mdash;I want an
      answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace admitted, with all needful gravity, that there was employment to be
      had. The war between France and Germany, he remarked, was still going on:
      the newspaper had offered to employ him again in the capacity of
      correspondent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak of the newspapers and the war!&rdquo; cried Lady Janet, with a
      sudden explosion of anger, which was genuine anger this time. &ldquo;I detest
      the newspapers! I won&rsquo;t allow the newspapers to enter this house. I lay
      the whole blame of the blood shed between France and Germany at their
      door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace&rsquo;s eyes opened wide in amazement. The old lady was evidently in
      earnest. &ldquo;What can you possibly mean?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Are the newspapers
      responsible for the war?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Entirely responsible,&rdquo; answered Lady Janet. &ldquo;Why, you don&rsquo;t understand
      the age you live in! Does anybody do anything nowadays (fighting included)
      without wishing to see it in the newspapers? <i>I</i> subscribe to a
      charity; <i>thou</i> art presented with a testimonial; <i>he</i> preaches
      a sermon; <i>we</i> suffer a grievance; <i>you</i> make a discovery; <i>they</i>
      go to church and get married. And I, thou, he; we, you, they, all want one
      and the same thing&mdash;we want to see it in the papers. Are kings,
      soldiers, and diplomatists exceptions to the general rule of humanity? Not
      they! I tell you seriously, if the newspapers of Europe had one and all
      decided not to take the smallest notice in print of the war between France
      and Germany, it is my firm conviction the war would have come to an end
      for want of encouragement long since. Let the pen cease to advertise the
      sword, and I, for one, can see the result. No report&mdash;no fighting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your views have the merit of perfect novelty, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said Horace. &ldquo;Would
      you object to see them in the newspapers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet worsted her young friend with his own weapons.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t I live in the latter part of the nineteenth century?&rdquo; she asked.
      &ldquo;In the newspapers, did you say? In large type, Horace, if you love me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace changed the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You blame me for being out of spirits,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and you seem to think
      it is because I am tired of my pleasant life at Mablethorpe House. I am
      not in the least tired, Lady Janet.&rdquo; He looked toward the conservatory:
      the frown showed itself on his face once more. &ldquo;The truth is,&rdquo; he resumed,
      &ldquo;I am not satisfied with Grace Roseberry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has Grace done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She persists in prolonging our engagement. Nothing will persuade her to
      fix the day for our marriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was true! Mercy had been mad enough to listen to him, and to love him.
      But Mercy was not vile enough to marry him under her false character, and
      in her false name. Between three and four months had elapsed since Horace
      had been sent home from the war, wounded, and had found the beautiful
      Englishwoman whom he had befriended in France established at Mablethorpe
      House. Invited to become Lady Janet&rsquo;s guest (he had passed his holidays as
      a school-boy under Lady Janet&rsquo;s roof)&mdash;free to spend the idle time of
      his convalescence from morning to night in Mercy&rsquo;s society&mdash;the
      impression originally produced on him in a French cottage soon
      strengthened into love. Before the month was out Horace had declared
      himself, and had discovered that he spoke to willing ears. From that
      moment it was only a question of persisting long enough in the resolution
      to gain his point. The marriage engagement was ratified&mdash;most
      reluctantly on the lady&rsquo;s side&mdash;and there the further progress of
      Horace Holmcroft&rsquo;s suit came to an end. Try as he might, he failed to
      persuade his betrothed wife to fix the day for the marriage. There were no
      obstacles in her way. She had no near relations of her own to consult. As
      a connection of Lady Janet&rsquo;s by marriage, Horace&rsquo;s mother and sisters were
      ready to receive her with all the honors due to a new member of the
      family. No pecuniary considerations made it necessary, in this case, to
      wait for a favorable time. Horace was an only son; and he had succeeded to
      his father&rsquo;s estate with an ample income to support it. On both sides
      alike there was absolutely nothing to prevent the two young people from
      being married as soon as the settlements could be drawn. And yet, to all
      appearance, here was a long engagement in prospect, with no better reason
      than the lady&rsquo;s incomprehensible perversity to explain the delay. &ldquo;Can you
      account for Grace&rsquo;s conduct?&rdquo; asked Lady Janet. Her manner changed as she
      put the question. She looked and spoke like a person who was perplexed and
      annoyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly like to own it,&rdquo; Horace answered, &ldquo;but I am afraid she has some
      motive for deferring our marriage which she cannot confide either to you
      or to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet started.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What makes you think that?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have once or twice caught her in tears. Every now and then&mdash;sometimes
      when she is talking quite gayly&mdash;she suddenly changes color and
      becomes silent and depressed. Just now, when she left the table (didn&rsquo;t
      you notice it?), she looked at me in the strangest way&mdash;almost as if
      she was sorry for me. What do these things mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace&rsquo;s reply, instead of increasing Lady Janet&rsquo;s anxiety, seemed to
      relieve it. He had observed nothing which she had not noticed herself.
      &ldquo;You foolish boy!&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;the meaning is plain enough. Grace has been
      out of health for some time past. The doctor recommends change of air. I
      shall take her away with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be more to the purpose,&rdquo; Horace rejoined, &ldquo;if I took her away
      with me. She might consent, if you would only use your influence. Is it
      asking too much to ask you to persuade her? My mother and my sisters have
      written to her, and have produced no effect. Do me the greatest of all
      kindnesses&mdash;speak to her to-day!&rdquo; He paused, and possessing himself
      of Lady Janet&rsquo;s hand, pressed it entreatingly. &ldquo;You have always been so
      good to me,&rdquo; he said, softly, and pressed it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old lady looked at him. It was impossible to dispute that there were
      attractions in Horace Holmcroft&rsquo;s face which made it well worth looking
      at. Many a woman might have envied him his clear complexion, his bright
      blue eyes, and the warm amber tint in his light Saxon hair. Men&mdash;especially
      men skilled in observing physiognomy&mdash;might have noticed in the shape
      of his forehead and in the line of his upper lip the signs indicative of a
      moral nature deficient in largeness and breadth&mdash;of a mind easily
      accessible to strong prejudices, and obstinate in maintaining those
      prejudices in the face of conviction itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the observation of women these remote defects were too far below the
      surface to be visible. He charmed the sex in general by his rare personal
      advantages, and by the graceful deference of his manner. To Lady Janet he
      was endeared, not by his own merits only, but by old associations that
      were connected with him. His father had been one of her many admirers in
      her young days. Circumstances had parted them. Her marriage to another man
      had been a childless marriage. In past times, when the boy Horace had come
      to her from school, she had cherished a secret fancy (too absurd to be
      communicated to any living creature) that he ought to have been <i>her</i>
      son, and might have been her son, if she had married his father! She
      smiled charmingly, old as she was&mdash;she yielded as his mother might
      have yielded&mdash;when the young man took her hand and entreated her to
      interest herself in his marriage. &ldquo;Must I really speak to Grace?&rdquo; she
      asked, with a gentleness of tone and manner far from characteristic, on
      ordinary occasions, of the lady of Mablethorpe House. Horace saw that he
      had gained his point. He sprang to his feet; his eyes turned eagerly in
      the direction of the conservatory; his handsome face was radiant with
      hope. Lady Janet (with her mind full of his father) stole a last look at
      him, sighed as she thought of the vanished days, and recovered herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to the smoking-room,&rdquo; she said, giving him a push toward the door.
      &ldquo;Away with you, and cultivate the favorite vice of the nineteenth
      century.&rdquo; Horace attempted to express his gratitude. &ldquo;Go and smoke!&rdquo; was
      all she said, pushing him out. &ldquo;Go and smoke!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Left by herself, Lady Janet took a turn in the room, and considered a
      little.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace&rsquo;s discontent was not unreasonable. There was really no excuse for
      the delay of which he complained. Whether the young lady had a special
      motive for hanging back, or whether she was merely fretting because she
      did not know her own mind, it was, in either case, necessary to come to a
      distinct understanding, sooner or later, on the serious question of the
      marriage. The difficulty was, how to approach the subject without giving
      offense. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand the young women of the present generation,&rdquo;
       thought Lady Janet. &ldquo;In my time, when we were fond of a man, we were ready
      to marry him at a moment&rsquo;s notice. And this is an age of progress! They
      ought to be readier still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arriving, by her own process of induction, at this inevitable conclusion,
      she decided to try what her influence could accomplish, and to trust to
      the inspiration of the moment for exerting it in the right way. &ldquo;Grace!&rdquo;
       she called out, approaching the conservatory door. The tall, lithe figure
      in its gray dress glided into view, and stood relieved against the green
      background of the winter-garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did your ladyship call me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I want to speak to you. Come and sit down by me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With those words Lady Janet led the way to a sofa, and placed her
      companion by her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII. THE MAN IS COMING.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;You look very pale this morning, my child.&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      Mercy sighed wearily. &ldquo;I am not well,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;The slightest noises
      startle me. I feel tired if I only walk across the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet patted her kindly on the shoulder. &ldquo;We must try what a change
      will do for you. Which shall it be? the Continent or the sea-side?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your ladyship is too kind to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible to be too kind to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy started. The color flowed charmingly over her pale face. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she
      exclaimed, impulsively. &ldquo;Say that again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say it again?&rdquo; repeated Lady Janet, with a look of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! Don&rsquo;t think me presuming; only think me vain. I can&rsquo;t hear you say
      too often that you have learned to like me. Is it really a pleasure to you
      to have me in the house? Have I always behaved well since I have been with
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (The one excuse for the act of personation&mdash;if excuse there could be&mdash;lay
      in the affirmative answer to those questions. It would be something,
      surely, to say of the false Grace that the true Grace could not have been
      worthier of her welcome, if the true Grace had been received at
      Mablethorpe House!)
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet was partly touched, partly amused, by the extraordinary
      earnestness of the appeal that had been made to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you behaved well?&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;My dear, you talk as if you were a
      child!&rdquo; She laid her hand caressingly on Mercy&rsquo;s arm, and continued, in a
      graver tone: &ldquo;It is hardly too much to say, Grace, that I bless the day
      when you first came to me. I do believe I could be hardly fonder of you if
      you were my own daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy suddenly turned her head aside, so as to hide her face. Lady Janet,
      still touching her arm, felt it tremble. &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo;
       she asked, in her abrupt, downright manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am only very grateful to your ladyship&mdash;that is all.&rdquo; The words
      were spoken faintly, in broken tones. The face was still averted from Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s view. &ldquo;What have I said to provoke this?&rdquo; wondered the old lady.
      &ldquo;Is she in the melting mood to-day? If she is, now is the time to say a
      word for Horace!&rdquo; Keeping that excellent object in view, Lady Janet
      approached the delicate topic with all needful caution at starting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have got on so well together,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;that it will not be easy
      for either of us to feel reconciled to a change in our lives. At my age,
      it will fall hardest on me. What shall I do, Grace, when the day comes for
      parting with my adopted daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy started, and showed her face again. The traces of tears were in her
      eyes. &ldquo;Why should I leave you?&rdquo; she asked, in a tone of alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely you know!&rdquo; exclaimed Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed I don&rsquo;t. Tell me why.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask Horace to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The last allusion was too plain to be misunderstood. Mercy&rsquo;s head drooped.
      She began to tremble again. Lady Janet looked at her in blank amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there anything wrong between Horace and you?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know your own heart, my dear child? You have surely not encouraged
      Horace without loving him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the first time in their experience of each other Mercy ventured to
      interrupt her benefactress. &ldquo;Dear Lady Janet,&rdquo; she interposed, gently, &ldquo;I
      am in no hurry to be married. There will be plenty of time in the future
      to talk of that. You had something you wished to say to me. What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was no easy matter to disconcert Lady Janet Roy. But that last question
      fairly reduced her to silence. After all that had passed, there sat her
      young companion, innocent of the faintest suspicion of the subject that
      was to be discussed between them! &ldquo;What are the young women of the present
      time made of?&rdquo; thought the old lady, utterly at a loss to know what to say
      next. Mercy waited, on her side, with an impenetrable patience which only
      aggravated the difficulties of the position. The silence was fast
      threatening to bring the interview to a sudden and untimely end, when the
      door from the library opened, and a man-servant, bearing a little silver
      salver, entered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s rising sense of annoyance instantly seized on the servant as
      a victim. &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; she asked, sharply. &ldquo;I never rang for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A letter, my lady. The messenger waits for an answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man presented his salver with the letter on it, and withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet recognized the handwriting on the address with a look of
      surprise. &ldquo;Excuse me, my dear,&rdquo; she said, pausing, with her old-fashioned
      courtesy, before she opened the envelope. Mercy made the necessary
      acknowledgment, and moved away to the other end of the room, little
      thinking that the arrival of the letter marked a crisis in her life. Lady
      Janet put on her spectacles. &ldquo;Odd that he should have come back already!&rdquo;
       she said to herself, as she threw the empty envelope on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter contained these lines, the writer of them being no other than
      the man who had preached in the chapel of the Refuge:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR AUNT&mdash;I am back again in London before my time. My friend the
      rector has shortened his holiday, and has resumed his duties in the
      country. I am afraid you will blame me when you hear of the reasons which
      have hastened his return. The sooner I make my confession, the easier I
      shall feel. Besides, I have a special object in wishing to see you as soon
      as possible. May I follow my letter to Mablethorpe House? And may I
      present a lady to you&mdash;a perfect stranger&mdash;in whom I am
      interested? Pray say Yes, by the bearer, and oblige your affectionate
      nephew,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;JULIAN GRAY.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet referred again suspiciously to the sentence in the letter which
      alluded to the &ldquo;lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian Gray was her only surviving nephew, the son of a favorite sister
      whom she had lost. He would have held no very exalted position in the
      estimation of his aunt&mdash;who regarded his views in politics and
      religion with the strongest aversion&mdash;but for his marked resemblance
      to his mother. This pleaded for him with the old lady, aided as it was by
      the pride that she secretly felt in the early celebrity which the young
      clergyman had achieved as a writer and a preacher. Thanks to these
      mitigating circumstances, and to Julian&rsquo;s inexhaustible good-humor, the
      aunt and the nephew generally met on friendly terms. Apart from what she
      called &ldquo;his detestable opinions,&rdquo; Lady Janet was sufficiently interested
      in Julian to feel some curiosity about the mysterious &ldquo;lady&rdquo; mentioned in
      the letter. Had he determined to settle in life? Was his choice already
      made? And if so, would it prove to be a choice acceptable to the family?
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s bright face showed signs of doubt as she asked herself that
      last question. Julian&rsquo;s liberal views were capable of leading him to
      dangerous extremes. His aunt shook her head ominously as she rose from the
      sofa and advanced to the library door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grace,&rdquo; she said, pausing and turning round, &ldquo;I have a note to write to
      my nephew. I shall be back directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy approached her, from the opposite extremity of the room, with an
      exclamation of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your nephew?&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Your ladyship never told me you had a
      nephew.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet laughed. &ldquo;I must have had it on the tip of my tongue to tell
      you, over and over again,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;But we have had so many things to
      talk about&mdash;and, to own the truth, my nephew is not one of my
      favorite subjects of conversation. I don&rsquo;t mean that I dislike him; I
      detest his principles, my dear, that&rsquo;s all. However, you shall form your
      own opinion of him; he is coming to see me to-day. Wait here till I
      return; I have something more to say about Horace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy opened the library door for her, closed it again, and walked slowly
      to and fro alone in the room, thinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was her mind running on Lady Janet&rsquo;s nephew? No. Lady Janet&rsquo;s brief
      allusion to her relative had not led her into alluding to him by his name.
      Mercy was still as ignorant as ever that the preacher at the Refuge and
      the nephew of her benefactress were one and the same man. Her memory was
      busy now with the tribute which Lady Janet had paid to her at the outset
      of the interview between them: &ldquo;It is hardly too much to say, Grace, that
      I bless the day when you first came to me.&rdquo; For the moment there was balm
      for her wounded spirit in the remembrance of those words. Grace Roseberry
      herself could surely have earned no sweeter praise than the praise that
      she had won. The next instant she was seized with a sudden horror of her
      own successful fraud. The sense of her degradation had never been so
      bitterly present to her as at that moment. If she could only confess the
      truth&mdash;if she could innocently enjoy her harmless life at Mablethorpe
      House&mdash;what a grateful, happy woman she might be! Was it possible (if
      she made the confession) to trust to her own good conduct to plead her
      excuse? No! Her calmer sense warned her that it was hopeless. The place
      she had won&mdash;honestly won&mdash;in Lady Janet&rsquo;s estimation had been
      obtained by a trick. Nothing could alter, nothing could excuse, <i>that</i>.
      She took out her handkerchief and dashed away the useless tears that had
      gathered in her eyes, and tried to turn her thoughts some other way. What
      was it Lady Janet had said on going into the library? She had said she was
      coming back to speak about Horace. Mercy guessed what the object was; she
      knew but too well what Horace wanted of her. How was she to meet the
      emergency? In the name of Heaven, what was to be done? Could she let the
      man who loved her&mdash;the man whom she loved&mdash;drift blindfold into
      marriage with such a woman as she had been? No! it was her duty to warn
      him. How? Could she break his heart, could she lay his life waste by
      speaking the cruel words which might part them forever? &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell him!
      I won&rsquo;t tell him!&rdquo; she burst out, passionately. &ldquo;The disgrace of it would
      kill me!&rdquo; Her varying mood changed as the words escaped her. A reckless
      defiance of her own better nature&mdash;that saddest of all the forms in
      which a woman&rsquo;s misery can express itself&mdash;filled her heart with its
      poisoning bitterness. She sat down again on the sofa with eyes that
      glittered and cheeks suffused with an angry red. &ldquo;I am no worse than
      another woman!&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Another woman might have married him for his
      money.&rdquo; The next moment the miserable insufficiency of her own excuse for
      deceiving him showed its hollowness, self-exposed. She covered her face
      with her hands, and found refuge&mdash;where she had often found refuge
      before&mdash;in the helpless resignation of despair. &ldquo;Oh, that I had died
      before I entered this house! Oh, that I could die and have done with it at
      this moment!&rdquo; So the struggle had ended with her hundreds of times
      already. So it ended now.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door leading into the billiard-room opened softly. Horace Holmcroft
      had waited to hear the result of Lady Janet&rsquo;s interference in his favor
      until he could wait no longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked in cautiously, ready to withdraw again unnoticed if the two were
      still talking together. The absence of Lady Janet suggested that the
      interview had come to an end. Was his betrothed wife waiting alone to
      speak to him on his return to the room? He advanced a few steps. She never
      moved; she sat heedless, absorbed in her thoughts. Were they thoughts of
      <i>him?</i> He advanced a little nearer, and called to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grace!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sprang to her feet, with a faint cry. &ldquo;I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t startle
      me,&rdquo; she said, irritably, sinking back on the sofa. &ldquo;Any sudden alarm sets
      my heart beating as if it would choke me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace pleaded for pardon with a lover&rsquo;s humility. In her present state of
      nervous irritation she was not to be appeased. She looked away from him in
      silence. Entirely ignorant of the paroxysm of mental suffering through
      which she had just passed, he seated himself by her side, and asked her
      gently if she had seen Lady Janet. She made an affirmative answer with an
      unreasonable impatience of tone and manner which would have warned an
      older and more experienced man to give her time before he spoke again.
      Horace was young, and weary of the suspense that he had endured in the
      other room. He unwisely pressed her with another question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has Lady Janet said anything to you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned on him angrily before he could finish the sentence. &ldquo;You have
      tried to make her hurry me into marrying you,&rdquo; she burst out. &ldquo;I see it in
      your face!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Plain as the warning was this time, Horace still failed to interpret it in
      the right way. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be angry!&rdquo; he said, good-humoredly. &ldquo;Is it so very
      inexcusable to ask Lady Janet to intercede for me? I have tried to
      persuade you in vain. My mother and my sisters have pleaded for me, and
      you turn a deaf ear&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could endure it no longer. She stamped her foot on the door with
      hysterical vehemence. &ldquo;I am weary of hearing of your mother and your
      sisters!&rdquo; she broke in violently. &ldquo;You talk of nothing else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was just possible to make one more mistake in dealing with her&mdash;and
      Horace made it. He took offense, on his side, and rose from the sofa. His
      mother and sisters were high authorities in his estimation; they variously
      represented his ideal of perfection in women. He withdrew to the opposite
      extremity of the room, and administered the severest reproof that he could
      think of on the spur of the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be well, Grace, if you followed the example set you by my mother
      and my sisters,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;<i>They</i> are not in the habit of speaking
      cruelly to those who love them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To all appearance the rebuke failed to produce the slightest effect. She
      seemed to be as indifferent to it as if it had not reached her ears. There
      was a spirit in her&mdash;a miserable spirit, born of her own bitter
      experience&mdash;which rose in revolt against Horace&rsquo;s habitual
      glorification of the ladies of his family. &ldquo;It sickens me,&rdquo; she thought to
      herself, &ldquo;to hear of the virtues of women who have never been tempted!
      Where is the merit of living reputably, when your life is one course of
      prosperity and enjoyment? Has his mother known starvation? Have his
      sisters been left forsaken in the street?&rdquo; It hardened her heart&mdash;it
      almost reconciled her to deceiving him&mdash;when he set his relatives up
      as patterns for her. Would he never understand that women detested having
      other women exhibited as examples to them? She looked round at him with a
      sense of impatient wonder. He was sitting at the luncheon-table, with his
      back turned on her, and his head resting on his hand. If he had attempted
      to rejoin her, she would have repelled him; if he had spoken, she would
      have met him with a sharp reply. He sat apart from her, without uttering a
      word. In a man&rsquo;s hands silence is the most terrible of all protests to the
      woman who loves him. Violence she can endure. Words she is always ready to
      meet by words on her side. Silence conquers her. After a moment&rsquo;s
      hesitation, Mercy left the sofa and advanced submissively toward the
      table. She had offended him&mdash;and she alone was in fault. How should
      he know it, poor fellow, when he innocently mortified her? Step by step
      she drew closer and closer. He never looked round; he never moved. She
      laid her hand timidly on his shoulder. &ldquo;Forgive me, Horace,&rdquo; she whispered
      in his ear. &ldquo;I am suffering this morning; I am not myself. I didn&rsquo;t mean
      what I said. Pray forgive me.&rdquo; There was no resisting the caressing
      tenderness of voice and manner which accompanied those words. He looked
      up; he took her hand. She bent over him, and touched his forehead with her
      lips. &ldquo;Am I forgiven?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my darling,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if you only knew how I loved you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do know it,&rdquo; she answered, gently, twining his hair round her finger,
      and arranging it over his forehead where his hand had ruffled it.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were completely absorbed in each other, or they must, at that moment,
      have heard the library door open at the other end of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet had written the necessary reply to her nephew, and had
      returned, faithful to her engagement, to plead the cause of Horace. The
      first object that met her view was her client pleading, with conspicuous
      success, for himself! &ldquo;I am not wanted, evidently,&rdquo; thought the old lady.
      She noiselessly closed the door again and left the lovers by themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace returned, with unwise persistency, to the question of the deferred
      marriage. At the first words that he spoke she drew back directly&mdash;sadly,
      not angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t press me to-day,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I am not well to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose and looked at her anxiously. &ldquo;May I speak about it to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, to-morrow.&rdquo; She returned to the sofa, and changed the subject. &ldquo;What
      a time Lady Janet is away!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What can be keeping her so long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace did his best to appear interested in the question of Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      prolonged absence. &ldquo;What made her leave you?&rdquo; he asked, standing at the
      back of the sofa and leaning over her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She went into the library to write a note to her nephew. By-the-by, who
      is her nephew?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible you don&rsquo;t know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, I don&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have heard of him, no doubt,&rdquo; said Horace. &ldquo;Lady Janet&rsquo;s nephew is a
      celebrated man.&rdquo; He paused, and stooping nearer to her, lifted a love-lock
      that lay over her shoulder and pressed it to his lips. &ldquo;Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      nephew,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;is Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She started off her seat, and looked round at him in blank, bewildered
      terror, as if she doubted the evidence of her own senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace was completely taken by surprise. &ldquo;My dear Grace!&rdquo; he exclaimed;
      &ldquo;what have I said or done to startle you this time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held up her hand for silence. &ldquo;Lady Janet&rsquo;s nephew is Julian Gray,&rdquo;
       she repeated; &ldquo;and I only know it now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace&rsquo;s perplexity increased. &ldquo;My darling, now you do know it, what is
      there to alarm you?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      (There was enough to alarm the boldest woman living&mdash;in such a
      position, and with such a temperament as hers. To her mind the personation
      of Grace Roseberry had suddenly assumed a new aspect: the aspect of a
      fatality. It had led her blindfold to the house in which she and the
      preacher at the Refuge were to meet. He was coming&mdash;the man who had
      reached her inmost heart, who had influenced her whole life! Was the day
      of reckoning coming with him?)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t notice me,&rdquo; she said, faintly. &ldquo;I have been ill all the morning.
      You saw it yourself when you came in here; even the sound of your voice
      alarmed me. I shall be better directly. I am afraid I startled you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Grace, it almost looked as if you were terrified at the sound of
      Julian&rsquo;s name! He is a public celebrity, I know; and I have seen ladies
      start and stare at him when he entered a room. But <i>you</i> looked
      perfectly panic-stricken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rallied her courage by a desperate effort; she laughed&mdash;a harsh,
      uneasy laugh&mdash;and stopped him by putting her hand over his mouth.
      &ldquo;Absurd!&rdquo; she said, lightly. &ldquo;As if Mr. Julian Gray had anything to do
      with my looks! I am better already. See for yourself!&rdquo; She looked round at
      him again with a ghastly gayety; and returned, with a desperate assumption
      of indifference, to the subject of Lady Janet&rsquo;s nephew. &ldquo;Of course I have
      heard of him,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Do you know that he is expected here to-day?
      Don&rsquo;t stand there behind me&mdash;it&rsquo;s so hard to talk to you. Come and
      sit down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He obeyed&mdash;but she had not quite satisfied him yet. His face had not
      lost its expression of anxiety and surprise. She persisted in playing her
      part, determined to set at rest in him any possible suspicion that she had
      reasons of her own for being afraid of Julian Gray. &ldquo;Tell me about this
      famous man of yours,&rdquo; she said, putting her arm familiarly through his
      arm. &ldquo;What is he like?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The caressing action and the easy tone had their effect on Horace. His
      face began to clear; he answered her lightly on his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prepare yourself to meet the most unclerical of clergymen,&rdquo; he said.
      &ldquo;Julian is a lost sheep among the parsons, and a thorn in the side of his
      bishop. Preaches, if they ask him, in Dissenters&rsquo; chapels. Declines to set
      up any pretensions to priestly authority and priestly power. Goes about
      doing good on a plan of his own. Is quite resigned never to rise to the
      high places in his profession. Says it&rsquo;s rising high enough for <i>him</i>
      to be the Archdeacon of the afflicted, the Dean of the hungry, and the
      Bishop of the poor. With all his oddities, as good a fellow as ever lived.
      Immensely popular with the women. They all go to him for advice. I wish
      you would go, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy changed color. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; she asked, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Julian is famous for his powers of persuasion,&rdquo; said Horace, smiling. &ldquo;If
      <i>he</i> spoke to you, Grace, he would prevail on you to fix the day.
      Suppose I ask Julian to plead for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made the proposal in jest. Mercy&rsquo;s unquiet mind accepted it as
      addressed to her in earnest. &ldquo;He will do it,&rdquo; she thought, with a sense of
      indescribable terror, &ldquo;if I don&rsquo;t stop him!&rdquo; There is but one chance for
      her. The only certain way to prevent Horace from appealing to his friend
      was to grant what Horace wished for before his friend entered the house.
      She laid her hand on his shoulder; she hid the terrible anxieties that
      were devouring her under an assumption of coquetry painful and pitiable to
      see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk nonsense!&rdquo; she said, gayly. &ldquo;What were we saying just now&mdash;before
      we began to speak of Mr. Julian Gray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were wondering what had become of Lady Janet,&rdquo; Horace replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tapped him impatiently on the shoulder. &ldquo;No! no! It was something you
      said before that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes completed what her words had left unsaid. Horace&rsquo;s arm stole
      round her waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was saying that I loved you,&rdquo; he answered, in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you tired of hearing it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled charmingly. &ldquo;Are you so very much in earnest about&mdash;about&mdash;&rdquo;
       She stopped, and looked away from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About our marriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the one dearest wish of my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause. Mercy&rsquo;s fingers toyed nervously with the trinkets at
      her watch-chain. &ldquo;When would you like it to be?&rdquo; she said, very softly,
      with her whole attention fixed on the watch-chain.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had never spoken, she had never looked, as she spoke and looked now.
      Horace was afraid to believe in his own good fortune. &ldquo;Oh, Grace!&rdquo; he
      exclaimed, &ldquo;you are not trifling with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What makes you think I am trifling with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace was innocent enough to answer her seriously. &ldquo;You would not even
      let me speak of our marriage just now,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind what I did just now,&rdquo; she retorted, petulantly. &ldquo;They say
      women are changeable. It is one of the defects of the sex.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven be praised for the defects of the sex!&rdquo; cried Horace, with devout
      sincerity. &ldquo;Do you really leave me to decide?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you insist on it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace considered for a moment&mdash;the subject being the law of
      marriage. &ldquo;We may be married by license in a fortnight,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I fix
      this day fortnight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held up her hands in protest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? My lawyer is ready. There are no preparations to make. You said
      when you accepted me that it was to be a private marriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy was obliged to own that she had certainly said that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We might be married at once&mdash;if the law would only let us. This day
      fortnight! Say&mdash;Yes!&rdquo; He drew her closer to him. There was a pause.
      The mask of coquetry&mdash;badly worn from the first&mdash;dropped from
      her. Her sad gray eyes rested compassionately on his eager face. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
      look so serious!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Only one little word, Grace! Only Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sighed, and said it. He kissed her passionately. It was only by a
      resolute effort that she released herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave me!&rdquo; she said, faintly. &ldquo;Pray leave me by myself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was in earnest&mdash;strangely in earnest. She was trembling from head
      to foot. Horace rose to leave her. &ldquo;I will find Lady Janet,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I
      long to show the dear old lady that I have recovered my spirits, and to
      tell her why.&rdquo; He turned round at the library door. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t go away?
      You will let me see you again when you are more composed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will wait here,&rdquo; said Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Satisfied with that reply, he left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her hands dropped on her lap; her head sank back wearily on the cushions
      at the head of the sofa. There was a dazed sensation in her: her mind felt
      stunned. She wondered vacantly whether she was awake or dreaming. Had she
      really said the word which pledged her to marry Horace Holmcroft in a
      fortnight? A fortnight! Something might happen in that time to prevent it:
      she might find her way in a fortnight out of the terrible position in
      which she stood. Anyway, come what might of it, she had chosen the
      preferable alternative to a private interview with Julian Gray. She raised
      herself from her recumbent position with a start, as the idea of the
      interview&mdash;dismissed for the last few minutes&mdash;possessed itself
      again of her mind. Her excited imagination figured Julian Gray as present
      in the room at that moment, speaking to her as Horace had proposed. She
      saw him seated close at her side&mdash;this man who had shaken her to the
      soul when he was in the pulpit, and when she was listening to him (unseen)
      at the other end of the chapel&mdash;she saw him close by her, looking her
      searchingly in the face; seeing her shameful secret in her eyes; hearing
      it in her voice; feeling it in her trembling hands; forcing it out of her
      word by word, till she fell prostrate at his feet with the confession of
      the fraud. Her head dropped again on the cushions; she hid her face in
      horror of the scene which her excited fancy had conjured up. Even now,
      when she had made that dreaded interview needless, could she feel sure
      (meeting him only on the most distant terms) of not betraying herself? She
      could <i>not</i> feel sure. Something in her shuddered and shrank at the
      bare idea of finding herself in the same room with him. She felt it, she
      knew it: her guilty conscience owned and feared its master in Julian Gray!
    </p>
    <p>
      The minutes passed. The violence of her agitation began to tell physically
      on her weakened frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      She found herself crying silently without knowing why. A weight was on her
      head, a weariness was in all her limbs. She sank lower on the cushions&mdash;her
      eyes closed&mdash;the monotonous ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece
      grew drowsily fainter and fainter on her ear. Little by little she dropped
      into slumber&mdash;slumber so light that she started when a morsel of coal
      fell into the grate, or when the birds chirped and twittered in their
      aviary in the winter-garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet and Horace came in. She was faintly conscious of persons in the
      room. After an interval she opened her eyes, and half rose to speak to
      them. The room was empty again. They had stolen out softly and left her to
      repose. Her eyes closed once more. She dropped back into slumber, and from
      slumber, in the favoring warmth and quiet of the place, into deep and
      dreamless sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN APPEARS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      After an interval of rest Mercy was aroused by the shutting of a glass
      door at the far end of the conservatory. This door, leading into the
      garden, was used only by the inmates of the house, or by old friends
      privileged to enter the reception-rooms by that way. Assuming that either
      Horace or Lady Janet was returning to the dining-room, Mercy raised
      herself a little on the&rsquo; sofa and listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of one of the men-servants caught her ear. It was answered by
      another voice, which instantly set her trembling in every limb.
    </p>
    <p>
      She started up, and listened again in speechless terror. Yes! there was no
      mistaking it. The voice that was answering the servant was the unforgotten
      voice which she had heard at the Refuge. The visitor who had come in by
      the glass door was&mdash;Julian Gray!
    </p>
    <p>
      His rapid footsteps advanced nearer and nearer to the dining-room. She
      recovered herself sufficiently to hurry to the library door. Her hand
      shook so that she failed at first to open it. She had just succeeded when
      she heard him again&mdash;speaking to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t run away! I am nothing very formidable. Only Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      nephew&mdash;Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned slowly, spell-bound by his voice, and confronted him in
      silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was standing, hat in hand, at the entrance to the conservatory, dressed
      in black, and wearing a white cravat, but with a studious avoidance of
      anything specially clerical in the make and form of his clothes. Young as
      he was, there were marks of care already on his face, and the hair was
      prematurely thin and scanty over his forehead. His slight, active figure
      was of no more than the middle height. His complexion was pale. The lower
      part of his face, without beard or whiskers, was in no way remarkable. An
      average observer would have passed him by without notice but for his eyes.
      These alone made a marked man of him. The unusual size of the orbits in
      which they were set was enough of itself to attract attention; it gave a
      grandeur to his head, which the head, broad and firm as it was, did not
      possess. As to the eyes themselves, the soft, lustrous brightness of them
      defied analysis No two people could agree about their color; divided
      opinion declaring alternately that they were dark gray or black. Painters
      had tried to reproduce them, and had given up the effort, in despair of
      seizing any one expression in the bewildering variety of expressions which
      they presented to view. They were eyes that could charm at one moment and
      terrify at another; eyes that could set people laughing or crying almost
      at will. In action and in repose they were irresistible alike. When they
      first descried Mercy running to the door, they brightened gayly with the
      merriment of a child. When she turned and faced him, they changed
      instantly, softening and glowing as they mutely owned the interest and the
      admiration which the first sight of her had roused in him. His tone and
      manner altered at the same time. He addressed her with the deepest respect
      when he spoke his next words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me entreat you to favor me by resuming your seat,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;And let
      me ask your pardon if I have thoughtlessly intruded on you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused, waiting for her reply before he advanced into the room. Still
      spell-bound by his voice, she recovered self-control enough to bow to him
      and to resume her place on the sofa. It was impossible to leave him now.
      After looking at her for a moment, he entered the room without speaking to
      her again. She was beginning to perplex as well as to interest him. &ldquo;No
      common sorrow,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;has set its mark on that woman&rsquo;s face; no
      common heart beats in that woman&rsquo;s breast. Who can she be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy rallied her courage, and forced herself to speak to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet is in the library, I believe,&rdquo; she said, timidly. &ldquo;Shall I
      tell her you are here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t disturb Lady Janet, and don&rsquo;t disturb yourself.&rdquo; With that answer
      he approached the luncheon-table, delicately giving her time to feel more
      at her ease. He took up what Horace had left of the bottle of claret, and
      poured it into a glass. &ldquo;My aunt&rsquo;s claret shall represent my aunt for the
      present,&rdquo; he said, smiling, as he turned toward her once more. &ldquo;I have had
      a long walk, and I may venture to help myself in this house without
      invitation. Is it useless to offer you anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy made the necessary reply. She was beginning already, after her
      remarkable experience of him, to wonder at his easy manners and his light
      way of talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      He emptied his glass with the air of a man who thoroughly understood and
      enjoyed good wine. &ldquo;My aunt&rsquo;s claret is worthy of my aunt,&rdquo; he said, with
      comic gravity, as he set down the glass. &ldquo;Both are the genuine products of
      Nature.&rdquo; He seated himself at the table and looked critically at the
      different dishes left on it. One dish especially attracted his attention.
      &ldquo;What is this?&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;A French pie! It seems grossly unfair to
      taste French wine and to pass over French pie without notice.&rdquo; He took up
      a knife and fork, and enjoyed the pie as critically as he had enjoyed the
      wine. &ldquo;Worthy of the Great Nation!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. &ldquo;<i>Vive
      la France!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy listened and looked, in inexpressible astonishment. He was utterly
      unlike the picture which her fancy had drawn of him in everyday life. Take
      off his white cravat, and nobody would have discovered that this famous
      preacher was a clergyman!
    </p>
    <p>
      He helped himself to another plateful of the pie, and spoke more directly
      to Mercy, alternately eating and talking as composedly and pleasantly as
      if they had known each other for years.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came here by way of Kensington Gardens,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;For some time past I
      have been living in a flat, ugly, barren, agricultural district. You can&rsquo;t
      think how pleasant I found the picture presented by the Gardens, as a
      contrast. The ladies in their rich winter dresses, the smart nursery
      maids, the lovely children, the ever moving crowd skating on the ice of
      the Round Pond; it was all so exhilarating after what I have been used to,
      that I actually caught myself whistling as I walked through the brilliant
      scene! (In my time boys used always to whistle when they were in good
      spirits, and I have not got over the habit yet.) Who do you think I met
      when I was in full song?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As well as her amazement would let her, Mercy excused herself from
      guessing. She had never in all her life before spoken to any living being
      so confusedly and so unintelligently as she now spoke to Julian Gray!
    </p>
    <p>
      He went on more gayly than ever, without appearing to notice the effect
      that he had produced on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom did I meet,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;when I was in full song? My bishop! If I
      had been whistling a sacred melody, his lordship might perhaps have
      excused my vulgarity out of consideration for my music. Unfortunately, the
      composition I was executing at the moment (I am one of the loudest of
      living whistlers) was by Verdi&mdash;&ldquo;La Donna e Mobile&rdquo;&mdash;familiar,
      no doubt, to his lordship on the street organs. He recognized the tune,
      poor man, and when I took off my hat to him he looked the other way.
      Strange, in a world that is bursting with sin and sorrow, to treat such a
      trifle seriously as a cheerful clergyman whistling a tune!&rdquo; He pushed away
      his plate as he said the last words, and went on simply and earnestly in
      an altered tone. &ldquo;I have never been able,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to see why we should
      assert ourselves among other men as belonging to a particular caste, and
      as being forbidden, in any harmless thing, to do as other people do. The
      disciples of old set us no such example; they were wiser and better than
      we are. I venture to say that one of the worst obstacles in the way of our
      doing good among our fellow-creatures is raised by the mere assumption of
      the clerical manner and the clerical voice. For my part, I set up no claim
      to be more sacred and more reverend than any other Christian man who does
      what good he can.&rdquo; He glanced brightly at Mercy, looking at him in
      helpless perplexity. The spirit of fun took possession of him again. &ldquo;Are
      you a Radical?&rdquo; he asked, with a humorous twinkle in his large lustrous
      eyes. &ldquo;I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy tried hard to understand him, and tried in vain. Could this be the
      preacher whose words had charmed, purified, ennobled her? Was this the man
      whose sermon had drawn tears from women about her whom she knew to be
      shameless and hardened in crime? Yes! The eyes that now rested on her
      humorously were the beautiful eyes which had once looked into her soul.
      The voice that had just addressed a jesting question to her was the deep
      and mellow voice which had once thrilled her to the heart. In the pulpit
      he was an angel of mercy; out of the pulpit he was a boy let loose from
      school.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let me startle you,&rdquo; he said, good-naturedly, noticing her
      confusion. &ldquo;Public opinion has called me by harder names than the name of
      &lsquo;Radical.&rsquo; I have been spending my time lately&mdash;as I told you just
      now&mdash;in an agricultural district. My business there was to perform
      the duty for the rector of the place, who wanted a holiday. How do you
      think the experiment has ended? The Squire of the parish calls me a
      Communist; the farmers denounce me as an Incendiary; my friend the rector
      has been recalled in a hurry, and I have now the honor of speaking to you
      in the character of a banished man who has made a respectable neighborhood
      too hot to hold him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that frank avowal he left the luncheon table, and took a chair near
      Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will naturally be anxious,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;to know what my offense was.
      Do you understand Political Economy and the Laws of Supply and Demand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy owned that she did <i>not</i> understand them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more do I&mdash;in a Christian country,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;That was my
      offense. You shall hear my confession (just as my aunt will hear it) in
      two words.&rdquo; He paused for a little while; his variable manner changed
      again. Mercy, shyly looking at him, saw a new expression in his eyes&mdash;an
      expression which recalled her first remembrance of him as nothing had
      recalled it yet. &ldquo;I had no idea,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;of what the life of a
      farm-laborer really was, in some parts of England, until I undertook the
      rector&rsquo;s duties. Never before had I seen such dire wretchedness as I saw
      in the cottages. Never before had I met with such noble patience under
      suffering as I found among the people. The martyrs of old could endure,
      and die. I asked myself if they could endure, and <i>live</i>, like the
      martyrs whom I saw round me?&mdash;live, week after week, month after
      month, year after year, on the brink of starvation; live, and see their
      pining children growing up round them, to work and want in their turn;
      live, with the poor man&rsquo;s parish prison to look to as the end, when hunger
      and labor have done their worst! Was God&rsquo;s beautiful earth made to hold
      such misery as this? I can hardly think of it, I can hardly speak of it,
      even now, with dry eyes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His head sank on his breast. He waited&mdash;mastering his emotion before
      he spoke again. Now, at last, she knew him once more. Now he was the man,
      indeed, whom she had expected to see. Unconsciously she sat listening,
      with her eyes fixed on his face, with his heart hanging on his words, in
      the very attitude of the by-gone day when she had heard him for the first
      time!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did all I could to plead for the helpless ones,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;I went
      round among the holders of the land to say a word for the tillers of the
      land. &lsquo;These patient people don&rsquo;t want much&rsquo; (I said); &lsquo;in the name of
      Christ, give them enough to live on!&rsquo; Political Economy shrieked at the
      horrid proposal; the Laws of Supply and Demand veiled their majestic faces
      in dismay. Starvation wages were the right wages, I was told. And why?
      Because the laborer was obliged to accept them! I determined, so far as
      one man could do it, that the laborer should <i>not</i> be obliged to
      accept them. I collected my own resources&mdash;I wrote to my friends&mdash;and
      I removed some of the poor fellows to parts of England where their work
      was better paid. Such was the conduct which made the neighborhood too hot
      to hold me. So let it be! I mean to go on. I am known in London; I can
      raise subscriptions. The vile Laws of Supply and Demand shall find labor
      scarce in that agricultural district; and pitiless Political Economy shall
      spend a few extra shillings on the poor, as certainly as I am that
      Radical, Communist, and Incendiary&mdash;Julian Gray!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose&mdash;making a little gesture of apology for the warmth with which
      he had spoken&mdash;and took a turn in the room. Fired by <i>his</i>
      enthusiasm, Mercy followed him. Her purse was in her hand, when he turned
      and faced her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray let me offer my little tribute&mdash;such as it is!&rdquo; she said,
      eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      A momentary flush spread over his pale cheeks as he looked at the
      beautiful compassionate face pleading with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no!&rdquo; he said, smiling; &ldquo;though I am a parson, I don&rsquo;t carry the
      begging-box everywhere.&rdquo; Mercy attempted to press the purse on him. The
      quaint humor began to twinkle again in his eyes as he abruptly drew back
      from it. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tempt me!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The frailest of all human creatures
      is a clergyman tempted by a subscription.&rdquo; Mercy persisted, and conquered;
      she made him prove the truth of his own profound observation of clerical
      human nature by taking a piece of money from the purse. &ldquo;If I must take it&mdash;I
      must!&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;Thank you for setting the good example! thank you for
      giving the timely help! What name shall I put down on my list?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s eyes looked confusedly away from him. &ldquo;No name,&rdquo; she said, in a
      low voice. &ldquo;My subscription is anonymous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she replied, the library door opened. To her infinite relief&mdash;to
      Julian&rsquo;s secret disappointment&mdash;Lady Janet Roy and Horace Holmcroft
      entered the room together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Julian!&rdquo; exclaimed Lady Janet, holding up her hands in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      He kissed his aunt on the cheek. &ldquo;Your ladyship is looking charmingly.&rdquo; He
      gave his hand to Horace. Horace took it, and passed on to Mercy. They
      walked away together slowly to the other end of the room. Julian seized on
      the chance which left him free to speak privately to his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came in through the conservatory,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;And I found that young
      lady in the room. Who is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you very much interested in her?&rdquo; asked Lady Janet, in her gravely
      ironical way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian answered in one expressive word. &ldquo;Indescribably!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet called to Mercy to join her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;let me formally present my nephew to you. Julian,
      this is Miss Grace Roseberry&mdash;&rdquo; She suddenly checked herself. The
      instant she pronounced the name, Julian started as if it was a surprise to
      him. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; she asked, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; he answered, bowing to Mercy, with a marked absence of his
      former ease of manner. She returned the courtesy a little restrainedly on
      her side. She, too, had seen him start when Lady Janet mentioned the name
      by which she was known. The start meant something. What could it be? Why
      did he turn aside, after bowing to her, and address himself to Horace,
      with an absent look in his face, as if his thoughts were far away from his
      words? A complete change had come over him; and it dated from the moment
      when his aunt had pronounced the name that was not <i>her</i> name&mdash;-the
      name that she had stolen!
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet claimed Julian&rsquo;s attention, and left Horace free to return to
      Mercy. &ldquo;Your room is ready for you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You will stay here, of
      course?&rdquo; Julian accepted the invitation&mdash;-still with the air of a man
      whose mind was preoccupied. Instead of looking at his aunt when he made
      his reply, he looked round at Mercy with a troubled curiosity in his face,
      very strange to see. Lady Janet tapped him impatiently on the shoulder. &ldquo;I
      expect people to look at me when people speak to me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What are
      you staring at my adopted daughter for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your adopted daughter?&rdquo; Julian repeated&mdash;looking at his aunt this
      time, and looking very earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly! As Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s daughter, she is connected with me by
      marriage already. Did you think I had picked up a foundling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian&rsquo;s face cleared; he looked relieved. &ldquo;I had forgotten the Colonel,&rdquo;
       he answered. &ldquo;Of course the young lady is related to us, as you say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charmed, I am sure, to have satisfied you that Grace is not an impostor,&rdquo;
       said Lady Janet, with satirical humility. She took Julian&rsquo;s arm and drew
      him out of hearing of Horace and Mercy. &ldquo;About that letter of yours?&rdquo; she
      proceeded. &ldquo;There is one line in it that rouses my curiosity. Who is the
      mysterious &lsquo;lady&rsquo; whom you wish to present to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian started, and changed color.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you now,&rdquo; he said, in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To Lady Janet&rsquo;s unutterable astonishment, instead of replying, Julian
      looked round at her adopted daughter once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has <i>she</i> got to do with it?&rdquo; asked the old lady, out of all
      patience with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible for me to tell you,&rdquo; he answered, gravely, &ldquo;while Miss
      Roseberry is in the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX. NEWS FROM MANNHEIM.
    </h2>
    <p>
      LADY JANET&rsquo;S curiosity was by this time thoroughly aroused. Summoned to
      explain who the nameless lady mentioned in his letter could possibly be,
      Julian had looked at her adopted daughter. Asked next to explain what her
      adopted daughter had got to do with it, he had declared that he could not
      answer while Miss Roseberry was in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      What did he mean? Lady Janet determined to find out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hate all mysteries,&rdquo; she said to Julian. &ldquo;And as for secrets, I
      consider them to be one of the forms of ill-breeding. People in our rank
      of life ought to be above whispering in corners. If you <i>must</i> have
      your mystery, I can offer you a corner in the library. Come with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian followed his aunt very reluctantly. Whatever the mystery might be,
      he was plainly embarrassed by being called upon to reveal it at a moment&rsquo;s
      notice. Lady Janet settled herself in her chair, prepared to question and
      cross-question her nephew, when an obstacle appeared at the other end of
      the library, in the shape of a man-servant with a message. One of Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s neighbors had called by appointment to take her to the meeting of
      a certain committee which assembled that day. The servant announced that
      the neighbor&mdash;an elderly lady&mdash;was then waiting in her carriage
      at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s ready invention set the obstacle aside without a moment&rsquo;s
      delay. She directed the servant to show her visitor into the drawing-room,
      and to say that she was unexpectedly engaged, but that Miss Roseberry
      would see the lady immediately. She then turned to Julian, and said, with
      her most satirical emphasis of tone and manner: &ldquo;Would it be an additional
      convenience if Miss Roseberry was not only out of the room before you
      disclose your secret, but out of the house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian gravely answered: &ldquo;It may possibly be quite as well if Miss
      Roseberry is out of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet led the way back to the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Grace,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you looked flushed and feverish when I saw you
      asleep on the sofa a little while since. It will do you no harm to have a
      drive in the fresh air. Our friend has called to take me to the committee
      meeting. I have sent to tell her that I am engaged&mdash;and I shall be
      much obliged if you will go in my place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy looked a little alarmed. &ldquo;Does your ladyship mean the committee
      meeting of the Samaritan Convalescent Home? The members, as I understand
      it, are to decide to-day which of the plans for the new building they are
      to adopt. I cannot surely presume to vote in your place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can vote, my dear child, just as well as I can,&rdquo; replied the old
      lady. &ldquo;Architecture is one of the lost arts. You know nothing about it; I
      know nothing about it; the architects themselves know nothing about it.
      One plan is, no doubt, just as bad as the other. Vote, as I should vote,
      with the majority. Or as poor dear Dr. Johnson said, &lsquo;Shout with the
      loudest mob.&rsquo; Away with you&mdash;and don&rsquo;t keep the committee waiting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace hastened to open the door for Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long shall you be away?&rdquo; he whispered, confidentially. &ldquo;I had a
      thousand things to say to you, and they have interrupted us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be back in an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall have the room to ourselves by that time. Come here when you
      return. You will find me waiting for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy pressed his hand significantly and went out. Lady Janet turned to
      Julian, who had thus far remained in the background, still, to all
      appearance, as unwilling as ever to enlighten his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What is tying your tongue now? Grace is out of the
      room; why won&rsquo;t you begin? Is Horace in the way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in the least. I am only a little uneasy&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uneasy about what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid you have put that charming creature to some inconvenience in
      sending her away just at this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace looked up suddenly, with a flush on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you say &lsquo;that charming creature,&rsquo;&rdquo; he asked, sharply, &ldquo;I suppose you
      mean Miss Roseberry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; answered Julian. &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet interposed. &ldquo;Gently, Julian,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Grace has only been
      introduced to you hitherto in the character of my adopted daughter&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it seems to be high time,&rdquo; Horace added, haughtily, &ldquo;that I should
      present her next in the character of my engaged wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian looked at Horace as if he could hardly credit the evidence of his
      own ears. &ldquo;Your wife!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with an irrepressible outburst of
      disappointment and surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. My wife,&rdquo; returned Horace. &ldquo;We are to be married in a fortnight. May
      I ask,&rdquo; he added, with angry humility, &ldquo;if you disapprove of the
      marriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet interposed once more. &ldquo;Nonsense, Horace,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Julian
      congratulates you, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian coldly and absently echoed the words. &ldquo;Oh, yes! I congratulate you,
      of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet returned to the main object of the interview.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now we thoroughly understand one another,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;let us speak of a
      lady who has dropped out of the conversation for the last minute or two. I
      mean, Julian, the mysterious lady of your letter. We are alone, as you
      desired. Lift the veil, my reverend nephew, which hides her from mortal
      eyes! Blush, if you like&mdash;and can. Is she the future Mrs. Julian
      Gray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is a perfect stranger to me,&rdquo; Julian answered, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A perfect stranger! You wrote me word you were interested in her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>am</i> interested in her. And, what is more, you are interested in
      her, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s fingers drummed impatiently on the table. &ldquo;Have I not warned
      you, Julian, that I hate mysteries? Will you, or will you not, explain
      yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before it was possible to answer, Horace rose from his chair. &ldquo;Perhaps I
      am in the way?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian signed to him to sit down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have already told Lady Janet that you are not in the way,&rdquo; he answered.
      &ldquo;I now tell you&mdash;as Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s future husband&mdash;that you,
      too, have an interest in hearing what I have to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace resumed his seat with an air of suspicious surprise. Julian
      addressed himself to Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have often heard me speak,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;of my old friend and
      school-fellow, John Cressingham?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. The English consul at Mannheim?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same. When I returned from the country I found among my other letters
      a long letter from the consul. I have brought it with me, and I propose to
      read certain passages from it, which tell a very strange story more
      plainly and more credibly than I can tell it in my own words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will it be very long?&rdquo; inquired Lady Janet, looking with some alarm at
      the closely written sheets of paper which her nephew spread open before
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace followed with a question on his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are sure I am interested in it?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;The consul at Mannheim is
      a total stranger to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I answer for it,&rdquo; replied Julian, gravely, &ldquo;neither my aunt&rsquo;s patience
      nor yours, Horace, will be thrown away if you will favor me by listening
      attentively to what I am about to read.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With those words he began his first extract from the consul&rsquo;s letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      * * * &ldquo;&lsquo;My memory is a bad one for dates. But full three months must have
      passed since information was sent to me of an English patient, received at
      the hospital here, whose case I, as English consul, might feel an interest
      in investigating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I went the same day to the hospital, and was taken to the bedside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;The patient was a woman&mdash;young, and (when in health), I should
      think, very pretty. When I first saw her she looked, to my uninstructed
      eye, like a dead woman. I noticed that her head had a bandage over it, and
      I asked what was the nature of the injury that she had received. The
      answer informed me that the poor creature had been present, nobody knew
      why or wherefore, at a skirmish or night attack between the Germans and
      the French, and that the injury to her head had been inflicted by a
      fragment of a German shell.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace&mdash;thus far leaning back carelessly in his chair&mdash;suddenly
      raised himself and exclaimed, &ldquo;Good heavens! can this be the woman I saw
      laid out for dead in the French cottage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible for me to say,&rdquo; replied Julian. &ldquo;Listen to the rest of
      it. The consul&rsquo;s letter may answer your question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went on with his reading:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;The wounded woman had been reported dead, and had been left by the
      French in their retreat, at the time when the German forces took
      possession of the enemy&rsquo;s position. She was found on a bed in a cottage by
      the director of the German ambulance&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ignatius Wetzel?&rdquo; cried Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ignatius Wetzel,&rdquo; repeated Julian, looking at the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>is</i> the same!&rdquo; said Horace. &ldquo;Lady Janet, we are really
      interested in this. You remember my telling you how I first met with
      Grace? And you have heard more about it since, no doubt, from Grace
      herself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has a horror of referring to that part of her journey home,&rdquo; replied
      Lady Janet. &ldquo;She mentioned her having been stopped on the frontier, and
      her finding herself accidentally in the company of another Englishwoman, a
      perfect stranger to her. I naturally asked questions on my side, and was
      shocked to hear that she had seen the woman killed by a German shell
      almost close at her side. Neither she nor I have had any relish for
      returning to the subject since. You were quite right, Julian, to avoid
      speaking of it while she was in the room. I understand it all now. Grace,
      I suppose, mentioned my name to her fellow-traveler. The woman is, no
      doubt, in want of assistance, and she applies to me through you. I will
      help her; but she must not come here until I have prepared Grace for
      seeing her again, a living woman. For the present there is no reason why
      they should meet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not sure about that,&rdquo; said Julian, in low tones, without looking up
      at his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean? Is the mystery not at an end yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The mystery has not even begun yet. Let my friend the consul proceed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian returned for the second time to his extract from the letter:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;After a careful examination of the supposed corpse, the German surgeon
      arrived at the conclusion that a case of suspended animation had (in the
      hurry of the French retreat) been mistaken for a case of death. Feeling a
      professional interest in the subject, he decided on putting his opinion to
      the test. He operated on the patient with complete success. After
      performing the operation he kept her for some days under his own care, and
      then transferred her to the nearest hospital&mdash;the hospital at
      Mannheim. He was obliged to return to his duties as army surgeon, and he
      left his patient in the condition in which I saw her, insensible on the
      bed. Neither he nor the hospital authorities knew anything whatever about
      the woman. No papers were found on her. All the doctors could do, when I
      asked them for information with a view to communicating with her friends,
      was to show me her linen marked with her, name. I left the hospital after
      taking down the name in my pocket-book. It was &ldquo;Mercy Merrick.&rdquo;&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet produced <i>her</i> pocket-book. &ldquo;Let me take the name down
      too,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I never heard it before, and I might otherwise forget it.
      Go on, Julian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian advanced to his second extract from the consul&rsquo;s letter:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Under these circumstances, I could only wait to hear from the hospital
      when the patient was sufficiently recovered to be able to speak to me.
      Some weeks passed without my receiving any communication from the doctors.
      On calling to make inquiries I was informed that fever had set in, and
      that the poor creature&rsquo;s condition now alternated between exhaustion and
      delirium. In her delirious moments the name of your aunt, Lady Janet Roy,
      frequently escaped her. Otherwise her wanderings were for the most part
      quite unintelligible to the people at her bedside. I thought once or twice
      of writing to you, and of begging you to speak to Lady Janet. But as the
      doctors informed me that the chances of life or death were at this time
      almost equally balanced, I decided to wait until time should determine
      whether it was necessary to trouble you or not.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know best, Julian,&rdquo; said Lady Janet. &ldquo;But I own I don&rsquo;t quite see in
      what way I am interested in this part of the story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just what I was going to say,&rdquo; added Horace. &ldquo;It is very sad, no doubt.
      But what have <i>we</i> to do with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me read my third extract,&rdquo; Julian answered, &ldquo;and you will see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned to the third extract, and read as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;At last I received a message from the hospital informing me that Mercy
      Merrick was out of danger, and that she was capable (though still very
      weak) of answering any questions which I might think it desirable to put
      to her. On reaching the hospital, I was requested, rather to my surprise,
      to pay my first visit to the head physician in his private room. &ldquo;I think
      it right,&rdquo; said this gentleman, &ldquo;to warn you, before you see the patient,
      to be very careful how you speak to her, and not to irritate her by
      showing any surprise or expressing any doubts if she talks to you in an
      extravagant manner. We differ in opinion about her here. Some of us
      (myself among the number) doubt whether the recovery of her mind has
      accompanied the recovery of her bodily powers. Without pronouncing her to
      be mad&mdash;she is perfectly gentle and harmless&mdash;we are
      nevertheless of opinion that she is suffering under a species of insane
      delusion. Bear in mind the caution which I have given you&mdash;and now go
      and judge for yourself.&rdquo; I obeyed, in some little perplexity and surprise.
      The sufferer, when I approached her bed, looked sadly weak and worn; but,
      so far as I could judge, seemed to be in full possession of herself. Her
      tone and manner were unquestionably the tone and manner of a lady. After
      briefly introducing myself, I assured her that I should be glad, both
      officially and personally, if I could be of any assistance to her. In
      saying these trifling words I happened to address her by the name I had
      seen marked on her clothes. The instant the words &ldquo;Miss Merrick&rdquo; passed my
      lips a wild, vindictive expression appeared in her eyes. She exclaimed
      angrily, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t call me by that hateful name! It&rsquo;s not my name. All the
      people here persecute me by calling me Mercy Merrick. And when I am angry
      with them they show me the clothes. Say what I may, they persist in
      believing they are my clothes. Don&rsquo;t you do the same, if you want to be
      friends with me.&rdquo; Remembering what the physician had said to me, I made
      the necessary excuses and succeeded in soothing her. Without reverting to
      the irritating topic of the name, I merely inquired what her plans were,
      and assured her that she might command my services if she required them.
      &ldquo;Why do you want to know what my plans are?&rdquo; she asked, suspiciously. I
      reminded her in reply that I held the position of English consul, and that
      my object was, if possible, to be of some assistance to her. &ldquo;You can be
      of the greatest assistance to me,&rdquo; she said, eagerly. &ldquo;Find Mercy
      Merrick!&rdquo; I saw the vindictive look come back into her eyes, and an angry
      flush rising on her white cheeks. Abstaining from showing any surprise, I
      asked her who Mercy Merrick was. &ldquo;A vile woman, by her own confession,&rdquo;
       was the quick reply. &ldquo;How am I to find her?&rdquo; I inquired next. &ldquo;Look for a
      woman in a black dress, with the Red Geneva Cross on her shoulder; she is
      a nurse in the French ambulance.&rdquo; &ldquo;What has she done?&rdquo; &ldquo;I have lost my
      papers; I have lost my own clothes; Mercy Merrick has taken them.&rdquo; &ldquo;How do
      you know that Mercy Merrick has taken them?&rdquo; &ldquo;Nobody else could have taken
      them&mdash;that&rsquo;s how I know it. Do you believe me or not?&rdquo; She was
      beginning to excite herself again; I assured her that I would at once send
      to make inquiries after Mercy Merrick. She turned round contented on the
      pillow. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a good man!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Come back and tell me when you
      have caught her.&rdquo; Such was my first interview with the English patient at
      the hospital at Mannheim. It is needless to say that I doubted the
      existence of the absent person described as a nurse. However, it was
      possible to make inquiries by applying to the surgeon, Ignatius Wetzel,
      whose whereabouts was known to his friends in Mannheim. I wrote to him,
      and received his answer in due time. After the night attack of the Germans
      had made them masters of the French position, he had entered the cottage
      occupied by the French ambulance. He had found the wounded Frenchmen left
      behind, but had seen no such person in attendance on them as the nurse in
      the black dress with the red cross on her shoulder. The only living woman
      in the place was a young English lady, in a gray traveling cloak, who had
      been stopped on the frontier, and who was forwarded on her way home by the
      war correspondent of an English journal.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was Grace,&rdquo; said Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I was the war correspondent,&rdquo; added Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A few words more,&rdquo; said Julian, &ldquo;and you will understand my object in
      claiming your attention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He returned to the letter for the last time, and concluded his extracts
      from it as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Instead of attending at the hospital myself, I communicated by letter
      the failure of my attempt to discover the missing nurse. For some little
      time afterward I heard no more of the sick woman, whom I shall still call
      Mercy Merrick. It was only yesterday that I received another summons to
      visit the patient. She had by this time sufficiently recovered to claim
      her discharge, and she had announced her intention of returning forthwith
      to England. The head physician, feeling a sense of responsibility, had
      sent for me. It was impossible to detain her on the ground that she was
      not fit to be trusted by herself at large, in consequence of the
      difference of opinion among the doctors on the case. All that could be
      done was to give me due notice, and to leave the matter in my hands. On
      seeing her for the second time, I found her sullen and reserved. She
      openly attributed my inability to find the nurse to want of zeal for her
      interests on my part. I had, on my side, no authority whatever to detain
      her. I could only inquire whether she had money enough to pay her
      traveling expenses. Her reply informed me that the chaplain of the
      hospital had mentioned her forlorn situation in the town, and that the
      English residents had subscribed a small sum of money to enable her to
      return to her own country. Satisfied on this head, I asked next if she had
      friends to go to in England. &ldquo;I have one friend,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;who is a
      host in herself&mdash;Lady Janet Roy.&rdquo; You may imagine my surprise when I
      heard this. I found it quite useless to make any further inquiries as to
      how she came to know your aunt, whether your aunt expected her, and so on.
      My questions evidently offended her; they were received in sulky silence.
      Under these circumstances, well knowing that I can trust implicitly to
      your humane sympathy for misfortune, I have decided (after careful
      reflection) to insure the poor creature&rsquo;s safety when she arrives in
      London by giving her a letter to you. You will hear what she says, and you
      will be better able to discover than I am whether she really has any claim
      on Lady Janet Roy. One last word of information, which it may be necessary
      to add, and I shall close this inordinately long letter. At my first
      interview with her I abstained, as I have already told you, from
      irritating her by any inquiries on the subject of her name. On this second
      occasion, however, I decided on putting the question.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he read those last words, Julian became aware of a sudden movement on
      the part of his aunt. Lady Janet had risen softly from her chair and had
      passed behind him with the purpose of reading the consul&rsquo;s letter for
      herself over her nephew&rsquo;s shoulder. Julian detected the action just in
      time to frustrate Lady Janet&rsquo;s intention by placing his hand over the last
      two lines of the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you do that for?&rdquo; inquired his aunt, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are welcome, Lady Janet, to read the close of the letter for
      yourself,&rdquo; Julian replied. &ldquo;But before you do so I am anxious to prepare
      you for a very great surprise. Compose yourself and let me read on slowly,
      with your eye on me, until I uncover the last two words which close my
      friend&rsquo;s letter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He read the end of the letter, as he had proposed, in these terms:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I looked the woman straight in the face, and I said to her, &ldquo;You have
      denied that the name marked on the clothes which you wore when you came
      here was your name. If you are not Mercy Merrick, who are you?&rdquo; She
      answered, instantly, &ldquo;My name is &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&ldquo;&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian removed his hand from the page. Lady Janet looked at the next two
      words, and started back with a loud cry of astonishment, which brought
      Horace instantly to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, one of you!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;What name did she give?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian told him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;GRACE ROSEBERRY.&rdquo; <a id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X. A COUNCIL OF THREE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      FOR a moment Horace stood thunderstruck, looking in blank astonishment at
      Lady Janet. His first words, as soon as he had recovered himself, were
      addressed to Julian. &ldquo;Is this a joke?&rdquo; he asked, sternly. &ldquo;If it is, I for
      one don&rsquo;t see the humor of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian pointed to the closely written pages of the consul&rsquo;s letter. &ldquo;A man
      writes in earnest,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;when he writes at such length as this. The
      woman seriously gave the name of Grace Roseberry, and when she left
      Mannheim she traveled to England for the express purpose of presenting
      herself to Lady Janet Roy.&rdquo; He turned to his aunt. &ldquo;You saw me start,&rdquo; he
      went on, &ldquo;when you first mentioned Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s name in my hearing.
      Now you know why.&rdquo; He addressed himself once more to Horace. &ldquo;You heard me
      say that you, as Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s future husband, had an interest in being
      present at my interview with Lady Janet. Now <i>you</i> know why.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The woman is plainly mad,&rdquo; said Lady Janet. &ldquo;But it is certainly a
      startling form of madness when one first hears of it. Of course we must
      keep the matter, for the present at least, a secret from Grace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There can be no doubt,&rdquo; Horace agreed, &ldquo;that Grace must be kept in the
      dark, in her present state of health. The servants had better be warned
      beforehand, in case of this adventuress or madwoman, whichever she may be,
      attempting to make her way into the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall be done immediately,&rdquo; said Lady Janet. &ldquo;What surprises <i>me</i>
      Julian (ring the bell, if you please), is that you should describe
      yourself in your letter as feeling an interest in this person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian answered&mdash;without ringing the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am more interested than ever,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;now I find that Miss Roseberry
      herself is your guest at Mablethorpe House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were always perverse, Julian, as a child, in your likings and
      dislikings,&rdquo; Lady Janet rejoined. &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you ring the bell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For one good reason, my dear aunt. I don&rsquo;t wish to hear you tell your
      servants to close the door on this friendless creature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet cast a look at her nephew which plainly expressed that she
      thought he had taken a liberty with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t expect me to see the woman?&rdquo; she asked, in a tone of cold
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you will not refuse to see her,&rdquo; Julian answered, quietly. &ldquo;I was
      out when she called. I must hear what she has to say&mdash;and I should
      infinitely prefer hearing it in your presence. When I got your reply to my
      letter, permitting me to present her to you, I wrote to her immediately,
      appointing a meeting here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet lifted her bright black eyes in mute expostulation to the
      carved Cupids and wreaths on the dining-room ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When am I to have the honor of the lady&rsquo;s visit?&rdquo; she inquired, with
      ironical resignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-day,&rdquo; answered her nephew, with impenetrable patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At what hour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian composedly consulted his watch. &ldquo;She is ten minutes after her
      time,&rdquo; he said, and put his watch back in his pocket again.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment the servant appeared, and advanced to Julian, carrying
      a visiting card on his little silver tray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A lady to see you, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian took the card, and, bowing, handed it to his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here she is,&rdquo; he said, just as quietly as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet looked at the card, and tossed it indignantly back to her
      nephew. &ldquo;Miss Roseberry!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Printed&mdash;actually printed
      on her card! Julian, even MY patience has its limits. I refuse to see
      her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant was still waiting&mdash;not like a human being who took an
      interest in the proceedings, but (as became a perfectly bred footman) like
      an article of furniture artfully constructed to come and go at the word of
      command. Julian gave the word of command, addressing the admirably
      constructed automaton by the name of &ldquo;James.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the lady now?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the breakfast-room, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave her there, if you please, and wait outside within hearing of the
      bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The legs of the furniture-footman acted, and took him noiselessly out of
      the room. Julian turned to his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;for venturing to give the man his orders in your
      presence. I am very anxious that you should not decide hastily. Surely we
      ought to hear what this lady has to say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace dissented widely from his friend&rsquo;s opinion. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s an insult to
      Grace,&rdquo; he broke out, warmly, &ldquo;to hear what she has to say!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet nodded her head in high approval. &ldquo;I think so, too,&rdquo; said her
      ladyship, crossing her handsome old hands resolutely on her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian applied himself to answering Horace first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have no intention of presuming to reflect on Miss
      Roseberry, or of bringing her into the matter at all.&mdash;The consul&rsquo;s
      letter,&rdquo; he went on, speaking to his aunt, &ldquo;mentions, if you remember,
      that the medical authorities of Mannheim were divided in opinion on their
      patient&rsquo;s case. Some of them&mdash;the physician-in-chief being among the
      number&mdash;believe that the recovery of her mind has not accompanied the
      recovery of her body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In other words,&rdquo; Lady Janet remarked, &ldquo;a madwoman is in my house, and I
      am expected to receive her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let us exaggerate,&rdquo; said Julian, gently. &ldquo;It can serve no good
      interest, in this serious matter, to exaggerate anything. The consul
      assures us, on the authority of the doctor, that she is perfectly gentle
      and harmless. If she is really the victim of a mental delusion, the poor
      creature is surely an object of compassion, and she ought to be placed
      under proper care. Ask your own kind heart, my dear aunt, if it would not
      be downright cruelty to turn this forlorn woman adrift in the world
      without making some inquiry first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s inbred sense of justice admitted not over-willingly&mdash;the
      reasonableness as well as the humanity of the view expressed in those
      words. &ldquo;There is some truth in that, Julian,&rdquo; she said, shifting her
      position uneasily in her chair, and looking at Horace. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think
      so, too?&rdquo; she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say I do,&rdquo; answered Horace, in the positive tone of a man whose
      obstinacy is proof against every form of appeal that can be addressed to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The patience of Julian was firm enough to be a match for the obstinacy of
      Horace. &ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; he resumed, with undiminished good temper, &ldquo;we are
      all three equally interested in setting this matter at rest. I put it to
      you, Lady Janet, if we are not favored, at this lucky moment, with the
      very opportunity that we want? Miss Roseberry is not only out of the room,
      but out of the house. If we let this chance slip, who can say what awkward
      accident may not happen in the course of the next few days?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let the woman come in,&rdquo; cried Lady Janet, deciding headlong, with her
      customary impatience of all delay. &ldquo;At once, Julian&mdash;before Grace can
      come back. Will you ring the bell this time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time Julian rang it. &ldquo;May I give the man his orders?&rdquo; he respectfully
      inquired of his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give him anything you like, and have done with it!&rdquo; retorted the
      irritable old lady, getting briskly on her feet, and taking a turn in the
      room to compose herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The servant withdrew, with orders to show the visitor in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace crossed the room at the same time&mdash;apparently with the
      intention of leaving it by the door at the opposite end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not going away?&rdquo; exclaimed Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see no use in my remaining here,&rdquo; replied Horace, not very graciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case,&rdquo; retorted Lady Janet, &ldquo;remain here because I wish it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly&mdash;if you wish it. Only remember,&rdquo; he added, more
      obstinately than ever, &ldquo;that I differ entirely from Julian&rsquo;s view. In my
      opinion the woman has no claim on us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A passing movement of irritation escaped Julian for the first time. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
      be hard, Horace,&rdquo; he said, sharply. &ldquo;All women have a claim on us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had unconsciously gathered together, in the heat of the little
      debate, turning their backs on the library door. At the last words of the
      reproof administered by Julian to Horace, their attention was recalled to
      passing events by the slight noise produced by the opening and closing of
      the door. With one accord the three turned and looked in the direction
      from which the sounds had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI. THE DEAD ALIVE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      JUST inside the door there appeared the figure of a small woman dressed in
      plain and poor black garments. She silently lifted her black net veil and
      disclosed a dull, pale, worn, weary face. The forehead was low and broad;
      the eyes were unusually far apart; the lower features were remarkably
      small and delicate. In health (as the consul at Mannheim had remarked)
      this woman must have possessed, if not absolute beauty, at least rare
      attractions peculiarly her own. As it was now, suffering&mdash;sullen,
      silent, self-contained suffering&mdash;had marred its beauty. Attention
      and even curiosity it might still rouse. Admiration or interest it could
      excite no longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The small, thin, black figure stood immovably inside the door. The dull,
      worn, white face looked silently at the three persons in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The three persons in the room, on their side, stood for a moment without
      moving, and looked silently at the stranger on the threshold. There was
      something either in the woman herself, or in the sudden and stealthy
      manner of her appearance in the room, which froze, as if with the touch of
      an invisible cold hand, the sympathies of all three. Accustomed to the
      world, habitually at their ease in every social emergency, they were now
      silenced for the first time in their lives by the first serious sense of
      embarrassment which they had felt since they were children in the presence
      of a stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had the appearance of the true Grace Roseberry aroused in their minds a
      suspicion of the woman who had stolen her name, and taken her place in the
      house?
    </p>
    <p>
      Not so much as the shadow of a suspicion of Mercy was at the bottom of the
      strange sense of uneasiness which had now deprived them alike of their
      habitual courtesy and their habitual presence of mind. It was as
      practically impossible for any one of the three to doubt the identity of
      the adopted daughter of the house as it would be for you who read these
      lines to doubt the identity of the nearest and dearest relative you have
      in the world. Circumstances had fortified Mercy behind the strongest of
      all natural rights&mdash;the right of first possession. Circumstances had
      armed her with the most irresistible of all natural forces&mdash;the force
      of previous association and previous habit. Not by so much as a
      hair-breadth was the position of the false Grace Roseberry shaken by the
      first appearance of the true Grace Roseberry within the doors of
      Mablethorpe House. Lady Janet felt suddenly repelled, without knowing why.
      Julian and Horace felt suddenly repelled, without knowing why. Asked to
      describe their own sensations at the moment, they would have shaken their
      heads in despair, and would have answered in those words. The vague
      presentiment of some misfortune to come had entered the room with the
      entrance of the woman in black. But it moved invisibly; and it spoke as
      all presentiments speak, in the Unknown Tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment passed. The crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock
      were the only sounds audible in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of the visitor&mdash;hard, clear, and quiet&mdash;was the first
      voice that broke the silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Julian Gray?&rdquo; she said, looking interrogatively from one of the two
      gentlemen to the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian advanced a few steps, instantly recovering his self-possession. &ldquo;I
      am sorry I was not at home,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;when you called with your letter
      from the consul. Pray take a chair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By way of setting the example, Lady Janet seated herself at some little
      distance, with Horace in attendance standing near. She bowed to the
      stranger with studious politeness, but without uttering a word, before she
      settled herself in her chair. &ldquo;I am obliged to listen to this person,&rdquo;
       thought the old lady. &ldquo;But I am <i>not</i> obliged to speak to her. That
      is Julian&rsquo;s business&mdash;not mine. Don&rsquo;t stand, Horace! You fidget me.
      Sit down.&rdquo; Armed beforehand in her policy of silence, Lady Janet folded
      her handsome hands as usual, and waited for the proceedings to begin, like
      a judge on the bench.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you take a chair?&rdquo; Julian repeated, observing that the visitor
      appeared neither to heed nor to hear his first words of welcome to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this second appeal she spoke to him. &ldquo;Is that Lady Janet Roy?&rdquo; she
      asked, with her eyes fixed on the mistress of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian answered, and drew back to watch the result.
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman in the poor black garments changed her position for the first
      time. She moved slowly across the room to the place at which Lady Janet
      was sitting, and addressed her respectfully with perfect self-possession
      of manner. Her whole demeanor, from the moment when she had appeared at
      the door, had expressed&mdash;at once plainly and becomingly&mdash;confidence
      in the reception that awaited her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Almost the last words my father said to me on his death-bed,&rdquo; she began,
      &ldquo;were words, madam, which told me to expect protection and kindness from
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not Lady Janet&rsquo;s business to speak. She listened with the blandest
      attention. She waited with the most exasperating silence to hear more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace Roseberry drew back a step&mdash;not intimidated&mdash;only
      mortified and surprised. &ldquo;Was my father wrong?&rdquo; she asked, with a simple
      dignity of tone and manner which forced Lady Janet to abandon her policy
      of silence, in spite of herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was your father?&rdquo; she asked, coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace Roseberry answered the question in a tone of stern surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has the servant not given you my card?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know my
      name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which of your names?&rdquo; rejoined Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand your ladyship.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will make myself understood. You asked me if I knew your name. I ask
      you, in return, which name it is? The name on your card is &lsquo;Miss
      Roseberry.&rsquo; The name marked on your clothes, when you were in the
      hospital, was &lsquo;Mercy Merrick.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The self-possession which Grace had maintained from the moment when she
      had entered the dining-room, seemed now, for the first time, to be on the
      point of failing her. She turned, and looked appealingly at Julian, who
      had thus far kept his place apart, listening attentively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;your friend, the consul, has told you in his letter
      about the mark on the clothes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Something of the girlish hesitation and timidity which had marked her
      demeanor at her interview with Mercy in the French cottage re-appeared in
      her tone and manner as she spoke those words. The changes&mdash;mostly
      changes for the worse&mdash;wrought in her by the suffering through which
      she had passed since that time were now (for the moment) effaced. All that
      was left of the better and simpler side of her character asserted itself
      in her brief appeal to Julian. She had hitherto repelled him. He began to
      feel a certain compassionate interest in her now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The consul has informed me of what you said to him,&rdquo; he answered, kindly.
      &ldquo;But, if you will take my advice, I recommend you to tell your story to
      Lady Janet in your own words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace again addressed herself with submissive reluctance to Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The clothes your ladyship speaks of,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;were the clothes of
      another woman. The rain was pouring when the soldiers detained me on the
      frontier. I had been exposed for hours to the weather&mdash;I was wet to
      the skin. The clothes marked &lsquo;Mercy Merrick&rsquo; were the clothes lent to me
      by Mercy Merrick herself while my own things were drying. I was struck by
      the shell in those clothes. I was carried away insensible in those clothes
      after the operation had been performed on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet listened to perfection&mdash;and did no more. She turned
      confidentially to Horace, and said to him, in her gracefully ironical way:
      &ldquo;She is ready with her explanation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace answered in the same tone: &ldquo;A great deal too ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace looked from one of them to the other. A faint flush of color showed
      itself in her face for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I to understand,&rdquo; she asked, with proud composure, &ldquo;that you don&rsquo;t
      believe me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet maintained her policy of silence. She waved one hand
      courteously toward Julian, as if to say, &ldquo;Address your inquiries to the
      gentleman who introduces you.&rdquo; Julian, noticing the gesture, and observing
      the rising color in Grace&rsquo;s cheeks, interfered directly in the interests
      of peace
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet asked you a question just now,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;Lady Janet inquired
      who your father was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father was the late Colonel Roseberry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet made another confidential remark to Horace. &ldquo;Her assurance
      amazes me!&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian interposed before his aunt could add a word more. &ldquo;Pray let us hear
      her,&rdquo; he said, in a tone of entreaty which had something of the imperative
      in it this time. He turned to Grace. &ldquo;Have you any proof to produce,&rdquo; he
      added, in his gentler voice, &ldquo;which will satisfy us that you are Colonel
      Roseberry&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace looked at him indignantly. &ldquo;Proof!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Is my word not
      enough?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian kept his temper perfectly. &ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; he rejoined, &ldquo;you forget
      that you and Lady Janet meet now for the first time. Try to put yourself
      in my aunt&rsquo;s place. How is she to know that you are the late Colonel
      Roseberry&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s head sunk on her breast; she dropped into the nearest chair. The
      expression of her face changed instantly from anger to discouragement.
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; she exclaimed, bitterly, &ldquo;if I only had the letters that have been
      stolen from me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Letters,&rdquo; asked Julian, &ldquo;introducing you to Lady Janet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; She turned suddenly to Lady Janet. &ldquo;Let me tell you how I lost
      them,&rdquo; she said, in the first tones of entreaty which had escaped her yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet hesitated. It was not in her generous nature to resist the
      appeal that had just been made to her. The sympathies of Horace were far
      less easily reached. He lightly launched a new shaft of satire&mdash;intended
      for the private amusement of Lady Janet. &ldquo;Another explanation!&rdquo; he
      exclaimed, with a look of comic resignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian overheard the words. His large lustrous eyes fixed themselves on
      Horace with a look of unmeasured contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The least you can do,&rdquo; he said, sternly, &ldquo;is not to irritate her. It is
      so easy to irritate her!&rdquo; He addressed himself again to Grace, endeavoring
      to help her through her difficulty in a new way. &ldquo;Never mind explaining
      yourself for the moment,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;In the absence of your letters, have
      you any one in London who can speak to your identity?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace shook her head sadly. &ldquo;I have no friends in London,&rdquo; she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was impossible for Lady Janet&mdash;who had never in her life heard of
      anybody without friends in London&mdash;to pass this over without notice.
      &ldquo;No friends in London!&rdquo; she repeated, turning to Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace shot another shaft of light satire. &ldquo;Of course not!&rdquo; he rejoined.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace saw them comparing notes. &ldquo;My friends are in Canada,&rdquo; she broke out,
      impetuously. &ldquo;Plenty of friends who could speak for me, if I could only
      bring them here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As a place of reference&mdash;mentioned in the capital city of England&mdash;Canada,
      there is no denying it, is open to objection on the ground of distance.
      Horace was ready with another shot. &ldquo;Far enough off, certainly,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Far enough off, as you say,&rdquo; Lady Janet agreed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more Julian&rsquo;s inexhaustible kindness strove to obtain a hearing for
      the stranger who had been confided to his care. &ldquo;A little patience, Lady
      Janet,&rdquo; he pleaded. &ldquo;A little consideration, Horace, for a friendless
      woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, sir,&rdquo; said Grace. &ldquo;It is very kind of you to try and help me,
      but it is useless. They won&rsquo;t even listen to me.&rdquo; She attempted to rise
      from her chair as she pronounced the last words. Julian gently laid his
      hand on her shoulder and obliged her to resume her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> will listen to you,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You referred me just now to the
      consul&rsquo;s letter. The consul tells me you suspected some one of taking your
      papers and your clothes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suspect,&rdquo; was the quick reply; &ldquo;I am certain! I tell you
      positively Mercy Merrick was the thief. She was alone with me when I was
      struck down by the shell. She was the only person who knew that I had
      letters of introduction about me. She confessed to my face that she had
      been a bad woman&mdash;she had been in a prison&mdash;she had come out of
      a refuge&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian stopped her there with one plain question, which threw a doubt on
      the whole story.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The consul tells me you asked him to search for Mercy Merrick,&rdquo; he said.
      &ldquo;Is it not true that he caused inquiries to be made, and that no trace of
      any such person was to be heard of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The consul took no pains to find her,&rdquo; Grace answered, angrily. &ldquo;He was,
      like everybody else, in a conspiracy to neglect and misjudge me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet and Horace exchanged looks. This time it was impossible for
      Julian to blame them. The further the stranger&rsquo;s narrative advanced, the
      less worthy of serious attention he felt it to be. The longer she spoke,
      the more disadvantageously she challenged comparison with the absent
      woman, whose name she so obstinately and so audaciously persisted in
      assuming as her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Granting all that you have said,&rdquo; Julian resumed, with a last effort of
      patience, &ldquo;what use could Mercy Merrick make of your letters and your
      clothes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What use?&rdquo; repeated Grace, amazed at his not seeing the position as she
      saw it. &ldquo;My clothes were marked with my name. One of my papers was a
      letter from my father, introducing me to Lady Janet. A woman out of a
      refuge would be quite capable of presenting herself here in my place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Spoken entirely at random, spoken without so much as a fragment of
      evidence to support them, those last words still had their effect. They
      cast a reflection on Lady Janet&rsquo;s adopted daughter which was too
      outrageous to be borne. Lady Janet rose instantly. &ldquo;Give me your arm,
      Horace,&rdquo; she said, turning to leave the room. &ldquo;I have heard enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace respectfully offered his arm. &ldquo;Your ladyship is quite right,&rdquo; he
      answered. &ldquo;A more monstrous story never was invented.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke, in the warmth of his indignation, loud enough for Grace to hear
      him. &ldquo;What is there monstrous in it?&rdquo; she asked, advancing a step toward
      him, defiantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian checked her. He too&mdash;though he had only once seen Mercy&mdash;felt
      an angry sense of the insult offered to the beautiful creature who had
      interested him at his first sight of her. &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; he said, speaking
      sternly to Grace for the first time. &ldquo;You are offending&mdash;justly
      offending&mdash;Lady Janet. You are talking worse than absurdly&mdash;you
      are talking offensively&mdash;when you speak of another woman presenting
      herself here in your place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s blood was up. Stung by Julian&rsquo;s reproof, she turned on him a look
      which was almost a look of fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you a clergyman? Are you an educated man?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Have you never
      read of cases of false personation, in newspapers and books? I blindly
      confided in Mercy Merrick before I found out what her character really
      was. She left the cottage&mdash;I know it, from the surgeon who brought me
      to life again&mdash;firmly persuaded that the shell had killed me. My
      papers and my clothes disappeared at the same time. Is there nothing
      suspicious in these circumstances? There were people at the Hospital who
      thought them highly suspicious&mdash;people who warned me that I might
      find an impostor in my place.&rdquo; She suddenly paused. The rustling sound of
      a silk dress had caught her ear. Lady Janet was leaving the room, with
      Horace, by way of the conservatory. With a last desperate effort of
      resolution, Grace sprung forward and placed herself in front of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word, Lady Janet, before you turn your back on me,&rdquo; she said, firmly.
      &ldquo;One word, and I will be content. Has Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s letter found its
      way to this house or not? If it has, did a woman bring it to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet looked&mdash;as only a great lady can look, when a person of
      inferior rank has presumed to fail in respect toward her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are surely not aware,&rdquo; she said, with icy composure, &ldquo;that these
      questions are an insult to Me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And worse than an insult,&rdquo; Horace added, warmly, &ldquo;to Grace!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little resolute black figure (still barring the way to the
      conservatory) was suddenly shaken from head to foot. The woman&rsquo;s eyes
      traveled backward and forward between Lady Janet and Horace with the light
      of a new suspicion in them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grace!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;What Grace? That&rsquo;s my name. Lady Janet, you <i>have</i>
      got the letter! The woman is here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet dropped Horace&rsquo;s arm, and retraced her steps to the place at
      which her nephew was standing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Julian,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You force me, for the first time in my life, to
      remind you of the respect that is due to me in my own house. Send that
      woman away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without waiting to be answered, she turned back again, and once more took
      Horace&rsquo;s arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand back, if you please,&rdquo; she said, quietly, to Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace held her ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The woman is here!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Confront me with her&mdash;and then
      send me away, if you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian advanced, and firmly took her by the arm. &ldquo;You forget what is due
      to Lady Janet,&rdquo; he said, drawing her aside. &ldquo;You forget what is due to
      yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a desperate effort, Grace broke away from him, and stopped Lady Janet
      on the threshold of the conservatory door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Justice!&rdquo; she cried, shaking her clinched hand with hysterical frenzy in
      the air. &ldquo;I claim my right to meet that woman face to face! Where is she?
      Confront me with her! Confront me with her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While those wild words were pouring from her lips, the rumbling of
      carriage wheels became audible on the drive in front of the house. In the
      all-absorbing agitation of the moment, the sound of the wheels (followed
      by the opening of the house door) passed unnoticed by the persons in the
      dining-room. Horace&rsquo;s voice was still raised in angry protest against the
      insult offered to Lady Janet; Lady Janet herself (leaving him for the
      second time) was vehemently ringing the bell to summon the servants;
      Julian had once more taken the infuriated woman by the arms and was trying
      vainly to compose her&mdash;when the library door was opened quietly by a
      young lady wearing a mantle and a bonnet. Mercy Merrick (true to the
      appointment which she had made with Horace) entered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first eyes that discovered her presence on the scene were the eyes of
      Grace Roseberry. Starting violently in Julian&rsquo;s grasp, she pointed toward
      the library door. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she cried, with a shriek of vindictive delight.
      &ldquo;There she is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy turned as the sound of the scream rang through the room, and met&mdash;resting
      on her in savage triumph&mdash;the living gaze of the woman whose identity
      she had stolen, whose body she had left laid out for dead. On the instant
      of that terrible discovery&mdash;with her eyes fixed helplessly on the
      fierce eyes that had found her&mdash;she dropped senseless on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII. EXIT JULIAN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      JULIAN happened to be standing nearest to Mercy. He was the first at her
      side when she fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the cry of alarm which burst from him, as he raised her for a moment in
      his arms, in the expression of his eyes when he looked at her death-like
      face, there escaped the plain&mdash;too plain&mdash;confession of the
      interest which he felt in her, of the admiration which she had aroused in
      him. Horace detected it. There was the quick suspicion of jealousy in the
      movement by which he joined Julian; there was the ready resentment of
      jealousy in the tone in which he pronounced the words, &ldquo;Leave her to me.&rdquo;
       Julian resigned her in silence. A faint flush appeared on his pale face as
      he drew back while Horace carried her to the sofa. His eyes sunk to the
      ground; he seemed to be meditating self-reproachfully on the tone in which
      his friend had spoken to him. After having been the first to take an
      active part in meeting the calamity that had happened, he was now, to all
      appearance, insensible to everything that was passing in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      A touch on his shoulder roused him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned and looked round. The woman who had done the mischief&mdash;the
      stranger in the poor black garments&mdash;was standing behind him. She
      pointed to the prostrate figure on the sofa, with a merciless smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wanted a proof just now,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;There it is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace heard her. He suddenly left the sofa and joined Julian. His face,
      naturally ruddy, was pale with suppressed fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take that wretch away!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Instantly! or I won&rsquo;t answer for what I
      may do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Those words recalled Julian to himself. He looked round the room. Lady
      Janet and the housekeeper were together, in attendance on the swooning
      woman. The startled servants were congregated in the library doorway. One
      of them offered to run to the nearest doctor; another asked if he should
      fetch the police. Julian silenced them by a gesture, and turned to Horace.
      &ldquo;Compose yourself,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Leave me to remove her quietly from the
      house.&rdquo; He took Grace by the hand as he spoke. She hesitated, and tried to
      release herself. Julian pointed to the group at the sofa, and to the
      servants looking on. &ldquo;You have made an enemy of every one in this room,&rdquo;
       he said, &ldquo;and you have not a friend in London. Do you wish to make an
      enemy of <i>me?</i> Her head drooped; she made no reply; she waited,
      dumbly obedient to the firmer will than her own. Julian ordered the
      servants crowding together in the doorway to withdraw. He followed them
      into the library, leading Grace after him by the hand. Before closing the
      door he paused, and looked back into the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she recovering?&rdquo; he asked, after a moment&rsquo;s hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s voice answered him. &ldquo;Not yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I send for the nearest doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace interposed. He declined to let Julian associate himself, even in
      that indirect manner, with Mercy&rsquo;s recovery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the doctor is wanted,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I will go for him myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian closed the library door. He absently released Grace; he
      mechanically pointed to a chair. She sat down in silent surprise,
      following him with her eyes as he walked slowly to and fro in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the moment his mind was far away from her, and from all that had
      happened since her appearance in the house. It was impossible that a man
      of his fineness of perception could mistake the meaning of Horace&rsquo;s
      conduct toward him. He was questioning his own heart, on the subject of
      Mercy, sternly and unreservedly as it was his habit to do. &ldquo;After only
      once seeing her,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;has she produced such an impression on me
      that Horace can discover it, before I have even suspected it myself? Can
      the time have come already when I owe it to my friend to see her no more?&rdquo;
       He stopped irritably in his walk. As a man devoted to a serious calling in
      life, there was something that wounded his self-respect in the bare
      suspicion that he could be guilty of the purely sentimental extravagance
      called &ldquo;love at first sight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had paused exactly opposite to the chair in which Grace was seated.
      Weary of the silence, she seized the opportunity of speaking to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have come here with you as you wished,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Are you going to
      help me? Am I to count on you as my friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her vacantly. It cost him an effort before he could give her
      the attention that she had claimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been hard on me,&rdquo; Grace went on. &ldquo;But you showed me some
      kindness at first; you tried to make them give me a fair hearing. I ask
      you, as a just man, do you doubt now that the woman on the sofa in the
      next room is an impostor who has taken my place? Can there be any plainer
      confession that she is Mercy Merrick than the confession she has made? <i>You</i>
      saw it; <i>they</i> saw it. She fainted at the sight of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian crossed the room&mdash;still without answering her&mdash;and rang
      the bell. When the servant appeared, he told the man to fetch a cab.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace rose from her chair. &ldquo;What is the cab for?&rdquo; she asked, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For you and for me,&rdquo; Julian replied. &ldquo;I am going to take you back to your
      lodgings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I refuse to go. My place is in this house. Neither Lady Janet nor you can
      get over the plain facts. All I asked was to be confronted with her. And
      what did she do when she came into the room? She fainted at the sight of
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Reiterating her one triumphant assertion, she fixed her eyes on Julian
      with a look which said plainly: Answer that if you can. In mercy to her,
      Julian answered it on the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As far as I understand,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you appear to take it for granted that
      no innocent woman would have fainted on first seeing you. I have something
      to tell you which will alter your opinion. On her arrival in England this
      lady informed my aunt that she had met with you accidentally on the French
      frontier, and that she had seen you (so far as she knew) struck dead at
      her side by a shell. Remember that, and recall what happened just now.
      Without a word to warn her of your restoration to life, she finds herself
      suddenly face to face with you, a living woman&mdash;and this at a time
      when it is easy for any one who looks at her to see that she is in
      delicate health. What is there wonderful, what is there unaccountable, in
      her fainting under such circumstances as these?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The question was plainly put. Where was the answer to it?
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no answer to it. Mercy&rsquo;s wisely candid statement of the manner
      in which she had first met with Grace, and of the accident which had
      followed had served Mercy&rsquo;s purpose but too well. It was simply impossible
      for persons acquainted with that statement to attach a guilty meaning to
      the swoon. The false Grace Roseberry was still as far beyond the reach of
      suspicion as ever, and the true Grace was quick enough to see it. She sank
      into the chair from which she had risen; her hands fell in hopeless
      despair on her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything is against me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The truth itself turns liar, and
      takes <i>her</i> side.&rdquo; She paused, and rallied her sinking courage. &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
       she cried, resolutely, &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t submit to have my name and my place taken
      from me by a vile adventuress! Say what you like, I insist on exposing
      her; I won&rsquo;t leave the house!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant entered the room, and announced that the cab was at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace turned to Julian with a defiant wave of her hand. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let me
      detain you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I see I have neither advice nor help to expect
      from Mr. Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian beckoned to the servant to follow him into a corner of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know if the doctor has been sent for?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe not, sir. It is said in the servants&rsquo; hall that the doctor is
      not wanted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian was too anxious to be satisfied with a report from the servants&rsquo; 
      hall. He hastily wrote on a slip of paper: &ldquo;Has she recovered?&rdquo; and gave
      the note to the man, with directions to take it to Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear what I said?&rdquo; Grace inquired, while the messenger was absent
      in the dining room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will answer you directly,&rdquo; said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      The servant appeared again as he spoke, with some lines in pencil written
      by Lady Janet on the back of Julian&rsquo;s note. &ldquo;Thank God, we have revived
      her. In a few minutes we hope to be able to take her to her room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The nearest way to Mercy&rsquo;s room was through the library. Grace&rsquo;s immediate
      removal had now become a necessity which was not to be trifled with.
      Julian addressed himself to meeting the difficulty the instant he was left
      alone with Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The cab is waiting, and I have my last words to
      say to you. You are now (thanks to the consul&rsquo;s recommendation) in my
      care. Decide at once whether you will remain under my charge, or whether
      you will transfer yourself to the charge of the police.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace started. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; she asked, angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you wish to remain under my charge,&rdquo; Julian proceeded, &ldquo;you will
      accompany me at once to the cab. In that case I will undertake to give you
      an opportunity of telling your story to my own lawyer. He will be a fitter
      person to advise you than I am. Nothing will induce we to believe that the
      lady whom you have accused has committed, or is capable of committing,
      such a fraud as you charge her with. You will hear what the lawyer thinks,
      if you come with me. If you refuse, I shall have no choice but to send
      into the next room, and tell them that you are still here. The result will
      be that you will find yourself in charge of the police. Take which course
      you like: I will give you a minute to decide in. And remember this&mdash;if
      I appear to express myself harshly, it is your conduct which forces me to
      speak out. I mean kindly toward you; I am advising you honestly for your
      good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took out his watch to count the minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace stole one furtive glance at his steady, resolute face. She was
      perfectly unmoved by the manly consideration for her which Julian&rsquo;s last
      words had expressed. All she understood was that he was not a man to be
      trifled with. Future opportunities would offer themselves of returning
      secretly to the house. She determined to yield&mdash;and deceive him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ready to go,&rdquo; she said, rising with dogged submission. &ldquo;Your turn
      now,&rdquo; she muttered to herself, as she turned to the looking-glass to
      arrange her shawl. &ldquo;My turn will come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian advanced toward her, as if to offer her his arm, and checked
      himself. Firmly persuaded as he was that her mind was deranged&mdash;readily
      as he admitted that she claimed, in virtue of her affliction, every
      indulgence that he could extend to her&mdash;there was something repellent
      to him at that moment in the bare idea of touching her. The image of the
      beautiful creature who was the object of her monstrous accusation&mdash;the
      image of Mercy as she lay helpless for a moment in his arms&mdash;was
      vivid in his mind while he opened the door that led into the hall, and
      drew back to let Grace pass out before him. He left the servant to help
      her into the cab. The man respectfully addressed him as he took his seat
      opposite to Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ordered to say that your room is ready, sir, and that her ladyship
      expects you to dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Absorbed in the events which had followed his aunt&rsquo;s invitation, Julian
      had forgotten his engagement to stay at Mablethorpe House. Could he
      return, knowing his own heart as he now knew it? Could he honorably
      remain, perhaps for weeks together, in Mercy&rsquo;s society, conscious as he
      now was of the impression which she had produced on him? No. The one
      honorable course that he could take was to find an excuse for withdrawing
      from his engagement. &ldquo;Beg her ladyship not to wait dinner for me,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;I will write and make my apologies.&rdquo; The cab drove off. The
      wondering servant waited on the doorstep, looking after it. &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t
      stand in Mr. Julian&rsquo;s shoes for something,&rdquo; he thought, with his mind
      running on the difficulties of the young clergyman&rsquo;s position. &ldquo;There she
      is along with him in the cab. What is he going to do with her after that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian himself, if it had been put to him at the moment, could not have
      answered the question.
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s anxiety was far from being relieved when Mercy had been
      restored to her senses and conducted to her own room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s mind remained in a condition of unreasoning alarm, which it was
      impossible to remove. Over and over again she was told that the woman who
      had terrified her had left the house, and would never be permitted to
      enter it more; over and over again she was assured that the stranger&rsquo;s
      frantic assertions were regarded by everybody about her as unworthy of a
      moment&rsquo;s serious attention. She persisted in doubting whether they were
      telling her the truth. A shocking distrust of her friends seemed to
      possess her. She shrunk when Lady Janet approached the bedside. She
      shuddered when Lady Janet kissed her. She flatly refused to let Horace see
      her. She asked the strangest questions about Julian Gray, and shook her
      head suspiciously when they told her that he was absent from the house. At
      intervals she hid her face in the bedclothes and murmured to herself
      piteously, &ldquo;Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?&rdquo; At other times her one
      petition was to be left alone. &ldquo;I want nobody in my room&rdquo;&mdash;that was
      her sullen cry&mdash;&ldquo;nobody in my room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The evening advanced, and brought with it no change for the better. Lady
      Janet, by the advice of Horace, sent for her own medical adviser.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor shook his head. The symptoms, he said, indicated a serious
      shock to the nervous system. He wrote a sedative prescription; and he gave
      (with a happy choice of language) some sound and safe advice. It amounted
      briefly to this: &ldquo;Take her away, and try the sea-side.&rdquo; Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      customary energy acted on the advice, without a moment&rsquo;s needless delay.
      She gave the necessary directions for packing the trunks overnight, and
      decided on leaving Mablethorpe House with Mercy the next morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shortly after the doctor had taken his departure a letter from Julian,
      addressed to Lady Janet, was delivered by private messenger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beginning with the necessary apologies for the writer&rsquo;s absence, the
      letter proceeded in these terms:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before I permitted my companion to see the lawyer, I felt the necessity
      of consulting him as to my present position toward her first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told him&mdash;what I think it only right to repeat to you&mdash;that I
      do not feel justified in acting on my own opinion that her mind is
      deranged. In the case of this friendless woman I want medical authority,
      and, more even than that, I want some positive proof, to satisfy my
      conscience as well as to confirm my view.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Finding me obstinate on this point, the lawyer undertook to consult a
      physician accustomed to the treatment of the insane, on my behalf.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After sending a message and receiving the answer, he said, &lsquo;Bring the
      lady here&mdash;in half an hour; she shall tell her story to the doctor
      instead of telling it to me.&rsquo; The proposal rather staggered me; I asked
      how it was possible to induce her to do that. He laughed, and answered, &lsquo;I
      shall present the doctor as my senior partner; my senior partner will be
      the very man to advise her.&rsquo; You know that I hate all deception, even
      where the end in view appears to justify it. On this occasion, however,
      there was no other alternative than to let the lawyer take his own course,
      or to run the risk of a delay which might be followed by serious results.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I waited in a room by myself (feeling very uneasy, I own) until the
      doctor joined me, after the interview was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His opinion is, briefly, this:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After careful examination of the unfortunate creature, he thinks that
      there are unmistakably symptoms of mental aberration. But how far the
      mischief has gone, and whether her case is, or is not, sufficiently grave
      to render actual restraint necessary, he cannot positively say, in our
      present state of ignorance as to facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Thus far,&rsquo; he observed, &lsquo;we know nothing of that part of her delusion
      which relates to Mercy Merrick. The solution of the difficulty, in this
      case, is to be found there. I entirely agree with the lady that the
      inquiries of the consul at Mannheim are far from being conclusive. Furnish
      me with satisfactory evidence either that there is, or is not, such a
      person really in existence as Mercy Merrick, and I will give you a
      positive opinion on the case whenever you choose to ask for it.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those words have decided me on starting for the Continent and renewing
      the search for Mercy Merrick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend the lawyer wonders jocosely whether <i>I</i> am in my right
      senses. His advice is that I should apply to the nearest magistrate, and
      relieve you and myself of all further trouble in that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you agree with him? My dear aunt (as you have often said), I do
      nothing like other people. I am interested in this case. I cannot abandon
      a forlorn woman who has been confided to me to the tender mercies of
      strangers, so long as there is any hope of my making discoveries which may
      be instrumental in restoring her to herself&mdash;perhaps, also, in
      restoring her to her friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I start by the mail-train of to-night. My plan is to go first to Mannheim
      and consult with the consul and the hospital doctors; then to find my way
      to the German surgeon and to question <i>him</i>; and, that done, to make
      the last and hardest effort of all&mdash;the effort to trace the French
      ambulance and to penetrate the mystery of Mercy Merrick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Immediately on my return I will wait on you, and tell you what I have
      accomplished, or how I have failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the meanwhile, pray be under no alarm about the reappearance of this
      unhappy woman at your house. She is fully occupied in writing (at my
      suggestion) to her friends in Canada; and she is under the care of the
      landlady at her lodgings&mdash;an experienced and trustworthy person, who
      has satisfied the doctor as well as myself of her fitness for the charge
      that she has undertaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray mention this to Miss Roseberry (whenever you think it desirable),
      with the respectful expression of my sympathy, and of my best wishes for
      her speedy restoration to health. And once more forgive me for failing,
      under stress of necessity, to enjoy the hospitality of Mablethorpe House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet closed Julian&rsquo;s letter, feeling far from satisfied with it. She
      sat for a while, pondering over what her nephew had written to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of two things,&rdquo; thought the quick-witted old lady. &ldquo;Either the lawyer
      is right, and Julian is a fit companion for the madwoman whom he has taken
      under his charge, or he has some second motive for this absurd journey of
      his which he has carefully abstained from mentioning in his letter. What
      can the motive be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At intervals during the night that question recurred to her ladyship again
      and again. The utmost exercise of her ingenuity failing to answer it, her
      one resource left was to wait patiently for Julian&rsquo;s return, and, in her
      own favorite phrase, to &ldquo;have it out of him&rdquo; then.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning Lady Janet and her adopted daughter left Mablethorpe
      House for Brighton; Horace (who had begged to be allowed to accompany
      them) being sentenced to remain in London by Mercy&rsquo;s express desire. Why&mdash;nobody
      could guess; and Mercy refused to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII. ENTER JULIAN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      A WEEK has passed. The scene opens again in the dining-room at Mablethorpe
      House.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hospitable table bears once more its burden of good things for lunch.
      But on this occasion Lady Janet sits alone. Her attention is divided
      between reading her newspaper and feeding her cat. The cat is a sleek and
      splendid creature. He carries an erect tail. He rolls luxuriously on the
      soft carpet. He approaches his mistress in a series of coquettish curves.
      He smells with dainty hesitation at the choicest morsels that can be
      offered to him. The musical monotony of his purring falls soothingly on
      her ladyship&rsquo;s ear. She stops in the middle of a leading article and looks
      with a careworn face at the happy cat. &ldquo;Upon my honor,&rdquo; cries Lady Janet,
      thinking, in her inveterately ironical manner, of the cares that trouble
      her, &ldquo;all things considered, Tom, I wish I was You!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The cat starts&mdash;not at his mistress&rsquo;s complimentary apostrophe, but
      at a knock at the door, which follows close upon it. Lady Janet says,
      carelessly enough, &ldquo;Come in;&rdquo; looks round listlessly to see who it is; and
      starts, like the cat, when the door opens and discloses&mdash;Julian Gray!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;or your ghost?&rdquo; she exclaims.
    </p>
    <p>
      She has noticed already that Julian is paler than usual, and that there is
      something in his manner at once uneasy and subdued&mdash;highly
      uncharacteristic of him at other times. He takes a seat by her side, and
      kisses her hand. But&mdash;for the first time in his aunt&rsquo;s experience of
      him&mdash;he refuses the good things on the luncheon table, and he has
      nothing to say to the cat! That neglected animal takes refuge on Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s lap. Lady Janet, with her eyes fixed expectantly on her nephew
      (determining to &ldquo;have it out of him&rdquo; at the first opportunity), waits to
      hear what he has to say for himself. Julian has no alternative but to
      break the silence, and tell his story as he best may.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I got back from the Continent last night,&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;And I come here, as
      I promised, to report myself on my return. How does your ladyship do? How
      is Miss Roseberry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet laid an indicative finger on the lace pelerine which ornamented
      the upper part of her dress. &ldquo;Here is the old lady, well,&rdquo; she answered&mdash;and
      pointed next to the room above them. &ldquo;And there,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;is the young
      lady, ill. Is anything the matter with <i>you</i>, Julian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I am a little tired after my journey. Never mind me. Is Miss
      Roseberry still suffering from the shock?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else should she be suffering from? I will never forgive you, Julian,
      for bringing that crazy impostor into my house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear aunt, when I was the innocent means of bringing her here I had no
      idea that such a person as Miss Roseberry was in existence. Nobody laments
      what has happened more sincerely than I do. Have you had medical advice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I took her to the sea-side a week since by medical advice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has the change of air done her no good?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None whatever. If anything, the change of air has made her worse.
      Sometimes she sits for hours together, as pale as death, without looking
      at anything, and without uttering a word. Sometimes she brightens up, and
      seems as if she was eager to say something; and then Heaven only knows
      why, checks herself suddenly as if she was afraid to speak. I could
      support that. But what cuts me to the heart, Julian, is, that she does not
      appear to trust me and to love me as she did. She seems to be doubtful of
      me; she seems to be frightened of me. If I did not know that it was simply
      impossible that such a thing could be, I should really think she suspected
      me of believing what that wretch said of her. In one word (and between
      ourselves), I begin to fear she will never get over the fright which
      caused that fainting-fit. There is serious mischief somewhere; and, try as
      I may to discover it, it is mischief beyond my finding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can the doctor do nothing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s bright black eyes answered before she replied in words, with
      a look of supreme contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The doctor!&rdquo; she repeated, disdainfully. &ldquo;I brought Grace back last night
      in sheer despair, and I sent for the doctor this morning. He is at the
      head of his profession; he is said to be making ten thousand a year; and
      he knows no more about it than I do. I am quite serious. The great
      physician has just gone away with two guineas in his pocket. One guinea,
      for advising me to keep her quiet; another guinea for telling me to trust
      to time. Do you wonder how he gets on at this rate? My dear boy, they all
      get on in the same way. The medical profession thrives on two incurable
      diseases in these modern days&mdash;a He-disease and a She-disease.
      She-disease&mdash;nervous depression; He-disease&mdash;suppressed gout.
      Remedies, one guinea, if <i>you</i> go to the doctor; two guineas if the
      doctor goes to <i>you</i>. I might have bought a new bonnet,&rdquo; cried her
      ladyship, indignantly, &ldquo;with the money I have given to that man! Let us
      change the subject. I lose my temper when I think of it. Besides, I want
      to know something. Why did you go abroad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that plain question Julian looked unaffectedly surprised. &ldquo;I wrote to
      explain,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Have you not received my letter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I got your letter. It was long enough, in all conscience; and, long
      as it was, it didn&rsquo;t tell me the one thing I wanted to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the &lsquo;one thing&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s reply pointed&mdash;not too palpably at first&mdash;at that
      second motive for Julian&rsquo;s journey which she had suspected Julian of
      concealing from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to know,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;why you troubled yourself to make your
      inquiries on the Continent <i>in person?</i> You know where my old courier
      is to be found. You have yourself pronounced him to be the most
      intelligent and trustworthy of men. Answer me honestly&mdash;could you not
      have sent him in your place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>might</i> have sent him,&rdquo; Julian admitted, a little reluctantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might have sent the courier&mdash;and you were under an engagement to
      stay here as my guest. Answer me honestly once more. Why did you go away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian hesitated. Lady Janet paused for his reply, with the air of a women
      who was prepared to wait (if necessary) for the rest of the afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had a reason of my own for going,&rdquo; Julian said at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; rejoined Lady Janet, prepared to wait (if necessary) till the next
      morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A reason,&rdquo; Julian resumed, &ldquo;which I would rather not mention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Lady Janet. &ldquo;Another mystery&mdash;eh? And another woman at the
      bottom of it, no doubt. Thank you&mdash;that will do&mdash;I am
      sufficiently answered. No wonder, as a clergyman, that you look a little
      confused. There is, perhaps, a certain grace, under the circumstances, in
      looking confused. We will change the subject again. You stay here, of
      course, now you have come back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Once more the famous pulpit orator seemed to find himself in the
      inconceivable predicament of not knowing what to say. Once more Lady Janet
      looked resigned to wait (if necessary) until the middle of next week.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian took refuge in an answer worthy of the most commonplace man on the
      face of the civilized earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your ladyship to accept my thanks and my excuses,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s many-ringed fingers, mechanically stroking the cat in her
      lap, began to stroke him the wrong way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s inexhaustible patience showed signs of failing her at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mighty civil, I am sure,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Make it complete. Say, Mr. Julian
      Gray presents his compliments to Lady Janet Roy, and regrets that a
      previous engagement&mdash;Julian!&rdquo; exclaimed the old lady, suddenly
      pushing the cat off her lap, and flinging her last pretense of good temper
      to the winds&mdash;&ldquo;Julian, I am not to be trifled with! There is but one
      explanation of your conduct&mdash;you are evidently avoiding my house. Is
      there somebody you dislike in it? Is it me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian intimated by a gesture that his aunt&rsquo;s last question was absurd.
      (The much-injured cat elevated his back, waved his tail slowly, walked to
      the fireplace, and honored the rug by taking a seat on it.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet persisted. &ldquo;Is it Grace Roseberry?&rdquo; she asked next.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Julian&rsquo;s patience began to show signs of yielding. His manner assumed
      a sudden decision, his voice rose a tone louder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You insist on knowing?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It <i>is</i> Miss Roseberry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t like her?&rdquo; cried Lady Janet, with a sudden burst of angry
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian broke out, on his side: &ldquo;If I see any more of her,&rdquo; he answered,
      the rare color mounting passionately in his cheeks, &ldquo;I shall be the
      unhappiest man living. If I see any more of her, I shall be false to my
      old friend, who is to marry her. Keep us apart. If you have any regard for
      my peace of mind, keep us apart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Unutterable amazement expressed itself in his aunt&rsquo;s lifted hands.
      Ungovernable curiosity uttered itself in his aunt&rsquo;s next words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean to tell me you are in love with Grace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian sprung restlessly to his feet, and disturbed the cat at the
      fireplace. (The cat left the room.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what to tell you,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t realize it to myself.
      No other woman has ever roused the feeling in me which this woman seems to
      have called to life in an instant. In the hope of forgetting her I broke
      my engagement here; I purposely seized the opportunity of making those
      inquiries abroad. Quite useless. I think of her, morning, noon, and night.
      I see her and hear her, at this moment, as plainly as I see and hear you.
      She has made <i>her</i>self a part of <i>my</i>self. I don&rsquo;t understand my
      life without her. My power of will seems to be gone. I said to myself this
      morning, &lsquo;I will write to my aunt; I won&rsquo;t go back to Mablethorpe House.&rsquo; 
      Here I am in Mablethorpe House, with a mean subterfuge to justify me to my
      own conscience. &lsquo;I owe it to my aunt to call on my aunt.&rsquo; That is what I
      said to myself on the way here; and I was secretly hoping every step of
      the way that she would come into the room when I got here. I am hoping it
      now. And she is engaged to Horace Holmcroft&mdash;to my oldest friend, to
      my best friend! Am I an infernal rascal? or am I a weak fool? God knows&mdash;I
      don&rsquo;t. Keep my secret, aunt. I am heartily ashamed of myself; I used to
      think I was made of better stuff than this. Don&rsquo;t say a word to Horace. I
      must, and will, conquer it. Let me go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He snatched up his hat. Lady Janet, rising with the activity of a young
      woman, pursued him across the room, and stopped him at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered the resolute old lady, &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t let you go. Come back with
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she said those words she noticed with a certain fond pride the
      brilliant color mounting in his cheeks&mdash;the flashing brightness which
      lent an added luster to his eyes. He had never, to her mind, looked so
      handsome before. She took his arm, and led him to the chairs which they
      had just left. It was shocking, it was wrong (she mentally admitted) to
      look on Mercy, under the circumstances, with any other eye than the eye of
      a brother or a friend. In a clergyman (perhaps) doubly shocking, doubly
      wrong. But, with all her respect for the vested interests of Horace, Lady
      Janet could not blame Julian. Worse still, she was privately conscious
      that he had, somehow or other, risen, rather than fallen, in her
      estimation within the last minute or two. Who could deny that her adopted
      daughter was a charming creature? Who could wonder if a man of refined
      tastes admired her? Upon the whole, her ladyship humanely decided that her
      nephew was rather to be pitied than blamed. What daughter of Eve (no
      matter whether she was seventeen or seventy) could have honestly arrived
      at any other conclusion? Do what a man may&mdash;let him commit anything
      he likes, from an error to a crime&mdash;so long as there is a woman at
      the bottom of it, there is an inexhaustible fund of pardon for him in
      every other woman&rsquo;s heart. &ldquo;Sit down,&rdquo; said Lady Janet, smiling in spite
      of herself; &ldquo;and don&rsquo;t talk in that horrible way again. A man, Julian&mdash;especially
      a famous man like you&mdash;ought to know how to control himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian burst out laughing bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send upstairs for my self-control,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s in <i>her</i>
      possession&mdash;not in mine. Good morning, aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose from his chair. Lady Janet instantly pushed him back into it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I insist on your staying here,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;if it is only for a few
      minutes longer. I have something to say to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does it refer to Miss Roseberry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It refers to the hateful woman who frightened Miss Roseberry. Now are you
      satisfied?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian bowed, and settled himself in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t much like to acknowledge it,&rdquo; his aunt went on. &ldquo;But I want you
      to understand that I have something really serious to speak about, for
      once in a way. Julian! that wretch not only frightens Grace&mdash;she
      actually frightens me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Frightens you? She is quite harmless, poor thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Poor thing&rsquo;!&rdquo; repeated Lady Janet. &ldquo;Did you say &lsquo;poor thing&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible that you pity her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the bottom of my heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old lady&rsquo;s temper gave way again at that reply. &ldquo;I hate a man who
      can&rsquo;t hate anybody!&rdquo; she burst out. &ldquo;If you had been an ancient Roman,
      Julian, I believe you would have pitied Nero himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian cordially agreed with her. &ldquo;I believe I should,&rdquo; he said, quietly.
      &ldquo;All sinners, my dear aunt, are more or less miserable sinners. Nero must
      have been one of the wretchedest of mankind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretched!&rdquo; exclaimed Lady Janet. &ldquo;Nero wretched! A man who committed
      robbery, arson and murder to his own violin accompaniment&mdash;<i>only</i>
      wretched! What next, I wonder? When modern philanthropy begins to
      apologize for Nero, modern philanthropy has arrived at a pretty pass
      indeed! We shall hear next that Bloody Queen Mary was as playful as a
      kitten; and if poor dear Henry the Eighth carried anything to an extreme,
      it was the practice of the domestic virtues. Ah, how I hate cant! What
      were we talking about just now? You wander from the subject, Julian; you
      are what I call bird-witted. I protest I forget what I wanted to say to
      you. No, I won&rsquo;t be reminded of it. I may be an old woman, but I am not in
      my dotage yet! Why do you sit there staring? Have you nothing to say for
      yourself? Of all the people in the world, have <i>you</i> lost the use of
      your tongue?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian&rsquo;s excellent temper and accurate knowledge of his aunt&rsquo;s character
      exactly fitted him to calm the rising storm. He contrived to lead Lady
      Janet insensibly back to the lost subject by dexterous reference to a
      narrative which he had thus far left untold&mdash;the narrative of his
      adventures on the Continent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a great deal to say, aunt,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I have not yet told you
      of my discoveries abroad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet instantly took the bait.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew there was something forgotten,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You have been all this
      time in the house, and you have told me nothing. Begin directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Patient Julian began.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV. COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I WENT first to Mannheim, Lady Janet, as I told you I should in my
      letter, and I heard all that the consul and the hospital doctors could
      tell me. No new fact of the slightest importance turned up. I got my
      directions for finding the German surgeon, and I set forth to try what I
      could make next of the man who performed the operation. On the question of
      his patient&rsquo;s identity he had (as a perfect stranger to her) nothing to
      tell me. On the question of her mental condition, however, he made a very
      important statement. He owned to me that he had operated on another person
      injured by a shell-wound on the head at the battle of Solferino, and that
      the patient (recovering also in this case) recovered&mdash;mad. That is a
      remarkable admission; don&rsquo;t you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s temper had hardly been allowed time enough to subside to its
      customary level.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very remarkable, I dare say,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;to people who feel any doubt
      of this pitiable lady of yours being mad. I feel no doubt&mdash;and, thus
      far, I find your account of yourself, Julian, tiresome in the extreme. Go
      on to the end. Did you lay your hand on Mercy Merrick?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear anything of her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing. Difficulties beset me on every side. The French ambulance had
      shared in the disasters of France&mdash;it was broken up. The wounded
      Frenchmen were prisoners somewhere in Germany, nobody knew where. The
      French surgeon had been killed in action. His assistants were scattered&mdash;most
      likely in hiding. I began to despair of making any discovery, when
      accident threw in my way two Prussian soldiers who had been in the French
      cottage. They confirmed what the German surgeon told the consul, and what
      Horace himself told <i>me</i>&mdash;namely, that no nurse in a black dress
      was to be seen in the place. If there had been such a person, she would
      certainly (the Prussians inform me) have been found in attendance on the
      injured Frenchmen. The cross of the Geneva Convention would have been
      amply sufficient to protect her: no woman wearing that badge of honor
      would have disgraced herself by abandoning the wounded men before the
      Germans entered the place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short,&rdquo; interposed Lady Janet, &ldquo;there is no such person as Mercy
      Merrick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can draw no other conclusion,&rdquo; said Julian, &ldquo;unless the English
      doctor&rsquo;s idea is the right one. After hearing what I have just told you,
      he thinks the woman herself is Mercy Merrick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet held up her hand as a sign that she had an objection to make
      here.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You and the doctor seem to have settled everything to your entire
      satisfaction on both sides,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;But there is one difficulty that
      you have neither of you accounted for yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, aunt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You talk glibly enough, Julian, about this woman&rsquo;s mad assertion that
      Grace is the missing nurse, and that she is Grace. But you have not
      explained yet how the idea first got into her head; and, more than that,
      how it is that she is acquainted with my name and address, and perfectly
      familiar with Grace&rsquo;s papers and Grace&rsquo;s affairs. These things are a
      puzzle to a person of my average intelligence. Can your clever friend, the
      doctor, account for them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I tell you what he said when I saw him this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will it take long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will take about a minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You agreeably surprise me. Go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You want to know how she gained her knowledge of your name and of Miss
      Roseberry&rsquo;s affairs,&rdquo; Julian resumed. &ldquo;The doctor says in one of two ways.
      Either Miss Roseberry must have spoken of you and of her own affairs while
      she and the stranger were together in the French cottage, or the stranger
      must have obtained access privately to Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s papers. Do you
      agree so far?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet began to feel interested for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I have no doubt Grace rashly talked of matters
      which an older and wiser person would have kept to herself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good. Do you also agree that the last idea in the woman&rsquo;s mind when
      she was struck by the shell might have been (quite probably) the idea of
      Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s identity and Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s affairs? You think it
      likely enough? Well, what happens after that? The wounded woman is brought
      to life by an operation, and she becomes delirious in the hospital at
      Mannheim. During her delirium the idea of Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s identity
      ferments in her brain, and assumes its present perverted form. In that
      form it still remains. As a necessary consequence, she persists in
      reversing the two identities. She says she is Miss Roseberry, and declares
      Miss Roseberry to be Mercy Merrick. There is the doctor &lsquo;s explanation.
      What do you think of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very ingenious, I dare say. The doctor doesn&rsquo;t quite satisfy me, however,
      for all that. I think&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What Lady Janet thought was not destined to be expressed. She suddenly
      checked herself, and held up her hand for the second time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another objection?&rdquo; inquired Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold your tongue!&rdquo; cried the old lady. &ldquo;If you say a word more I shall
      lose it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lose what, aunt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I wanted to say to you ages ago. I have got it back again&mdash;it
      begins with a question. (No more of the doctor&mdash;I have had enough of
      him!) Where is she&mdash;<i>your</i> pitiable lady, <i>my</i> crazy wretch&mdash;where
      is she now? Still in London?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And still at large?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still with the landlady, at her lodgings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. Now answer me this! What is to prevent her from making another
      attempt to force her way (or steal her way) into my house? How am I to
      protect Grace, how am I to protect myself, if she comes here again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that really what you wished to speak to me about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That, and nothing else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were both too deeply interested in the subject of their conversation
      to look toward the conservatory, and to notice the appearance at that
      moment of a distant gentleman among the plants and flowers, who had made
      his way in from the garden outside. Advancing noiselessly on the soft
      Indian matting, the gentleman ere long revealed himself under the form and
      features of Horace Holmcroft. Before entering the dining-room he paused,
      fixing his eyes inquisitively on the back of Lady Janet&rsquo;s visitor&mdash;the
      back being all that he could see in the position he then occupied. After a
      pause of an instant the visitor spoke, and further uncertainty was at once
      at an end. Horace, nevertheless, made no movement to enter the room. He
      had his own jealous distrust of what Julian might be tempted to say at a
      private interview with his aunt; and he waited a little longer on the
      chance that his doubts might be verified.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither you nor Miss Roseberry need any protection from the poor deluded
      creature,&rdquo; Julian went on. &ldquo;I have gained great influence over her&mdash;and
      I have satisfied her that it is useless to present herself here again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; interposed Horace, speaking from the conservatory
      door. &ldquo;You have done nothing of the sort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (He had heard enough to satisfy him that the talk was not taking the
      direction which his Suspicions had anticipated. And, as an additional
      incentive to show himself, a happy chance had now offered him the
      opportunity of putting Julian in the wrong.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, Horace!&rdquo; exclaimed Lady Janet. &ldquo;Where did you come from?
      And what do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard at the lodge that your ladyship and Grace had returned last
      night. And I came in at once without troubling the servants, by the
      shortest way.&rdquo; He turned to Julian next. &ldquo;The woman you were speaking of
      just now,&rdquo; he proceeded, &ldquo;has been here again already&mdash;in Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s absence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet immediately looked at her nephew. Julian reassured her by a
      gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There must be some mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no mistake,&rdquo; Horace rejoined. &ldquo;I am repeating what I have just
      heard from the lodge-keeper himself. He hesitated to mention it to Lady
      Janet for fear of alarming her. Only three days since this person had the
      audacity to ask him for her ladyship&rsquo;s address at the sea-side. Of course
      he refused to give it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hear that, Julian?&rdquo; said Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      No signs of anger or mortification escaped Julian. The expression in his
      face at that moment was an expression of sincere distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t alarm yourself,&rdquo; he said to his aunt, in his quietest tones.
      &ldquo;If she attempts to annoy you or Miss Roseberry again, I have it in my
      power to stop her instantly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; asked Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, indeed!&rdquo; echoed Horace. &ldquo;If we give her in charge to the police, we
      shall become the subject of a public scandal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have managed to avoid all danger of scandal,&rdquo; Julian answered; the
      expression of distress in his face becoming more and more marked while he
      spoke. &ldquo;Before I called here to-day I had a private consultation with the
      magistrate of the district, and I have made certain arrangements at the
      police station close by. On receipt of my card, an experienced man, in
      plain clothes, will present himself at any address that I indicate, and
      will take her quietly away. The magistrate will hear the charge in his
      private room, and will examine the evidence which I can produce, showing
      that she is not accountable for her actions. The proper medical officer
      will report officially on the case, and the law will place her under the
      necessary restraint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet and Horace looked at each other in amazement. Julian was, in
      their opinion, the last man on earth to take the course&mdash;at once
      sensible and severe&mdash;which Julian had actually adopted. Lady Janet
      insisted on an explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do I hear of this now for the first time?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Why did you
      not tell me you had taken these precautions before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian answered frankly and sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I hoped, aunt, that there would be no necessity for proceeding to
      extremities. You now force me to acknowledge that the lawyer and the
      doctor (both of whom I have seen this morning) think, as you do, that she
      is not to be trusted. It was at their suggestion entirely that I went to
      the magistrate. They put it to me whether the result of my inquiries
      abroad&mdash;unsatisfactory as it may have been in other respects&mdash;did
      not strengthen the conclusion that the poor woman&rsquo;s mind is deranged. I
      felt compelled in common honesty to admit that it was so. Having owned
      this, I was bound to take such precautions as the lawyer and the doctor
      thought necessary. I have done my duty&mdash;sorely against my own will.
      It is weak of me, I dare say; but I can <i>not</i> bear the thought of
      treating this afflicted creature harshly. Her delusion is so hopeless! her
      situation is such a pitiable one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice faltered. He turned away abruptly and took up his hat. Lady
      Janet followed him, and spoke to him at the door. Horace smiled
      satirically, and went to warm himself at the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going away, Julian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am only going to the lodge-keeper. I want to give him a word of warning
      in case of his seeing her again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will come back here?&rdquo; (Lady Janet lowered her voice to a whisper.)
      &ldquo;There is really a reason, Julian, for your not leaving the house now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promise not to go away, aunt, until I have provided for your security.
      If you, or your adopted daughter, are alarmed by another intrusion, I give
      you my word of honor my card shall go to the police station, however
      painfully I may feel it myself.&rdquo; (He, too, lowered his voice at the next
      words ) &ldquo;In the meantime, remember what I confessed to you while we were
      alone. For my sake, let me see as little of Miss Roseberry as possible.
      Shall I find you in this room when I come back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laid a strong emphasis, of look as well as of tone, on that one word.
      Lady Janet understood what the emphasis meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you really,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;as much in love with Grace as that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian laid one hand on his aunt&rsquo;s arm, and pointed with the other to
      Horace&mdash;standing with his back to them, warming his feet on the
      fender.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Julian, with a smile on his lip and a tear in his eye, &ldquo;I
      never envied any man as I envy <i>him!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With those words he left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV. A WOMAN&rsquo;S REMORSE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      HAVING warmed his feet to his own entire satisfaction, Horace turned round
      from the fireplace, and discovered that he and Lady Janet were alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I see Grace?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The easy tone in which he put the question&mdash;a tone, as it were, of
      proprietorship in &ldquo;Grace&rdquo;&mdash;jarred on Lady Janet at the moment. For
      the first time in her life she found herself comparing Horace with Julian&mdash;to
      Horace&rsquo;s disadvantage. He was rich; he was a gentleman of ancient lineage;
      he bore an unblemished character. But who had the strong brain? who had
      the great heart? Which was the Man of the two?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody can see her,&rdquo; answered Lady Janet. &ldquo;Not even you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tone of the reply was sharp, with a dash of irony in it. But where is
      the modern young man, possessed of health and an independent income, who
      is capable of understanding that irony can be presumptuous enough to
      address itself to <i>him?</i> Horace (with perfect politeness) declined to
      consider himself answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does your ladyship mean that Miss Roseberry is in bed?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean that Miss Roseberry is in her room. I mean that I have twice tried
      to persuade Miss Roseberry to dress and come downstairs, and tried in
      vain. I mean that what Miss Roseberry refuses to do for Me, she is not
      likely to do for You&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      How many more meanings of her own Lady Janet might have gone on
      enumerating, it is not easy to calculate. At her third sentence a sound in
      the library caught her ear through the incompletely closed door and
      suspended the next words on her lips. Horace heard it also. It was the
      rustling sound (traveling nearer and nearer over the library carpet) of a
      silken dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      (In the interval while a coming event remains in a state of uncertainty,
      what is it the inevitable tendency of every Englishman under thirty to do?
      His inevitable tendency is to ask somebody to bet on the event. He can no
      more resist it than he can resist lifting his stick or his umbrella, in
      the absence of a gun, and pretending to shoot if a bird flies by him while
      he is out for a walk.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will your ladyship bet that this is not Grace?&rdquo; cried Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her ladyship took no notice of the proposal; her attention remained fixed
      on the library door. The rustling sound stopped for a moment. The door was
      softly pushed open. The false Grace Roseberry entered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace advanced to meet her, opened his lips to speak, and stopped&mdash;struck
      dumb by the change in his affianced wife since he had seen her last. Some
      terrible oppression seemed to have crushed her. It was as if she had
      actually shrunk in height as well as in substance. She walked more slowly
      than usual; she spoke more rarely than usual, and in a lower tone. To
      those who had seen her before the fatal visit of the stranger from
      Mannheim, it was the wreck of the woman that now appeared instead of the
      woman herself. And yet there was the old charm still surviving through it
      all; the grandeur of the head and eyes, the delicate symmetry of the
      features, the unsought grace of every movement&mdash;in a word, the
      unconquerable beauty which suffering cannot destroy, and which time itself
      is powerless to wear out. Lady Janet advanced, and took her with hearty
      kindness by both hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear child, welcome among us again! You have come down stairs to
      please me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She bent her head in silent acknowledgment that it was so. Lady Janet
      pointed to Horace: &ldquo;Here is somebody who has been longing to see you,
      Grace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She never looked up; she stood submissive, her eyes fixed on a little
      basket of colored wools which hung on her arm. &ldquo;Thank you, Lady Janet,&rdquo;
       she said, faintly. &ldquo;Thank you, Horace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace placed her arm in his, and led her to the sofa. She shivered as she
      took her seat, and looked round her. It was the first time she had seen
      the dining-room since the day when she had found herself face to face with
      the dead-alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you come here, my love?&rdquo; asked Lady Janet. &ldquo;The drawing-room would
      have been a warmer and a pleasanter place for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw a carriage at the front door. I was afraid of meeting with visitors
      in the drawing-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she made that reply, the servant came in, and announced the visitors&rsquo; 
      names. Lady Janet sighed wearily. &ldquo;I must go and get rid of them,&rdquo; she
      said, resigning herself to circumstances. &ldquo;What will <i>you</i> do,
      Grace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will stay here, if you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will keep her company,&rdquo; added Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet hesitated. She had promised to see her nephew in the
      dining-room on his return to the house&mdash;and to see him alone. Would
      there be time enough to get rid of the visitors and to establish her
      adopted daughter in the empty drawing-room before Julian appeared? It was
      ten minutes&rsquo; walk to the lodge, and he had to make the gate-keeper
      understand his instructions. Lady Janet decided that she had time enough
      at her disposal. She nodded kindly to Mercy, and left her alone with her
      lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace seated himself in the vacant place on the sofa. So far as it was in
      his nature to devote himself to any one he was devoted to Mercy. &ldquo;I am
      grieved to see how you have suffered,&rdquo; he said, with honest distress in
      his face as he looked at her. &ldquo;Try to forget what has happened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am trying to forget. Do <i>you</i> think of it much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My darling, it is too contemptible to be thought of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She placed her work-basket on her lap. Her wasted fingers began absently
      sorting the wools inside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you seen Mr. Julian Gray?&rdquo; she asked, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does <i>he</i> say about it?&rdquo; She looked at Horace for the first
      time, steadily scrutinizing his face. Horace took refuge in prevarication.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really haven&rsquo;t asked for Julian&rsquo;s opinion,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked down again, with a sigh, at the basket on her lap&mdash;considered
      a little&mdash;and tried him once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why has Mr. Julian Gray not been here for a whole week?&rdquo; she went on.
      &ldquo;The servants say he has been abroad. Is that true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was useless to deny it. Horace admitted that the servants were right.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her fingers, suddenly stopped at their restless work among the wools; her
      breath quickened perceptibly. What had Julian Gray been doing abroad? Had
      he been making inquiries? Did he alone, of all the people who saw that
      terrible meeting, suspect her? Yes! His was the finer intelligence; his
      was a clergyman&rsquo;s (a London clergyman&rsquo;s) experience of frauds and
      deceptions, and of the women who were guilty of them. Not a doubt of it
      now! Julian suspected her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When does he come back?&rdquo; she asked, in tones so low that Horace could
      barely hear her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has come back already. He returned last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A faint shade of color stole slowly over the pallor of her face. She
      suddenly put her basket away, and clasped her hands together to quiet the
      trembling of them, before she asked her next question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is&mdash;&rdquo; She paused to steady her voice. &ldquo;Where is the person,&rdquo;
       she resumed, &ldquo;who came here and frightened me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace hastened to re-assure her. &ldquo;The person will not come again,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk of her! Don&rsquo;t think of her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head. &ldquo;There is something I want to know,&rdquo; she persisted.
      &ldquo;How did Mr. Julian Gray become acquainted with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was easily answered. Horace mentioned the consul at Mannheim, and the
      letter of introduction. She listened eagerly, and said her next words in a
      louder, firmer tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was quite a stranger, then, to Mr. Julian Gray&mdash;before that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite a stranger,&rdquo; Horace replied. &ldquo;No more questions&mdash;not another
      word about her, Grace! I forbid the subject. Come, my own love!&rdquo; he said,
      taking her hand and bending over her tenderly, &ldquo;rally your spirits! We are
      young&mdash;we love each other&mdash;now is our time to be happy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her hand turned suddenly cold, and trembled in his. Her head sank with a
      helpless weariness on her breast. Horace rose in alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are cold&mdash;you are faint,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Let me get you a glass of
      wine!&mdash;let me mend the fire!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The decanters were still on the luncheon-table. Horace insisted on her
      drinking some port-wine. She barely took half the contents of the
      wine-glass. Even that little told on her sensitive organization; it roused
      her sinking energies of body and mind. After watching her anxiously,
      without attracting her notice, Horace left her again to attend to the fire
      at the other end of the room. Her eyes followed him slowly with a hard and
      tearless despair. &ldquo;Rally your spirits,&rdquo; she repeated to herself in a
      whisper. &ldquo;My spirits! O God!&rdquo; She looked round her at the luxury and
      beauty of the room, as those look who take their leave of familiar scenes.
      The moment after, her eyes sank, and rested on the rich dress that she
      wore a gift from Lady Janet. She thought of the past; she thought of the
      future. Was the time near when she would be back again in the Refuge, or
      back again in the streets?&mdash;she who had been Lady Janet&rsquo;s adopted
      daughter, and Horace Holmcroft&rsquo;s betrothed wife! A sudden frenzy of
      recklessness seized on her as she thought of the coming end. Horace was
      right! Why not rally her spirits? Why not make the most of her time? The
      last hours of her life in that house were at hand. Why not enjoy her
      stolen position while she could? &ldquo;Adventuress!&rdquo; whispered the mocking
      spirit within her, &ldquo;be true to your character. Away with your remorse!
      Remorse is the luxury of an honest woman.&rdquo; She caught up her basket of
      wools, inspired by a new idea. &ldquo;Ring the bell!&rdquo; she cried out to Horace at
      the fire-place.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked round in wonder. The sound of her voice was so completely
      altered that he almost fancied there must have been another woman in the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ring the bell!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;I have left my work upstairs. If you want
      me to be in good spirits, I must have my work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still looking at her, Horace put his hand mechanically to the bell and
      rang. One of the men-servants came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go upstairs and ask my maid for my work,&rdquo; she said, sharply. Even the man
      was taken by surprise: it was her habit to speak to the servants with a
      gentleness and consideration which had long since won all their hearts.
      &ldquo;Do you hear me?&rdquo; she asked, impatiently. The servant bowed, and went out
      on his errand. She turned to Horace with flashing eyes and fevered cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a comfort it is,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;to belong to the upper classes! A poor
      woman has no maid to dress her, and no footman to send upstairs. Is life
      worth having, Horace, on less than five thousand a year?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant returned with a strip of embroidery. She took it with an
      insolent grace, and told him to bring her a footstool. The man obeyed. She
      tossed the embroidery away from her on the sofa. &ldquo;On second thoughts, I
      don&rsquo;t care about my work,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Take it upstairs again.&rdquo; The
      perfectly trained servant, marveling privately, obeyed once more. Horace,
      in silent astonishment, advanced to the sofa to observe her more nearly.
      &ldquo;How grave you look!&rdquo; she exclaimed, with an air of flippant unconcern.
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t approve of my sitting idle, perhaps? Anything to please you! <i>I</i>
      haven&rsquo;t got to go up and downstairs. Ring the bell again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Grace,&rdquo; Horace remonstrated, gravely, &ldquo;you are quite mistaken. I
      never even thought of your work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind; it&rsquo;s inconsistent to send for my work, and then send it away
      again. Ring the bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace looked at her without moving. &ldquo;Grace,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;what has come to
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How should I know?&rdquo; she retorted, carelessly. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you tell me to
      rally my spirits? Will you ring the bell, or must I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace submitted. He frowned as he walked back to the bell. He was one of
      the many people who instinctively resent anything that is new to them.
      This strange outbreak was quite new to him. For the first time in his life
      he felt sympathy for a servant, when the much-enduring man appeared once
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring my work back; I have changed my mind.&rdquo; With that brief explanation
      she reclined luxuriously on the soft sofa-cushions, swinging one of her
      balls of wool to and fro above her head, and looking at it lazily as she
      lay back. &ldquo;I have a remark to make, Horace,&rdquo; she went on, when the door
      had closed on her messenger. &ldquo;It is only people in our rank of life who
      get good servants. Did you notice? Nothing upsets that man&rsquo;s temper. A
      servant in a poor family should have been impudent; a maid-of-all-work
      would have wondered when I was going to know my own mind.&rdquo; The man
      returned with the embroidery. This time she received him graciously; she
      dismissed him with her thanks. &ldquo;Have you seen your mother lately, Horace?&rdquo;
       she asked, suddenly sitting up and busying herself with her work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw her yesterday,&rdquo; Horace answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She understands, I hope, that I am not well enough to call on her? She is
      not offended with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace recovered his serenity. The deference to his mother implied in
      Mercy&rsquo;s questions gently flattered his self-esteem. He resumed his place
      on the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Offended with you!&rdquo; he answered, smiling. &ldquo;My dear Grace, she sends you
      her love. And, more than that, she has a wedding present for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy became absorbed in her work; she stooped close over the embroidery&mdash;so
      close that Horace could not see her face. &ldquo;Do you know what the present
      is?&rdquo; she asked, in lowered tones, speaking absently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I only know it is waiting for you. Shall I go and get it to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She neither accepted nor refused the proposal&mdash;she went on with her
      work more industriously than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is plenty of time,&rdquo; Horace persisted. &ldquo;I can go before dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still she took no notice: still she never looked up. &ldquo;Your mother is very
      kind to me,&rdquo; she said, abruptly. &ldquo;I was afraid, at one time, that she
      would think me hardly good enough to be your wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace laughed indulgently: his self-esteem was more gently flattered than
      ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Absurd!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;My darling, you are connected with Lady Janet
      Roy. Your family is almost as good as ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Almost?&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Only almost?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The momentary levity of expression vanished from Horace&rsquo;s face. The family
      question was far too serious a question to be lightly treated A becoming
      shadow of solemnity stole over his manner. He looked as if it was Sunday,
      and he was just stepping into church.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In OUR family,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;we trace back&mdash;by my father, to the
      Saxons; by my mother, to the Normans. Lady Janet&rsquo;s family is an old family&mdash;on
      her side only.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy dropped her embroidery, and looked Horace full in the face. She,
      too, attached no common importance to what she had next to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had not been connected with Lady Janet,&rdquo; she began, &ldquo;would you ever
      have thought of marrying me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My love! what is the use of asking? You <i>are</i> connected with Lady
      Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She refused to let him escape answering her in that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I had not been connected with Lady Janet?&rdquo; she persisted.
      &ldquo;Suppose I had only been a good girl, with nothing but my own merits to
      speak for me. What would your mother have said then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace still parried the question&mdash;only to find the point of it
      pressed home on him once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you ask?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask to be answered,&rdquo; she rejoined. &ldquo;Would your mother have liked you to
      marry a poor girl, of no family&mdash;with nothing but her own virtues to
      speak for her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace was fairly pressed back to the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you must know,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;my mother would have refused to sanction
      such a marriage as that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter how good the girl might have been?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something defiant&mdash;almost threatening&mdash;in her tone.
      Horace was annoyed&mdash;and he showed it when he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother would have respected the girl, without ceasing to respect
      herself,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;My mother would have remembered what was due to the
      family name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she would have said, No?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would have said, No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was an undertone of angry contempt in the exclamation which made
      Horace start. &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; she answered, and took up her embroidery again. There he sat at
      her side, anxiously looking at her&mdash;his hope in the future centered
      in his marriage! In a week more, if she chose, she might enter that
      ancient family of which he had spoken so proudly, as his wife. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she
      thought, &ldquo;if I didn&rsquo;t love him! if I had only his merciless mother to
      think of!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Uneasily conscious of some estrangement between them, Horace spoke again.
      &ldquo;Surely I have not offended you?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned toward him once more. The work dropped unheeded on her lap. Her
      grand eyes softened into tenderness. A smile trembled sadly on her
      delicate lips. She laid one hand caressingly on his shoulder. All the
      beauty of her voice lent its charm to the next words that she said to him.
      The woman&rsquo;s heart hungered in its misery for the comfort that could only
      come from his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> would have loved me, Horace&mdash;without stopping to think of
      the family name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The family name again! How strangely she persisted in coming back to that!
      Horace looked at her without answering, trying vainly to fathom what was
      passing in her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      She took his hand, and wrung it hard&mdash;as if she would wring the
      answer out of him in that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> would have loved me?&rdquo; she repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The double spell of her voice and her touch was on him. He answered,
      warmly, &ldquo;Under any circumstances! under any name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She put one arm round his neck, and fixed her eyes on his. &ldquo;Is that true?&rdquo;
       she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True as the heaven above us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She drank in those few commonplace words with a greedy delight. She forced
      him to repeat them in a new form.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter who I might have been? For myself alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For yourself alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She threw both arms round him, and laid her head passionately on his
      breast. &ldquo;I love you! I love you!! I love you!!!&rdquo; Her voice rose with
      hysterical vehemence at each repetition of the words&mdash;then suddenly
      sank to a low hoarse cry of rage and despair. The sense of her true
      position toward him revealed itself in all its horror as the confession of
      her love escaped her lips. Her arms dropped from him; she flung herself
      back on the sofa-cushions, hiding her face in her hands. &ldquo;Oh, leave me!&rdquo;
       she moaned, faintly. &ldquo;Go! go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace tried to wind his arm round her, and raise her. She started to her
      feet, and waved him back from her with a wild action of her hands, as if
      she was frightened of him. &ldquo;The wedding present!&rdquo; she cried, seizing the
      first pretext that occurred to her. &ldquo;You offered to bring me your mother&rsquo;s
      present. I am dying to see what it is. Go and get it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace tried to compose her. He might as well have tried to compose the
      winds and the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go!&rdquo; she repeated, pressing one clinched hand on her bosom. &ldquo;I am not
      well. Talking excites me&mdash;I am hysterical; I shall be better alone.
      Get me the present. Go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I send Lady Janet? Shall I ring for your maid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send for nobody! ring for nobody! If you love me&mdash;leave me here by
      myself! leave me instantly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall see you when I come back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no alternative but to obey her. Unwillingly and forebodingly,
      Horace left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      She drew a deep breath of relief, and dropped into the nearest chair. If
      Horace had stayed a moment longer&mdash;she felt it, she knew it&mdash;her
      head would have given way; she would have burst out before him with the
      terrible truth. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she thought, pressing her cold hands on her burning
      eyes, &ldquo;if I could only cry, now there is nobody to see me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The room was empty: she had every reason for concluding that she was
      alone. And yet at that very moment there were ears that listened&mdash;there
      were eyes waiting to see her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little by little the door behind her which faced the library and led into
      the billiard-room was opened noiselessly from without, by an inch at a
      time. As the opening was enlarged a hand in a black glove, an arm in a
      black sleeve, appeared, guiding the movement of the door. An interval of a
      moment passed, and the worn white face of Grace Roseberry showed itself
      stealthily, looking into the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes brightened with vindictive pleasure as they discovered Mercy
      sitting alone at the further end of the room. Inch by inch she opened the
      door more widely, took one step forward, and checked herself. A sound,
      just audible at the far end of the conservatory, had caught her ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      She listened&mdash;satisfied herself that she was not mistaken&mdash;and
      drawing back with a frown of displeasure, softly closed the door again, so
      as to hide herself from view. The sound that had disturbed her was the
      distant murmur of men&rsquo;s voices (apparently two in number) talking together
      in lowered tones, at the garden entrance to the conservatory.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who were the men? and what would they do next? They might do one of two
      things: they might enter the drawing-room, or they might withdraw again by
      way of the garden. Kneeling behind the door, with her ear at the key-hole,
      Grace Roseberry waited the event.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI. THEY MEET AGAIN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      ABSORBED in herself, Mercy failed to notice the opening door or to hear
      the murmur of voices in the conservatory.
    </p>
    <p>
      The one terrible necessity which had been present to her mind at intervals
      for a week past was confronting her at that moment. She owed to Grace
      Roseberry the tardy justice of owning the truth. The longer her confession
      was delayed, the more cruelly she was injuring the woman whom she had
      robbed of her identity&mdash;the friendless woman who had neither
      witnesses nor papers to produce, who was powerless to right her own wrong.
      Keenly as she felt this, Mercy failed, nevertheless, to conquer the horror
      that shook her when she thought of the impending avowal. Day followed day,
      and still she shrank from the unendurable ordeal of confession&mdash;as
      she was shrinking from it now!
    </p>
    <p>
      Was it fear for herself that closed her lips?
    </p>
    <p>
      She trembled&mdash;as any human being in her place must have trembled&mdash;at
      the bare idea of finding herself thrown back again on the world, which had
      no place in it and no hope in it for <i>her</i>. But she could have
      overcome that terror&mdash;she could have resigned herself to that doom.
    </p>
    <p>
      No! it was not the fear of the confession itself, or the fear of the
      consequences which must follow it, that still held her silent. The horror
      that daunted her was the horror of owning to Horace and to Lady Janet that
      she had cheated them out of their love.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every day Lady Janet was kinder and kinder. Every day Horace was fonder
      and fonder of her. How could she confess to Lady Janet? how could she own
      to Horace that she had imposed upon him? &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t do it. They are so good
      to me&mdash;I can&rsquo;t do it!&rdquo; In that hopeless way it had ended during the
      seven days that had gone by. In that hopeless way it ended again now.
    </p>
    <p>
      The murmur of the two voices at the further end of the conservatory
      ceased. The billiard-room door opened again slowly, by an inch at a time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy still kept her place, unconscious of the events that were passing
      round her. Sinking under the hard stress laid on it, her mind had drifted
      little by little into a new train of thought. For the first time she found
      the courage to question the future in a new way. Supposing her confession
      to have been made, or supposing the woman whom she had personated to have
      discovered the means of exposing the fraud, what advantage, she now asked
      herself, would Miss Roseberry derive from Mercy Merrick&rsquo;s disgrace?
    </p>
    <p>
      Could Lady Janet transfer to the woman who was really her relative by
      marriage the affection which she had given to the woman who had pretended
      to be her relative? No! All the right in the world would not put the true
      Grace into the false Grace&rsquo;s vacant place. The qualities by which Mercy
      had won Lady Janet&rsquo;s love were the qualities which were Mercy&rsquo;s own. Lady
      Janet could do rigid justice&mdash;but hers was not the heart to give
      itself to a stranger (and to give itself unreservedly) a second time.
      Grace Roseberry would be formally acknowledged&mdash;and there it would
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was there hope in this new view?
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes! There was the false hope of making the inevitable atonement by some
      other means than by the confession of the fraud.
    </p>
    <p>
      What had Grace Roseberry actually lost by the wrong done to her? She had
      lost the salary of Lady Janet&rsquo;s &ldquo;companion and reader.&rdquo; Say that she
      wanted money, Mercy had her savings from the generous allowance made to
      her by Lady Janet; Mercy could offer money. Or say that she wanted
      employment, Mercy&rsquo;s interest with Lady Janet could offer employment, could
      offer anything Grace might ask for, if she would only come to terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Invigorated by the new hope, Mercy rose excitedly, weary of inaction in
      the empty room. She, who but a few minutes since had shuddered at the
      thought of their meeting again, was now eager to devise a means of finding
      her way privately to an interview with Grace. It should be done without
      loss of time&mdash;on that very day, if possible; by the next day at
      latest. She looked round her mechanically, pondering how to reach the end
      in view. Her eyes rested by chance on the door of the billiard-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was it fancy? or did she really see the door first open a little, then
      suddenly and softly close again?
    </p>
    <p>
      Was it fancy? or did she really hear, at the same moment, a sound behind
      her as of persons speaking in the conservatory?
    </p>
    <p>
      She paused; and, looking back in that direction, listened intently. The
      sound&mdash;if she had really heard it&mdash;was no longer audible. She
      advanced toward the billiard-room to set her first doubt at rest. She
      stretched out her hand to open the door, when the voices (recognizable now
      as the voices of two men) caught her ear once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time she was able to distinguish the words that were spoken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any further orders, sir?&rdquo; inquired one of the men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing more,&rdquo; replied the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy started, and faintly flushed, as the second voice answered the
      first. She stood irresolute close to the billiard-room, hesitating what to
      do next.
    </p>
    <p>
      After an interval the second voice made itself heard again, advancing
      nearer to the dining-room: &ldquo;Are you there, aunt?&rdquo; it asked cautiously.
      There was a moment&rsquo;s pause. Then the voice spoke for the third time,
      sounding louder and nearer. &ldquo;Are you there?&rdquo; it reiterated; &ldquo;I have
      something to tell you.&rdquo; Mercy summoned her resolution and answered: &ldquo;Lady
      Janet is not here.&rdquo; She turned as she spoke toward the conservatory door,
      and confronted on the threshold Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      They looked at one another without exchanging a word on either side. The
      situation&mdash;for widely different reasons&mdash;was equally
      embarrassing to both of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      There&mdash;as Julian saw <i>her</i>&mdash;was the woman forbidden to him,
      the woman whom he loved.
    </p>
    <p>
      There&mdash;as Mercy saw <i>him</i>&mdash;was the man whom she dreaded,
      the man whose actions (as she interpreted them) proved that he suspected
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the surface of it, the incidents which had marked their first meeting
      were now exactly repeated, with the one difference that the impulse to
      withdraw this time appeared to be on the man&rsquo;s side and not on the
      woman&rsquo;s. It was Mercy who spoke first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you expect to find Lady Janet here?&rdquo; she asked, constrainedly. He
      answered, on his part, more constrainedly still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Another time will do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drew back as he made the reply. She advanced desperately, with the
      deliberate intention of detaining him by speaking again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The attempt which he had made to withdraw, the constraint in his manner
      when he had answered, had instantly confirmed her in the false conviction
      that he, and he alone, had guessed the truth! If she was right&mdash;if he
      had secretly made discoveries abroad which placed her entirely at his
      mercy&mdash;the attempt to induce Grace to consent to a compromise with
      her would be manifestly useless. Her first and foremost interest now was
      to find out how she really stood in the estimation of Julian Gray. In a
      terror of suspense, that turned her cold from head to foot, she stopped
      him on his way out, and spoke to him with the piteous counterfeit of a
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet is receiving some visitors,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;If you will wait here,
      she will be back directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The effort of hiding her agitation from him had brought a passing color
      into her cheeks. Worn and wasted as she was, the spell of her beauty was
      strong enough to hold him against his own will. All he had to tell Lady
      Janet was that he had met one of the gardeners in the conservatory, and
      had cautioned him as well as the lodge-keeper. It would have been easy to
      write this, and to send the note to his aunt on quitting the house. For
      the sake of his own peace of mind, for the sake of his duty to Horace, he
      was doubly bound to make the first polite excuse that occurred to him, and
      to leave her as he had found her, alone in the room. He made the attempt,
      and hesitated. Despising himself for doing it, he allowed himself to look
      at her. Their eyes met. Julian stepped into the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I am not in the way,&rdquo; he said, confusedly, &ldquo;I will wait, as you kindly
      propose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She noticed his embarrassment; she saw that he was strongly restraining
      himself from looking at her again. Her own eyes dropped to the ground as
      she made the discovery. Her speech failed her; her heart throbbed faster
      and faster.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I look at him again&rdquo; (was the thought in <i>her</i> mind) &ldquo;I shall
      fall at his feet and tell him all that I have done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I look at her again&rdquo; (was the thought in <i>his</i> mind) &ldquo;I shall
      fall at her feet and own that I am in love with her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With downcast eyes he placed a chair for her. With downcast eyes she bowed
      to him and took it. A dead silence followed. Never was any human
      misunderstanding more intricately complete than the misunderstanding which
      had now established itself between those two.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s work-basket was near her. She took it, and gained time for
      composing herself by pretending to arrange the colored wools. He stood
      behind her chair, looking at the graceful turn of her head, looking at the
      rich masses of her hair. He reviled himself as the weakest of men, as the
      falsest of friends, for still remaining near her&mdash;and yet he
      remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      The silence continued. The billiard-room door opened again noiselessly.
      The face of the listening woman appeared stealthily behind it.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment Mercy roused herself and spoke: &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you sit down?&rdquo;
       she said, softly, still not looking round at him, still busy with her
      basket of wools.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned to get a chair&mdash;turned so quickly that he saw the
      billiard-room door move, as Grace Roseberry closed it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any one in that room?&rdquo; he asked, addressing Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;I thought I saw the door open and shut
      again a little while ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He advanced at once to look into the room. As he did so Mercy dropped one
      of her balls of wool. He stopped to pick it up for her&mdash;then threw
      open the door and looked into the billiard-room. It was empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had some person been listening, and had that person retreated in time to
      escape discovery? The open door of the smoking-room showed that room also
      to be empty. A third door was open&mdash;the door of the side hall,
      leading into the grounds. Julian closed and locked it, and returned to the
      dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can only suppose,&rdquo; he said to Mercy, &ldquo;that the billiard-room door was
      not properly shut, and that the draught of air from the hall must have
      moved it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She accepted the explanation in silence. He was, to all appearance, not
      quite satisfied with it himself. For a moment or two he looked about him
      uneasily. Then the old fascination fastened its hold on him again. Once
      more he looked at the graceful turn of her head, at the rich masses of her
      hair. The courage to put the critical question to him, now that she had
      lured him into remaining in the room, was still a courage that failed her.
      She remained as busy as ever with her work&mdash;too busy to look at him;
      too busy to speak to him. The silence became unendurable. He broke it by
      making a commonplace inquiry after her health. &ldquo;I am well enough to be
      ashamed of the anxiety I have caused and the trouble I have given,&rdquo; she
      answered. &ldquo;To-day I have got downstairs for the first time. I am trying to
      do a little work.&rdquo; She looked into the basket. The various specimens of
      wool in it were partly in balls and partly in loose skeins. The skeins
      were mixed and tangled. &ldquo;Here is sad confusion!&rdquo; she exclaimed, timidly,
      with a faint smile. &ldquo;How am I to set it right again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me help you,&rdquo; said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; he asked, with a momentary return of the quaint humor which she
      remembered so well. &ldquo;You forget that I am a curate. Curates are privileged
      to make themselves useful to young ladies. Let me try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took a stool at her feet, and set himself to unravel one of the tangled
      skeins. In a minute the wool was stretched on his hands, and the loose end
      was ready for Mercy to wind. There was something in the trivial action,
      and in the homely attention that it implied, which in some degree quieted
      her fear of him. She began to roll the wool off his hands into a ball.
      Thus occupied, she said the daring words which were to lead him little by
      little into betraying his suspicions, if he did indeed suspect the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were here when I fainted, were you not?&rdquo; Mercy began. &ldquo;You must think
      me a sad coward, even for a woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head. &ldquo;I am far from thinking that,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;No courage
      could have sustained the shock which fell on you. I don&rsquo;t wonder that you
      fainted. I don&rsquo;t wonder that you have been ill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused in rolling up the ball of wool. What did those words of
      unexpected sympathy mean? Was he laying a trap for her? Urged by that
      serious doubt, she questioned him more boldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horace tells me you have been abroad,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Did you enjoy your
      holiday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was no holiday. I went abroad because I thought it right to make
      certain inquiries&mdash;&rdquo; He stopped there, unwilling to return to a
      subject that was painful to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her voice sank, her fingers trembled round the ball of wool; but she
      managed to go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you arrive at any results?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At no results worth mentioning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The caution of that reply renewed her worst suspicions of him. In sheer
      despair, she spoke out plainly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to know your opinion&mdash;&rdquo; she began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gently!&rdquo; said Julian. &ldquo;You are entangling the wool again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to know your opinion of the person who so terribly frightened me.
      Do you think her&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I think her&mdash;what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think her an adventuress?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (As she said those words the branches of a shrub in the conservatory were
      noiselessly parted by a hand in a black glove. The face of Grace Roseberry
      appeared dimly behind the leaves. Undiscovered, she had escaped from the
      billiard-room, and had stolen her way into the conservatory as the safer
      hiding-place of the two. Behind the shrub she could see as well as listen.
      Behind the shrub she waited as patiently as ever.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I take a more merciful view,&rdquo; Julian answered. &ldquo;I believe she is acting
      under a delusion. I don&rsquo;t blame her: I pity her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You pity her?&rdquo; As Mercy repeated the words, she tore off Julian&rsquo;s hands
      the last few lengths of wool left, and threw the imperfectly wound skein
      back into the basket. &ldquo;Does that mean,&rdquo; she resumed, abruptly, &ldquo;that you
      believe her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian rose from his seat, and looked at Mercy in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, Miss Roseberry! what put such an idea as that into your
      head?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am little better than a stranger to you,&rdquo; she rejoined, with an effort
      to assume a jesting tone. &ldquo;You met that person before you met with me. It
      is not so very far from pitying her to believing her. How could I feel
      sure that you might not suspect me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suspect <i>you!</i>&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know how you distress, how
      you shock me. Suspect <i>you!</i> The bare idea of it never entered my
      mind. The man doesn&rsquo;t live who trusts you more implicitly, who believes in
      you more devotedly, than I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His eyes, his voice, his manner, all told her that those words came from
      the heart. She contrasted his generous confidence in her (the confidence
      of which she was unworthy) with her ungracious distrust of him. Not only
      had she wronged Grace Roseberry&mdash;she had wronged Julian Gray. Could
      she deceive him as she had deceived the others? Could she meanly accept
      that implicit trust, that devoted belief? Never had she felt the base
      submissions which her own imposture condemned her to undergo with a
      loathing of them so overwhelming as the loathing that she felt now. In
      horror of herself, she turned her head aside in silence and shrank from
      meeting his eye. He noticed the movement, placing his own interpretation
      on it. Advancing closer, he asked anxiously if he had offended her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know how your confidence touches me,&rdquo; she said, without looking
      up. &ldquo;You little think how keenly I feel your kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She checked herself abruptly. Her fine tact warned her that she was
      speaking too warmly&mdash;that the expression of her gratitude might
      strike him as being strangely exaggerated. She handed him her work-basket
      before he could speak again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you put it away for me?&rdquo; she asked, in her quieter tones. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
      feel able to work just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His back was turned on her for a moment, while he placed the basket on a
      side-table. In that moment her mind advanced at a bound from present to
      future. Accident might one day put the true Grace in possession of the
      proofs that she needed, and might reveal the false Grace to him in the
      identity that was her own. What would he think of her then? Could she make
      him tell her without betraying herself? She determined to try.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Children are notoriously insatiable if you once answer their questions,
      and women are nearly as bad,&rdquo; she said, when Julian returned to her. &ldquo;Will
      your patience hold out if I go back for the third time to the person whom
      we have been speaking of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try me,&rdquo; he answered, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you had <i>not</i> taken your merciful view of her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you believed that she was wickedly bent on deceiving others for a
      purpose of her own&mdash;would you not shrink from such a woman in horror
      and disgust?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid that I should shrink from any human creature!&rdquo; he answered,
      earnestly. &ldquo;Who among us has a right to do that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hardly dared trust herself to believe him. &ldquo;You would still pity her?&rdquo;
       she persisted, &ldquo;and still feel for her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how good you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He held up his hand in warning. The tones of his voice deepened, the
      luster of his eyes brightened. She had stirred in the depths of that great
      heart the faith in which the man lived&mdash;the steady principle which
      guided his modest and noble life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that! Say that I try to love my neighbor as
      myself. Who but a Pharisee can believe that he is better than another? The
      best among us to-day may, but for the mercy of God, be the worst among us
      tomorrow. The true Christian virtue is the virtue which never despairs of
      a fellow-creature. The true Christian faith believes in Man as well as in
      God. Frail and fallen as we are, we can rise on the wings of repentance
      from earth to heaven. Humanity is sacred. Humanity has its immortal
      destiny. Who shall dare say to man or woman, &lsquo;There is no hope in you?&rsquo; 
      Who shall dare say the work is all vile, when that work bears on it the
      stamp of the Creator&rsquo;s hand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned away for a moment, struggling with the emotion which she had
      roused in him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes, as they followed him, lighted with a momentary enthusiasm&mdash;then
      sank wearily in the vain regret which comes too late. Ah! if he could have
      been her friend and her adviser on the fatal day when she first turned her
      steps toward Mablethorpe House! She sighed bitterly as the hopeless
      aspiration wrung her heart. He heard the sigh; and, turning again, looked
      at her with a new interest in his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Roseberry,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was still absorbed in the bitter memories of the past: she failed to
      hear him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Roseberry,&rdquo; he repeated, approaching her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked up at him with a start.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I venture to ask you something?&rdquo; he said, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      She shrank at the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t suppose I am speaking out of mere curiosity,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;And pray
      don&rsquo;t answer me unless you can answer without betraying any confidence
      which may have been placed in you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confidence!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;What confidence do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has just struck me that you might have felt more than a common
      interest in the questions which you put to me a moment since,&rdquo; he
      answered. &ldquo;Were you by any chance speaking of some unhappy woman&mdash;not
      the person who frightened you, of course&mdash;but of some other woman
      whom you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her head sank slowly on her bosom. He had plainly no suspicion that she
      had been speaking of herself: his tone and manner both answered for it
      that his belief in her was as strong as ever. Still those last words made
      her tremble; she could not trust herself to reply to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He accepted the bending of her head as a reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you interested in her?&rdquo; he asked next.
    </p>
    <p>
      She faintly answered this time. &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you encouraged her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not dared to encourage her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His face lighted up suddenly with enthusiasm. &ldquo;Go to her,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and
      let me go with you and help you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The answer came faintly and mournfully. &ldquo;She has sunk too low for that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He interrupted her with a gesture of impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has she done?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has deceived&mdash;basely deceived&mdash;innocent people who trusted
      her. She has wronged&mdash;cruelly wronged&mdash;another woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the first time Julian seated himself at her side. The interest that
      was now roused in him was an interest above reproach. He could speak to
      Mercy without restraint; he could look at Mercy with a pure heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You judge her very harshly,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Do <i>you</i> know how she may
      have been tried and tempted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;is the person whom she has injured still living?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the person is still living, she may atone for the wrong. The time may
      come when this sinner, too, may win our pardon and deserve our respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could <i>you</i> respect her?&rdquo; Mercy asked, sadly. &ldquo;Can such a mind as
      yours understand what she has gone through?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A smile, kind and momentary, brightened his attentive face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget my melancholy experience,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Young as I am, I have
      seen more than most men of women who have sinned and suffered. Even after
      the little that you have told me, I think I can put myself in her place. I
      can well understand, for instance, that she may have been tempted beyond
      human resistance. Am I right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She may have had nobody near at the time to advise her, to warn her, to
      save her. Is that true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tempted and friendless, self-abandoned to the evil impulse of the moment,
      this woman may have committed herself headlong to the act which she now
      vainly repents. She may long to make atonement, and may not know how to
      begin. All her energies may be crushed under the despair and horror of
      herself, out of which the truest repentance grows. Is such a woman as this
      all wicked, all vile? I deny it! She may have a noble nature; and she may
      show it nobly yet. Give her the opportunity she needs, and our poor fallen
      fellow-creature may take her place again among the best of us&mdash;honored,
      blameless, happy, once more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s eyes, resting eagerly on him while he was speaking, dropped again
      despondingly when he had done.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no such future as that,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;for the woman whom I am
      thinking of. She has lost her opportunity. She has done with hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian gravely considered with himself for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us understand each other,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;She has committed an act of
      deception to the injury of another woman. Was that what you told me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she has gained something to her own advantage by the act.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she threatened with discovery?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is safe from discovery&mdash;for the present, at least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Safe as long as she closes her lips?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As long as she closes her lips.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is her opportunity!&rdquo; cried Julian. &ldquo;Her future is before her. She
      has not done with hope!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With clasped hands, in breathless suspense, Mercy looked at that
      inspiriting face, and listened to those golden words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Explain yourself,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Tell her, through me, what she must do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let her own the truth,&rdquo; answered Julian, &ldquo;without the base fear of
      discovery to drive her to it. Let her do justice to the woman whom she has
      wronged, while that woman is still powerless to expose her. Let her
      sacrifice everything that she has gained by the fraud to the sacred duty
      of atonement. If she can do that&mdash;for conscience&rsquo; sake, and for
      pity&rsquo;s sake&mdash;to her own prejudice, to her own shame, to her own loss&mdash;then
      her repentance has nobly revealed the noble nature that is in her; then
      she is a woman to be trusted, respected, beloved! If I saw the Pharisees
      and fanatics of this lower earth passing her by in contempt, I would hold
      out my hand to her before them all. I would say to her in her solitude and
      her affliction, &lsquo;Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God&rsquo;s
      angels rejoice over you! Take your place among the noblest of God&rsquo;s
      creatures!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In those last sentences he unconsciously repeated the language in which he
      had spoken, years since, to his congregation in the chapel of the Refuge.
      With tenfold power and tenfold persuasion they now found their way again
      to Mercy&rsquo;s heart. Softly, suddenly, mysteriously, a change passed over
      her. Her troubled face grew beautifully still. The shifting light of
      terror and suspense vanished from her grand gray eyes, and left in them
      the steady inner glow of a high and pure resolve.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a moment of silence between them. They both had need of silence.
      Julian was the first to speak again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I satisfied you that her opportunity is still before her?&rdquo; he asked.
      &ldquo;Do you feel, as I feel, that she has <i>not</i> done with hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have satisfied me that the world holds no truer friend to her than
      you,&rdquo; Mercy answered, gently and gratefully. &ldquo;She shall prove herself
      worthy of your generous confidence in her. She shall show you yet that you
      have not spoken in vain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still inevitably failing to understand her, he led the way to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t waste the precious time,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t leave her cruelly to
      herself. If you can&rsquo;t go to her, let me go as your messenger, in your
      place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped him by a gesture. He took a step back into the room, and
      paused, observing with surprise that she made no attempt to move from the
      chair that she occupied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay here,&rdquo; she said to him, in suddenly altered tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; he rejoined, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will understand me directly. Give me a little time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He still lingered near the door, with his eyes fixed inquiringly on her. A
      man of a lower nature than his, or a man believing in Mercy less devotedly
      than he believed, would now have felt his first suspicion of her. Julian
      was as far as ever from suspecting her, even yet. &ldquo;Do you wish to be
      alone?&rdquo; he asked, considerately. &ldquo;Shall I leave you for a while and return
      again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked up with a start of terror. &ldquo;Leave me?&rdquo; she repeated, and
      suddenly checked herself on the point of saying more. Nearly half the
      length of the room divided them from each other. The words which she was
      longing to say were words that would never pass her lips unless she could
      see some encouragement in his face. &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she cried out to him, on a
      sudden, in her sore need, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t leave me! Come back to me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He obeyed her in silence. In silence, on her side, she pointed to the
      chair near her. He took it. She looked at him, and checked herself again;
      resolute to make her terrible confession, yet still hesitating how to
      begin. Her woman&rsquo;s instinct whispered to her, &ldquo;Find courage in his touch!&rdquo;
       She said to him, simply and artlessly said to him, &ldquo;Give me encouragement.
      Give me strength. Let me take your hand.&rdquo; He neither answered nor moved.
      His mind seemed to have become suddenly preoccupied; his eyes rested on
      her vacantly. He was on the brink of discovering her secret; in another
      instant he would have found his way to the truth. In that instant,
      innocently as his sister might have taken it, she took his hand. The soft
      clasp of her fingers, clinging round his, roused his senses, fired his
      passion for her, swept out of his mind the pure aspirations which had
      filled it but the moment before, paralyzed his perception when it was just
      penetrating the mystery of her disturbed manner and her strange words. All
      the man in him trembled under the rapture of her touch. But the thought of
      Horace was still present to him: his hand lay passive in hers; his eyes
      looked uneasily away from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She innocently strengthened her clasp of his hand. She innocently said to
      him, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t look away from me. Your eyes give me courage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hand returned the pressure of hers. He tasted to the full the
      delicious joy of looking at her. She had broken down his last reserves of
      self-control. The thought of Horace, the sense of honor, became obscured
      in him. In a moment more he might have said the words which he would have
      deplored for the rest of his life, if she had not stopped him by speaking
      first. &ldquo;I have more to say to you,&rdquo; she resumed abruptly, feeling the
      animating resolution to lay her heart bare before him at last; &ldquo;more, far
      more, than I have said yet. Generous, merciful friend, let me say it <i>here!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She attempted to throw herself on her knees at his feet. He sprung from
      his seat and checked her, holding her with both his hands, raising her as
      he rose himself. In the words which had just escaped her, in the startling
      action which had accompanied them, the truth burst on him. The guilty
      woman she had spoken of was herself!
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was almost in his arms, while her bosom was just touching his,
      before a word more had passed his lips or hers, the library door opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet Roy entered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII. THE SEARCH IN THE GROUNDS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      GRACE ROSEBERRY, still listening in the conservatory, saw the door open,
      and recognized the mistress of the house. She softly drew back, and placed
      herself in safer hiding, beyond the range of view from the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet advanced no further than the threshold. She stood there and
      looked at her nephew and her adopted daughter in stern silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy dropped into the chair at her side. Julian kept his place by her.
      His mind was still stunned by the discovery that had burst on it; his eyes
      still rested on her in mute terror of inquiry. He was as completely
      absorbed in the one act of looking at her as if they had been still alone
      together in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet was the first of the three who spoke. She addressed herself to
      her nephew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were right, Mr. Julian Gray,&rdquo; she said, with her bitterest emphasis
      of tone and manner. &ldquo;You ought to have found nobody in this room on your
      return but <i>me</i>. I detain you no longer. You are free to leave my
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian looked round at his aunt. She was pointing to the door. In the
      excited state of his sensibilities at that moment the action stung him to
      the quick. He answered without his customary consideration for his aunt&rsquo;s
      age and his aunt&rsquo;s position toward him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You apparently forget, Lady Janet, that you are not speaking to one of
      your footmen,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There are serious reasons (of which you know
      nothing) for my remaining in your house a little longer. You may rely upon
      my trespassing on your hospitality as short a time as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned again to Mercy as he said those words, and surprised her timidly
      looking up at him. In the instant when their eyes met, the tumult of
      emotions struggling in him became suddenly stilled. Sorrow for her&mdash;compassionating
      sorrow&mdash;rose in the new calm and filled his heart. Now, and now only,
      he could read in the wasted and noble face how she had suffered. The pity
      which he had felt for the unnamed woman grew to a tenfold pity for <i>her</i>.
      The faith which he professed&mdash;honestly professed&mdash;in the better
      nature of the unnamed woman strengthened into a tenfold faith in <i>her</i>.
      He addressed himself again to his aunt, in a gentler tone. &ldquo;This lady,&rdquo; he
      resumed, &ldquo;has something to say to me in private which she has not said
      yet. That is my reason and my apology for not immediately leaving the
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still under the impression of what she had seen on entering the room, Lady
      Janet looked at him in angry amazement. Was Julian actually ignoring
      Horace Holmcroft&rsquo;s claims, in the presence of Horace Holmcroft&rsquo;s betrothed
      wife? She appealed to her adopted daughter. &ldquo;Grace!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;have
      you heard him? Have you nothing to say? Must I remind you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped. For the first time in Lady Janet&rsquo;s experience of her young
      companion, she found herself speaking to ears that were deaf to her. Mercy
      was incapable of listening. Julian&rsquo;s eyes had told her that Julian
      understood her at last!
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet turned to her nephew once more, and addressed him in the
      hardest words that she had ever spoken to her sister&rsquo;s son.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you have any sense of decency,&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;I say nothing of a
      sense of honor&mdash;you will leave this house, and your acquaintance with
      that lady will end here. Spare me your protests and excuses; I can place
      but one interpretation on what I saw when I opened that door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You entirely misunderstand what you saw when you opened that door,&rdquo;
       Julian answered, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I misunderstand the confession which you made to me not an hour
      ago?&rdquo; retorted Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian cast a look of alarm at Mercy. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak of it!&rdquo; he said, in a
      whisper. &ldquo;She might hear you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to say she doesn&rsquo;t know you are in love with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, she has not the faintest suspicion of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no mistaking the earnestness with which he made that reply. It
      proved his innocence as nothing else could have proved it. Lady Janet drew
      back a step&mdash;utterly bewildered; completely at a loss what to say or
      what to do next.
    </p>
    <p>
      The silence that followed was broken by a knock at the library door. The
      man-servant&mdash;with news, and bad news, legibly written in his
      disturbed face and manner&mdash;entered the room. In the nervous
      irritability of the moment, Lady Janet resented the servant&rsquo;s appearance
      as a positive offense on the part of the harmless man. &ldquo;Who sent for you?&rdquo;
       she asked, sharply. &ldquo;What do you mean by interrupting us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant made his excuses in an oddly bewildered manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your ladyship&rsquo;s pardon. I wished to take the liberty&mdash;I wanted
      to speak to Mr. Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man looked uneasily at Lady Janet, hesitated, and glanced at the door,
      as if he wished himself well out of the room again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly know if I can tell you, sir, before her ladyship,&rdquo; he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet instantly penetrated the secret of her servant&rsquo;s hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know what has happened,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;that abominable woman has found her
      way here again. Am I right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man&rsquo;s eyes helplessly consulted Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, or no?&rdquo; cried Lady Janet, imperatively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian at once assumed the duty of asking the necessary questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo; he began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somewhere in the grounds, as we suppose, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did <i>you</i> see her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who saw her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lodge-keeper&rsquo;s wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This looked serious. The lodge-keeper&rsquo;s wife had been present while Julian
      had given his instructions to her husband. She was not likely to have
      mistaken the identity of the person whom she had discovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long since?&rdquo; Julian asked next.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not very long, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be more particular. <i>How</i> long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t hear, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did the lodge-keeper&rsquo;s wife speak to the person when she saw her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir: she didn&rsquo;t get the chance, as I understand it. She is a stout
      woman, if you remember. The other was too quick for her&mdash;discovered
      her, sir, and (as the saying is) gave her the slip.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In what part of the grounds did this happen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant pointed in the direction of the side hall. &ldquo;In that part, sir.
      Either in the Dutch garden or the shrubbery. I am not sure which.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was plain, by this time, that the man&rsquo;s information was too imperfect
      to be practically of any use. Julian asked if the lodge-keeper&rsquo;s wife was
      in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir. Her husband has gone out to search the grounds in her place, and
      she is minding the gate. They sent their boy with the message. From what I
      can make out from the lad, they would be thankful if they could get a word
      more of advice from you, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian reflected for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      So far as he could estimate them, the probabilities were that the stranger
      from Mannheim had already made her way into the house; that she had been
      listening in the billiard-room; that she had found time enough to escape
      him on his approaching to open the door; and that she was now (in the
      servant&rsquo;s phrase) &ldquo;somewhere in the grounds,&rdquo; after eluding the pursuit of
      the lodgekeeper&rsquo;s wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      The matter was serious. Any mistake in dealing with it might lead to very
      painful results.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Julian had correctly anticipated the nature of the confession which
      Mercy had been on the point of addressing to him, the person whom he had
      been the means of introducing into the house was&mdash;what she had vainly
      asserted herself to be&mdash;no other than the true Grace Roseberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Taking this for granted, it was of the utmost importance that he should
      speak to Grace privately, before she committed herself to any rashly
      renewed assertion of her claims, and before she could gain access to Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s adopted daughter. The landlady at her lodgings had already warned
      him that the object which she held steadily in view was to find her way to
      &ldquo;Miss Roseberry&rdquo; when Lady Janet was not present to take her part, and
      when no gentleman were at hand to protect her. &ldquo;Only let me meet her face
      to face&rdquo; (she had said), &ldquo;and I will make her confess herself the impostor
      that she is!&rdquo; As matters now stood, it was impossible to estimate too
      seriously the mischief which might ensue from such a meeting as this.
      Everything now depended on Julian&rsquo;s skillful management of an exasperated
      woman; and nobody, at that moment, knew where the woman was.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this position of affairs, as Julian understood it, there seemed to be
      no other alternative than to make his inquiries instantly at the lodge and
      then to direct the search in person.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked toward Mercy&rsquo;s chair as he arrived at this resolution. It was at
      a cruel sacrifice of his own anxieties and his own wishes that he deferred
      continuing the conversation with her from the critical point at which Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s appearance had interrupted it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy had risen while he had been questioning the servant. The attention
      which she had failed to accord to what had passed between his aunt and
      himself she had given to the imperfect statement which he had extracted
      from the man. Her face plainly showed that she had listened as eagerly as
      Lady Janet had listened; with this remarkable difference between there,
      that Lady Janet looked frightened, and that Lady Janet&rsquo;s companion showed
      no signs of alarm. She appeared to be interested; perhaps anxious&mdash;nothing
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian spoke a parting word to his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray compose yourself,&rdquo; he said &ldquo;I have little doubt, when I can learn
      the particulars, that we shall easily find this person in the grounds.
      There is no reason to be uneasy. I am going to superintend the search
      myself. I will return to you as soon as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet listened absently. There was a certain expression in her eyes
      which suggested to Julian that her mind was busy with some project of its
      own. He stopped as he passed Mercy, on his way out by the billiard-room
      door. It cost him a hard effort to control the contending emotions which
      the mere act of looking at her now awakened in him. His heart beat fast,
      his voice sank low, as he spoke to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall see me again,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I never was more in earnest in
      promising you my truest help and sympathy than I am now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She understood him. Her bosom heaved painfully; her eyes fell to the
      ground&mdash;she made no reply. The tears rose in Julian&rsquo;s eyes as he
      looked at her. He hurriedly left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he turned to close the billiard-room door, he heard Lady Janet say,
      &ldquo;I will be with you again in a moment, Grace; don&rsquo;t go away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Interpreting these words as meaning that his aunt had some business of her
      own to attend to in the library, he shut the door. He had just advanced
      into the smoking-room beyond, when he thought he heard the door open
      again. He turned round. Lady Janet had followed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you wish to speak to me?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want something of you,&rdquo; Lady Janet answered, &ldquo;before you go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your card.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My card?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have just told me not to be uneasy,&rdquo; said the old lady. &ldquo;I <i>am</i>
      uneasy, for all that. I don&rsquo;t feel as sure as you do that this woman
      really is in the grounds. She may be lurking somewhere in the house, and
      she may appear when your back in turned. Remember what you told me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian understood the allusion. He made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The people at the police station close by,&rdquo; pursued Lady Janet, &ldquo;have
      instructions to send an experienced man, in plain clothes, to any address
      indicated on your card the moment they receive it. That is what you told
      me. For Grace&rsquo;s protection, I want your card before you leave us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was impossible for Julian to mention the reasons which now forbade him
      to make use of his own precautions&mdash;in the very face of the emergency
      which they had been especially intended to meet. How could he declare the
      true Grace Roseberry to be mad? How could he give the true Grace Roseberry
      into custody? On the other hand, he had personally pledged himself (when
      the circumstances appeared to require it) to place the means of legal
      protection from insult and annoyance at his aunt&rsquo;s disposal. And now,
      there stood Lady Janet, unaccustomed to have her wishes disregarded by
      anybody, with her band extended, waiting for the card!
    </p>
    <p>
      What was to be done? The one way out of the difficulty appeared to be to
      submit for the moment. If he succeeded in discovering the missing woman,
      he could easily take care that she should be subjected to no needless
      indignity. If she contrived to slip into the house in his absence, he
      could provide against that contingency by sending a second card privately
      to the police station, forbidding the officer to stir in the affair until
      he had received further orders. Julian made one stipulation only before he
      handed his card to his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not use this, I am sure, without positive and pressing
      necessity,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But I must make one condition. Promise me to keep my
      plan for communicating with the police a strict secret&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A strict secret from Grace?&rdquo; interposed Lady Janet. (Julian bowed.) &ldquo;Do
      you suppose I want to frighten her? Do you think I have not had anxiety
      enough about her already? Of course I shall keep it a secret from Grace!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Re-assured on this point, Julian hastened out into the grounds. As soon as
      his back was turned Lady Janet lifted the gold pencil-case which hung at
      her watch-chain, and wrote on her nephew&rsquo;s card (for the information of
      the officer in plain clothes), &ldquo;<i>You are wanted at Mablethorpe House</i>.&rdquo;
       This done, she put the card into the old-fashioned pocket of her dress,
      and returned to the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace was waiting, in obedience to the instructions which she had
      received.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first moment or two not a word was spoken on either side. Now that
      she was alone with her adopted daughter, a certain coldness and hardness
      began to show itself in Lady Janet&rsquo;s manner. The discovery that she had
      made on opening the drawing-room door still hung on her mind. Julian had
      certainly convinced her that she had misinterpreted what she had seen; but
      he had convinced her against her will. She had found Mercy deeply
      agitated; suspiciously silent. Julian might be innocent, she admitted&mdash;there
      was no accounting for the vagaries of men. But the case of Mercy was
      altogether different. Women did not find themselves in the arms of men
      without knowing what they were about. Acquitting Julian, Lady Janet
      declined to acquit Mercy. &ldquo;There is some secret understanding between
      them,&rdquo; thought the old lady, &ldquo;and she&rsquo;s to blame; the women always are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy still waited to be spoken to; pale and quiet, silent and submissive.
      Lady Janet&mdash;in a highly uncertain state of temper&mdash;was obliged
      to begin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear!&rdquo; she called out, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much longer are you going to sit there with your mouth shut up and
      your eyes on the carpet? Have you no opinion to offer on this alarming
      state of things? You heard what the man said to Julian&mdash;I saw you
      listening. Are you horribly frightened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even nervous?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! I should hardly have given you credit for so much courage after my
      experience of you a week ago. I congratulate you on your recovery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not so composed as you are. We were an excitable set in <i>my</i>
      youth&mdash;and I haven&rsquo;t got the better of it yet. I feel nervous. Do you
      hear? I feel nervous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very good. Do you know what I am going to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to summon the household. When I say the household, I mean the
      men; the women are no use. I am afraid I fail to attract your attention?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have my best attention, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very good again. I said the women were of no use.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean to place a man-servant on guard at every entrance to the house. I
      am going to do it at once. Will you come with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I be of any use if I go with your ladyship?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t be of the slightest use. I give the orders in this house&mdash;not
      you. I had quite another motive in asking you to come with me. I am more
      considerate of you than you seem to think&mdash;I don&rsquo;t like leaving you
      here by yourself. Do you understand?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am much obliged to your ladyship. I don&rsquo;t mind being left here by
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mind? I never heard of such heroism in my life&mdash;out of a
      novel! Suppose that crazy wretch should find her way in here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would not frighten me this time as she frightened me before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not too fast, my young lady! Suppose&mdash;Good heavens! now I think of
      it, there is the conservatory. Suppose she should be hidden in there?
      Julian is searching the grounds. Who is to search the conservatory?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With your ladyship&rsquo;s permission, <i>I</i> will search the conservatory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You!!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With your ladyship&rsquo;s permission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can hardly believe my own ears! Well, &lsquo;Live and learn&rsquo; is an old
      proverb. I thought I knew your character. This <i>is</i> a change!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget, Lady Janet (if I may venture to say so), that the
      circumstances are changed. She took me by surprise on the last occasion; I
      am prepared for her now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really feel as coolly as you speak?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have your own way, then. I shall do one thing, however, in case of your
      having overestimated your own courage. I shall place one of the men in the
      library. You will only have to ring for him if anything happens. He will
      give the alarm&mdash;and I shall act accordingly. I have my plan,&rdquo; said
      her Ladyship, comfortably conscious of the card in her pocket. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t look
      as if you wanted to know what it is. I have no intention of saying
      anything about it&mdash;except that it will do. Once more, and for the
      last time&mdash;do you stay here? or do you go with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stay here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She respectfully opened the library door for Lady Janet&rsquo;s departure as she
      made that reply. Throughout the interview she had been carefully and
      coldly deferential; she had not once lifted her eyes to Lady Janet&rsquo;s face.
      The conviction in her that a few hours more would, in all probability, see
      her dismissed from the house, had of necessity fettered every word that
      she spoke&mdash;had morally separated her already from the injured
      mistress whose love she had won in disguise. Utterly incapable of
      attributing the change in her young companion to the true motive, Lady
      Janet left the room to summon her domestic garrison, thoroughly puzzled
      and (as a necessary consequence of that condition) thoroughly displeased.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still holding the library door in her hand, Mercy stood watching with a
      heavy heart the progress of her benefactress down the length of the room
      on the way to the front hall beyond. She had honestly loved and respected
      the warm-hearted, quick-tempered old lady. A sharp pang of pain wrung her
      as she thought of the time when even the chance utterance of her name
      would become an unpardonable offense in Lady Janet&rsquo;s house.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was no shrinking in her now from the ordeal of the confession.
      She was not only anxious&mdash;she was impatient for Julian&rsquo;s return.
      Before she slept that night Julian&rsquo;s confidence in her should be a
      confidence that she had deserved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let her own the truth, without the base fear of discovery to drive her to
      it. Let her do justice to the woman whom she has wronged, while that woman
      is still powerless to expose her. Let her sacrifice everything that she
      has gained by the fraud to the sacred duty of atonement. If she can do
      that, then her repentance has nobly revealed the noble nature that is in
      her; then she is a woman to be trusted, respected, beloved.&rdquo; Those words
      were as vividly present to her as if she still heard them falling from his
      lips. Those other words which had followed them rang as grandly as ever in
      her ears: &ldquo;Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God&rsquo;s
      angels rejoice over you! Take your place among the noblest of God&rsquo;s
      creatures!&rdquo; Did the woman live who could hear Julian Gray say that, and
      who could hesitate, at any sacrifice, at any loss, to justify his belief
      in her? &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she thought, longingly while her eyes followed Lady Janet to
      the end of the library, &ldquo;if your worst fears could only be realized! If I
      could only see Grace Roseberry in this room, how fearlessly I could meet
      her now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She closed the library door, while Lady Janet opened the other door which
      led into the hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she turned and looked back into the dining-room a cry of astonishment
      escaped her.
    </p>
    <p>
      There&mdash;as if in answer to the aspiration which was still in her mind;
      there, established in triumph on the chair that she had just left&mdash;sat
      Grace Roseberry, in sinister silence, waiting for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX. THE EVIL GENIUS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      RECOVERING from the first overpowering sensation of surprise, Mercy
      rapidly advanced, eager to say her first penitent words. Grace stopped her
      by a warning gesture of the hand. &ldquo;No nearer to me,&rdquo; she said, with a look
      of contemptuous command. &ldquo;Stay where you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy paused. Grace&rsquo;s reception had startled her. She instinctively took
      the chair nearest to her to support herself. Grace raised a warning hand
      for the second time, and issued another command: &ldquo;I forbid you to be
      seated in my presence. You have no right to be in this house at all.
      Remember, if you please, who you are, and who I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tone in which those words were spoken was an insult in itself. Mercy
      suddenly lifted her head; the angry answer was on her lips. She checked
      it, and submitted in silence. &ldquo;I will be worthy of Julian Gray&rsquo;s
      confidence in me,&rdquo; she thought, as she stood patiently by the chair. &ldquo;I
      will bear anything from the woman whom I have wronged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In silence the two faced each other; alone together, for the first time
      since they had met in the French cottage. The contrast between them was
      strange to see. Grace Roseberry, seated in her chair, little and lean,
      with her dull white complexion, with her hard, threatening face, with her
      shrunken figure clad in its plain and poor black garments, looked like a
      being of a lower sphere, compared with Mercy Merrick, standing erect in
      her rich silken dress; her tall, shapely figure towering over the little
      creature before her; her grand head bent in graceful submission; gentle,
      patient, beautiful; a woman whom it was a privilege to look at and a
      distinction to admire. If a stranger had been told that those two had
      played their parts in a romance of real life&mdash;that one of them was
      really connected by the ties of relationship with Lady Janet Roy, and that
      the other had successfully attempted to personate her&mdash;he would
      inevitably, if it had been left to him to guess which was which, have
      picked out Grace as the counterfeit and Mercy as the true woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace broke the silence. She had waited to open her lips until she had
      eyed her conquered victim all over, with disdainfully minute attention,
      from head to foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand there. I like to look at you,&rdquo; she said, speaking with a spiteful
      relish of her own cruel words. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s no use fainting this time. You have
      not got Lady Janet Roy to bring you to. There are no gentlemen here to-day
      to pity you and pick you up. Mercy Merrick, I have got you at last. Thank
      God, my turn has come! You can&rsquo;t escape me now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the littleness of heart and mind which had first shown itself in Grace
      at the meeting in the cottage, when Mercy told the sad story of her life,
      now revealed itself once more. The woman who in those past times had felt
      no impulse to take a suffering and a penitent fellow-creature by the hand
      was the same woman who could feel no pity, who could spare no insolence of
      triumph, now. Mercy&rsquo;s sweet voice answered her patiently, in low, pleading
      tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not avoided you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I would have gone to you of my own
      accord if I had known that you were here. It is my heartfelt wish to own
      that I have sinned against you, and to make all the atonement that I can.
      I am too anxious to deserve your forgiveness to have any fear of seeing
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Conciliatory as the reply was, it was spoken with a simple and modest
      dignity of manner which roused Grace Roseberry to fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How dare you speak to me as if you were any equal?&rdquo; she burst out. &ldquo;You
      stand there and answer me as if you had your right and your place in this
      house. You audacious woman! <i>I</i> have my right and my place here&mdash;and
      what am I obliged to do? I am obliged to hang about in the grounds, and
      fly from the sight of the servants, and hide like a thief, and wait like a
      beggar, and all for what? For the chance of having a word with <i>you</i>.
      Yes! you, madam! with the air of the Refuge and the dirt of the streets on
      you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s head sank lower; her hand trembled as it held by the back of the
      chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was hard to bear the reiterated insults heaped on her, but Julian&rsquo;s
      influence still made itself felt. She answered as patiently as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is your pleasure to use hard words to me,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I have no
      right to resent them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have no right to anything!&rdquo; Grace retorted. &ldquo;You have no right to the
      gown on your back. Look at yourself, and look at Me!&rdquo; Her eyes traveled
      with a tigerish stare over Mercy&rsquo;s costly silk dress. &ldquo;Who gave you that
      dress? who gave you those jewels? I know! Lady Janet gave them to Grace
      Roseberry. Are <i>you</i> Grace Roseberry? That dress is mine. Take off
      your bracelets and your brooch. They were meant for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may soon have them, Miss Roseberry. They will not be in my possession
      many hours longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;However badly you may use me, it is my duty to undo the harm that I have
      done. I am bound to do you justice&mdash;I am determined to confess the
      truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace smiled scornfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You confess!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Do you think I am fool enough to believe that?
      You are one shameful brazen lie from head to foot! Are <i>you</i> the
      woman to give up your silks and your jewels, and your position in this
      house, and to go back to the Refuge of your own accord? Not you&mdash;not
      you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A first faint flush of color showed itself, stealing slowly over Mercy&rsquo;s
      face; but she still held resolutely by the good influence which Julian had
      left behind him. She could still say to herself, &ldquo;Anything rather than
      disappoint Julian Gray.&rdquo; Sustained by the courage which <i>he</i> had
      called to life in her, she submitted to her martyrdom as bravely as ever.
      But there was an ominous change in her now: she could only submit in
      silence; she could no longer trust herself to answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mute endurance in her face additionally exasperated Grace Roseberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> won&rsquo;t confess,&rdquo; she went on. &ldquo;You have had a week to confess
      in, and you have not done it yet. No, no! you are of the sort that cheat
      and lie to the last. I am glad of it; I shall have the joy of exposing you
      myself before the whole house. I shall be the blessed means of casting you
      back on the streets. Oh! it will be almost worth all I have gone through
      to see you with a policeman&rsquo;s hand on your arm, and the mob pointing at
      you and mocking you on your way to jail!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time the sting struck deep; the outrage was beyond endurance. Mercy
      gave the woman who had again and again deliberately insulted her a first
      warning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Roseberry,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I have borne without a murmur the bitterest
      words you could say to me. Spare me any more insults. Indeed, indeed, I am
      eager to restore you to your just rights. With my whole heart I say it to
      you&mdash;I am resolved to confess everything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She spoke with trembling earnestness of tone. Grace listened with a hard
      smile of incredulity and a hard look of contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not far from the bell,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;ring it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy looked at her in speechless surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a perfect picture of repentance&mdash;you are dying to own the
      truth,&rdquo; pursued the other, satirically. &ldquo;Own it before everybody, and own
      it at once. Call in Lady Janet&mdash;call in Mr. Gray and Mr. Holmcroft&mdash;call
      in the servants. Go down on your knees and acknowledge yourself an
      impostor before them all. Then I will believe you&mdash;not before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, don&rsquo;t turn me against you!&rdquo; cried Mercy, entreatingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do I care whether you are against me or not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t&mdash;for your own sake, don&rsquo;t go on provoking me much longer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my own sake? You insolent creature! Do you mean to threaten me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a last desperate effort, her heart beating faster and faster, the
      blood burning hotter and hotter in her cheeks, Mercy still controlled
      herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have some compassion on me!&rdquo; she pleaded. &ldquo;Badly as I have behaved to
      you, I am still a woman like yourself. I can&rsquo;t face the shame of
      acknowledging what I have done before the whole house. Lady Janet treats
      me like a daughter; Mr. Holmcroft has engaged himself to marry me. I can&rsquo;t
      tell Lady Janet and Mr. Holmcroft to their faces that I have cheated them
      out of their love. But they shall know it, for all that. I can, and will,
      before I rest to-night, tell the whole truth to Mr. Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace burst out laughing. &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; she exclaimed, with a cynical outburst of
      gayety. &ldquo;Now we have come to it at last!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care!&rdquo; said Mercy. &ldquo;Take care!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Julian Gray! I was behind the billiard-room door&mdash;I saw you coax
      Mr. Julian Gray to come in! confession loses all its horrors, and becomes
      quite a luxury, with Mr. Julian Gray!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more, Miss Roseberry! no more! For God&rsquo;s sake, don&rsquo;t put me beside
      myself! You have tortured me enough already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t been on the streets for nothing. You are a woman with
      resources; you know the value of having two strings to your bow. If Mr.
      Holmcroft fails you, you have got Mr. Julian Gray. Ah! you sicken me. <i>I&rsquo;ll</i>
      see that Mr. Holmcroft&rsquo;s eyes are opened; he shall know what a woman he
      might have married but for Me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She checked herself; the next refinement of insult remained suspended on
      her lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman whom she had outraged suddenly advanced on her. Her eyes,
      staring helplessly upward, saw Mercy Merrick&rsquo;s face, white with the
      terrible anger which drives the blood back on the heart, bending
      threateningly over her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You will see that Mr. Holmcroft&rsquo;s eyes are opened,&rsquo;&rdquo; Mercy slowly
      repeated; &ldquo;&lsquo;he shall know what a woman he might have married but for
      you!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused, and followed those words by a question which struck a creeping
      terror through Grace Roseberry, from the hair of her head to the soles of
      her feet:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Who are you?</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The suppressed fury of look and tone which accompanied that question told,
      as no violence could have told it, that the limits of Mercy&rsquo;s endurance
      had been found at last. In the guardian angel&rsquo;s absence the evil genius
      had done its evil work. The better nature which Julian Gray had brought to
      life sank, poisoned by the vile venom of a womanly spiteful tongue. An
      easy and a terrible means of avenging the outrages heaped on her was
      within Mercy&rsquo;s reach, if she chose to take it. In the frenzy of her
      indignation she never hesitated&mdash;she took it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; she asked for the second time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace roused herself and attempted to speak. Mercy stopped her with a
      scornful gesture of her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember!&rdquo; she went on, with the same fiercely suppressed rage. &ldquo;You
      are the madwoman from the German hospital who came here a week ago. I am
      not afraid of you this time. Sit down and rest yourself, Mercy Merrick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Deliberately giving her that name to her face, Mercy turned from her and
      took the chair which Grace had forbidden her to occupy when the interview
      began. Grace started to her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It means,&rdquo; answered Mercy, contemptuously, &ldquo;that I recall every word I
      said to you just now. It means that I am resolved to keep my place in this
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you out of your senses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not far from the bell. Ring it. Do what you asked <i>me</i> to
      do. Call in the whole household, and ask them which of us is mad&mdash;you
      or I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy Merrick! you shall repent this to the last hour of your life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy rose again, and fixed her flashing eyes on the woman who still
      defied her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had enough of you!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Leave the house while you can leave
      it. Stay here, and I will send for Lady Janet Roy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t send for her! You daren&rsquo;t send for her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can and I dare. You have not a shadow of a proof against me. I have got
      the papers; I am in possession of the place; I have established myself in
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s confidence. I mean to deserve your opinion of me&mdash;I will
      keep my dresses and my jewels and my position in the house. I deny that I
      have done wrong. Society has used me cruelly; I owe nothing to Society. I
      have a right to take any advantage of it if I can. I deny that I have
      injured you. How was I to know that you would come to life again? Have I
      degraded your name and your character? I have done honor to both. I have
      won everybody&rsquo;s liking and everybody&rsquo;s respect. Do you think Lady Janet
      would have loved you as she loves me? Not she! I tell you to your face I
      have filled the false position more creditably than you could have filled
      the true one, and I mean to keep it. I won&rsquo;t give up your name; I won&rsquo;t
      restore your character! Do your worst; I defy you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She poured out those reckless words in one headlong flow which defied
      interruption. There was no answering her until she was too breathless to
      say more. Grace seized her opportunity the moment it was within her reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You defy me?&rdquo; she returned, resolutely. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t defy me long. I have
      written to Canada. My friends will speak for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of it, if they do? Your friends are strangers here. I am Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s adopted daughter. Do you think she will believe your friends? She
      will believe me. She will burn their letters if they write. She will
      forbid the house to them if they come. I shall be Mrs. Horace Holmcroft in
      a week&rsquo;s time. Who can shake <i>my</i> position? Who can injure Me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a little. You forget the matron at the Refuge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Find her, if you can. I never told you her name. I never told you where
      the Refuge was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will advertise your name, and find the matron in that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Advertise in every newspaper in London. Do you think I gave a stranger
      like you the name I really bore in the Refuge? I gave you the name I
      assumed when I left England. No such person as Mercy Merrick is known to
      the matron. No such person is known to Mr. Holmcroft. He saw me at the
      French cottage while you were senseless on the bed. I had my gray cloak
      on; neither he nor any of them saw me in my nurse&rsquo;s dress. Inquiries have
      been made about me on the Continent&mdash;and (I happen to know from the
      person who made them) with no result. I am safe in your place; I am known
      by your name. I am Grace Roseberry; and you are Mercy Merrick. Disprove
      it, if you can!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Summing up the unassailable security of her false position in those
      closing words, Mercy pointed significantly to the billiard-room door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were hiding there, by your own confession,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You know your
      way out by that door. Will you leave the room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t stir a step!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy walked to a side-table, and struck the bell placed on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment the billiard-room door opened. Julian Gray appeared&mdash;returning
      from his unsuccessful search in the grounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had barely crossed the threshold before the library door was thrown
      open next by the servant posted in the room. The man drew back
      respectfully, and gave admission to Lady Janet Roy. She was followed by
      Horace Holmcroft with his mother&rsquo;s wedding present to Mercy in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX. THE POLICEMAN IN PLAIN CLOTHES.
    </h2>
    <p>
      JULIAN looked round the room, and stopped at the door which he had just
      opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      His eyes rested first on Mercy, next on Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      The disturbed faces of both the women told him but too plainly that the
      disaster which he had dreaded had actually happened. They had met without
      any third person to interfere between them. To what extremities the
      hostile interview might have led it was impossible for him to guess. In
      his aunt&rsquo;s presence he could only wait his opportunity of speaking to
      Mercy, and be ready to interpose if anything was ignorantly done which
      might give just cause of offense to Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s course of action on entering the dining-room was in perfect
      harmony with Lady Janet&rsquo;s character.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instantly discovering the intruder, she looked sharply at Mercy. &ldquo;What did
      I tell you?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Are you frightened? No! not in the least
      frightened! Wonderful!&rdquo; She turned to the servant. &ldquo;Wait in the library; I
      may want you again.&rdquo; She looked at Julian. &ldquo;Leave it all to me; I can
      manage it.&rdquo; She made a sign to Horace. &ldquo;Stay where you are, and hold your
      tongue.&rdquo; Having now said all that was necessary to every one else, she
      advanced to the part of the room in which Grace was standing, with
      lowering brows and firmly shut lips, defiant of everybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no desire to offend you, or to act harshly toward you,&rdquo; her
      ladyship began, very quietly. &ldquo;I only suggest that your visits to my house
      cannot possibly lead to any satisfactory result. I hope you will not
      oblige me to say any harder words than these&mdash;I hope you will
      understand that I wish you to withdraw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The order of dismissal could hardly have been issued with more humane
      consideration for the supposed mental infirmity of the person to whom it
      was addressed. Grace instantly resisted it in the plainest possible terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In justice to my father&rsquo;s memory and in justice to myself,&rdquo; she answered,
      &ldquo;I insist on a hearing. I refuse to withdraw.&rdquo; She deliberately took a
      chair and seated herself in the presence of the mistress of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet waited a moment&mdash;steadily controlling her temper. In the
      interval of silence Julian seized the opportunity of remonstrating with
      Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is this what you promised me?&rdquo; he asked, gently. &ldquo;You gave me your word
      that you would not return to Mablethorpe House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before he could say more Lady Janet had got her temper under command. She
      began her answer to Grace by pointing with a peremptory forefinger to the
      library door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you have not made up your mind to take my advice by the time I have
      walked back to that door,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I will put it out of your power to
      set me at defiance. I am used to be obeyed, and I will be obeyed. You
      force me to use hard words. I warn you before it is too late. Go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She returned slowly toward the library. Julian attempted to interfere with
      another word of remonstrance. His aunt stopped him by a gesture which
      said, plainly, &ldquo;I insist on acting for myself.&rdquo; He looked next at Mercy.
      Would she remain passive? Yes. She never lifted her head; she never moved
      from the place in which she was standing apart from the rest. Horace
      himself tried to attract her attention, and tried in vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arrived at the library door, Lady Janet looked over her shoulder at the
      little immovable black figure in the chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you go?&rdquo; she asked, for the last time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace started up angrily from her seat, and fixed her viperish eyes on
      Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t be turned out of your ladyship&rsquo;s house in the presence of that
      impostor,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I may yield to force, but I will yield to nothing
      else. I insist on my right to the place that she has stolen from me. It&rsquo;s
      no use scolding me,&rdquo; she added, turning doggedly to Julian. &ldquo;As long as
      that woman is here under my name I can&rsquo;t and won&rsquo;t keep away from the
      house. I warn her, in your presence, that I have written to my friends in
      Canada! I dare her before you all to deny that she is the outcast and
      adventuress, Mercy Merrick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The challenge forced Mercy to take part in the proceedings in her own
      defense. She had pledged herself to meet and defy Grace Roseberry on her
      own ground. She attempted to speak&mdash;Horace stopped her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You degrade yourself if you answer her,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Take my arm, and let
      us leave the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! Take her out!&rdquo; cried Grace. &ldquo;She may well be ashamed to face an
      honest woman. It&rsquo;s her place to leave the room&mdash;not mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy drew her hand out of Horace&rsquo;s arm. &ldquo;I decline to leave the room,&rdquo;
       she said, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace still tried to persuade her to withdraw. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear to hear you
      insulted,&rdquo; he rejoined. &ldquo;The woman offends me, though I know she is not
      responsible for what she says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody&rsquo;s endurance will be tried much longer,&rdquo; said Lady Janet. She
      glanced at Julian, and taking from her pocket the card which he had given
      to her, opened the library door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to the police station,&rdquo; she said to the servant in an undertone, &ldquo;and
      give that card to the inspector on duty. Tell him there is not a moment to
      lose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; said Julian, before his aunt could close the door again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop?&rdquo; repeated Lady Janet, sharply. &ldquo;I have given the man his orders.
      What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before you send the card I wish to say a word in private to this lady,&rdquo;
       replied Julian, indicating Grace. &ldquo;When that is done,&rdquo; he continued,
      approaching Mercy, and pointedly addressing himself to her, &ldquo;I shall have
      a request to make&mdash;I shall ask you to give me an opportunity of
      speaking to you without interruption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His tone pointed the allusion. Mercy shrank from looking at him. The signs
      of painful agitation began to show themselves in her shifting color and
      her uneasy silence. Roused by Julian&rsquo;s significantly distant reference to
      what had passed between them, her better impulses were struggling already
      to recover their influence over her. She might, at that critical moment,
      have yielded to the promptings of her own nobler nature&mdash;she might
      have risen superior to the galling remembrance of the insults that had
      been heaped upon her&mdash;if Grace&rsquo;s malice had not seen in her
      hesitation a means of referring offensively once again to her interview
      with Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t think twice about trusting him alone with me,&rdquo; she said, with
      a sardonic affectation of politeness. &ldquo;<i>I</i> am not interested in
      making a conquest of Mr. Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The jealous distrust in Horace (already awakened by Julian&rsquo;s request) now
      attempted to assert itself openly. Before he could speak, Mercy&rsquo;s
      indignation had dictated Mercy&rsquo;s answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am much obliged to you, Mr. Gray,&rdquo; she said, addressing Julian (but
      still not raising her eyes to his). &ldquo;I have nothing more to say. There is
      no need for me to trouble you again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In those rash words she recalled the confession to which she stood
      pledged. In those rash words she committed herself to keeping the position
      that she had usurped, in the face of the woman whom she had deprived of
      it!
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace was silenced, but not satisfied. He saw Julian&rsquo;s eyes fixed in sad
      and searching attention on Mercy&rsquo;s face while she was speaking. He heard
      Julian sigh to himself when she had done. He observed Julian&mdash;after a
      moment&rsquo;s serious consideration, and a moment&rsquo;s glance backward at the
      stranger in the poor black clothes&mdash;lift his head with the air of a
      man who had taken a sudden resolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring me that card directly,&rdquo; he said to the servant. His tone announced
      that he was not to be trifled with. The man obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without answering Lady Janet&mdash;who still peremptorily insisted on her
      right to act for herself&mdash;Julian took the pencil from his pocketbook
      and added his signature to the writing already inscribed on the card. When
      he had handed it back to the servant he made his apologies to his aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me for venturing to interfere,&rdquo; he said &ldquo;There is a serious reason
      for what I have done, which I will explain to you at a fitter time. In the
      meanwhile I offer no further obstruction to the course which you propose
      taking. On the contrary, I have just assisted you in gaining the end that
      you have in view.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said that he held up the pencil with which he had signed his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet, naturally perplexed, and (with some reason, perhaps) offended
      as well, made no answer. She waved her hand to the servant, and sent him
      away with the card.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was silence in the room. The eyes of all the persons present turned
      more or less anxiously on Julian. Mercy was vaguely surprised and alarmed.
      Horace, like Lady Janet, felt offended, without clearly knowing why. Even
      Grace Roseberry herself was subdued by her own presentiment of some coming
      interference for which she was completely unprepared. Julian&rsquo;s words and
      actions, from the moment when he had written on the card, were involved in
      a mystery to which not one of the persons round him held the clew.
    </p>
    <p>
      The motive which had animated his conduct may, nevertheless, be described
      in two words: Julian still held to his faith in the inbred nobility of
      Mercy&rsquo;s nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had inferred, with little difficulty, from the language which Grace had
      used toward Mercy in his presence, that the injured woman must have taken
      pitiless advantage of her position at the interview which he had
      interrupted. Instead of appealing to Mercy&rsquo;s sympathies and Mercy&rsquo;s sense
      of right&mdash;instead of accepting the expression of her sincere
      contrition, and encouraging her to make the completest and the speediest
      atonement&mdash;Grace had evidently outraged and insulted her. As a
      necessary result, her endurance had given way&mdash;under her own sense of
      intolerable severity and intolerable wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      The remedy for the mischief thus done was, as Julian had first seen it, to
      speak privately with Grace, to soothe her by owning that his opinion of
      the justice of her claims had undergone a change in her favor, and then to
      persuade her, in her own interests, to let him carry to Mercy such
      expressions of apology and regret as might lead to a friendly
      understanding between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      With those motives, he had made his request to be permitted to speak
      separately to the one and the other. The scene that had followed, the new
      insult offered by Grace, and the answer which it had wrung from Mercy, had
      convinced him that no such interference as he had contemplated would have
      the slightest prospect of success.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only remedy now left to try was the desperate remedy of letting things
      take their course, and trusting implicitly to Mercy&rsquo;s better nature for
      the result.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let her see the police officer in plain clothes enter the room. Let her
      understand clearly what the result of his interference would be. Let her
      confront the alternative of consigning Grace Roseberry to a mad-house or
      of confessing the truth&mdash;and what would happen? If Julian&rsquo;s
      confidence in her was a confidence soundly placed, she would nobly pardon
      the outrages that had been heaped upon her, and she would do justice to
      the woman whom she had wronged.
    </p>
    <p>
      If, on the other hand, his belief in her was nothing better than the blind
      belief of an infatuated man&mdash;if she faced the alternative and
      persisted in asserting her assumed identity&mdash;what then?
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian&rsquo;s faith in Mercy refused to let that darker side of the question
      find a place in his thoughts. It rested entirely with him to bring the
      officer into the house. He had prevented Lady Janet from making any
      mischievous use of his card by sending to the police station and warning
      them to attend to no message which they might receive unless the card
      produced bore his signature. Knowing the responsibility that he was taking
      on himself&mdash;knowing that Mercy had made no confession to him to which
      it was possible to appeal&mdash;he had signed his name without an
      instant&rsquo;s hesitation: and there he stood now, looking at the woman whose
      better nature he was determined to vindicate, the only calm person in the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace&rsquo;s jealousy saw something suspiciously suggestive of a private
      understanding in Julian&rsquo;s earnest attention and in Mercy&rsquo;s downcast face.
      Having no excuse for open interference, he made an effort to part them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You spoke just now,&rdquo; he said to Julian, &ldquo;of wishing to say a word in
      private to that person.&rdquo; (He pointed to Grace.) &ldquo;Shall we retire, or will
      you take her into the library?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I refuse to have anything to say to him,&rdquo; Grace burst out, before Julian
      could answer. &ldquo;I happen to know that he is the last person to do me
      justice. He has been effectually hoodwinked. If I speak to anybody
      privately, it ought to be to you. You have the greatest interest of any of
      them in finding out the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want to marry an outcast from the streets?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace took one step forward toward her. There was a look in his face
      which plainly betrayed that he was capable of turning her out of the house
      with his own hands. Lady Janet stopped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were right in suggesting just now that Grace had better leave the
      room,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Let us all three go. Julian will remain here and give
      the man his directions when he arrives. Come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No. By a strange contradiction it was Horace himself who now interfered to
      prevent Mercy from leaving the room. In the heat of his indignation he
      lost all sense of his own dignity; he descended to the level of a woman
      whose intellect he believed to be deranged. To the surprise of every one
      present, he stepped back and took from the table a jewel-case which he had
      placed there when he came into the room. It was the wedding present from
      his mother which he had brought to his betrothed wife. His outraged
      self-esteem seized the opportunity of vindicating Mercy by a public
      bestowal of the gift.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait!&rdquo; he called out, sternly. &ldquo;That wretch shall have her answer. She
      has sense enough to see and sense enough to hear. Let her see and hear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He opened the jewel-case, and took from it a magnificent pearl necklace in
      an antique setting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grace,&rdquo; he said, with his highest distinction of manner, &ldquo;my mother sends
      you her love and her congratulations on our approaching marriage. She begs
      you to accept, as part of your bridal dress, these pearls. She was married
      in them herself. They have been in our family for centuries. As one of the
      family, honored and beloved, my mother offers them to my wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lifted the necklace to clasp it round Mercy&rsquo;s neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian watched her in breathless suspense. Would she sustain the ordeal
      through which Horace had innocently condemned her to pass?
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes! In the insolent presence of Grace Roseberry, what was there now that
      she could <i>not</i> sustain? Her pride was in arms. Her lovely eyes
      lighted up as only a woman&rsquo;s eyes <i>can</i> light up when they see
      jewelry. Her grand head bent gracefully to receive the necklace. Her face
      warmed into color; her beauty rallied its charms. Her triumph over Grace
      Roseberry was complete! Julian&rsquo;s head sank. For one sad moment he secretly
      asked himself the question: &ldquo;Have I been mistaken in her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace arrayed her in the pearls.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your husband puts these pearls on your neck, love,&rdquo; he said, proudly, and
      paused to look at her. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; he added, with a contemptuous backward
      glance at Grace, &ldquo;we may go into the library. She has seen, and she has
      heard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He believed that he had silenced her. He had simply furnished her sharp
      tongue with a new sting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> will hear, and <i>you</i> will see, when my proofs come from
      Canada,&rdquo; she retorted. &ldquo;You will hear that your wife has stolen my name
      and my character! You will see your wife dismissed from this house!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy turned on her with an uncontrollable outburst of passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are mad!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet caught the electric infection of anger in the air of the room.
      She, too, turned on Grace. She, too, said it:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are mad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace followed Lady Janet. <i>He</i> was beside himself. <i>He</i> fixed
      his pitiless eyes on Grace, and echoed the contagious words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are mad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was silenced, she was daunted at last. The treble accusation revealed
      to her, for the first time, the frightful suspicion to which she had
      exposed herself. She shrank back with a low cry of horror, and struck
      against a chair. She would have fallen if Julian had not sprung forward
      and caught her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet led the way into the library. She opened the door&mdash;started&mdash;and
      suddenly stepped aside, so as to leave the entrance free.
    </p>
    <p>
      A man appeared in the open doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not a gentleman; he was not a workman; he was not a servant. He was
      vilely dressed, in glossy black broadcloth. His frockcoat hung on him
      instead of fitting him. His waistcoat was too short and too tight over the
      chest. His trousers were a pair of shapeless black bags. His gloves were
      too large for him. His highly-polished boots creaked detestably whenever
      he moved. He had odiously watchful eyes&mdash;eyes that looked skilled in
      peeping through key-holes. His large ears, set forward like the ears of a
      monkey, pleaded guilty to meanly listening behind other people&rsquo;s doors.
      His manner was quietly confidential when he spoke, impenetrably
      self-possessed when he was silent. A lurking air of secret service
      enveloped the fellow, like an atmosphere of his own, from head to foot. He
      looked all round the magnificent room without betraying either surprise or
      admiration. He closely investigated every person in it with one glance of
      his cunningly watchful eyes. Making his bow to Lady Janet, he silently
      showed her, as his introduction, the card that had summoned him. And then
      he stood at ease, self-revealed in his own sinister identity&mdash;a
      police officer in plain clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nobody spoke to him. Everybody shrank inwardly as if a reptile had crawled
      into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked backward and forward, perfectly unembarrassed, between Julian
      and Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Mr. Julian Gray here?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian led Grace to a seat. Her eyes were fixed on the man. She trembled&mdash;she
      whispered, &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo; Julian spoke to the police officer without
      answering her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait there,&rdquo; he said, pointing to a chair in the most distant corner of
      the room. &ldquo;I will speak to you directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man advanced to the chair, marching to the discord of his creaking
      boots. He privately valued the carpet at so much a yard as he walked over
      it. He privately valued the chair at so much the dozen as he sat down on
      it. He was quite at his ease: it was no matter to him whether he waited
      and did nothing, or whether he pried into the private character of every
      one in the room, as long as he was paid for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Lady Janet&rsquo;s resolution to act for herself was not proof against the
      appearance of the policeman in plain clothes. She left it to her nephew to
      take the lead. Julian glanced at Mercy before he stirred further in the
      matter. He alone knew that the end rested now not with him but with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt his eye on her while her own eyes were looking at the man. She
      turned her head&mdash;hesitated&mdash;and suddenly approached Julian. Like
      Grace Roseberry, she was trembling. Like Grace Roseberry, she whispered,
      &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian told her plainly who he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why is he here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you guess?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace left Lady Janet, and joined Mercy and Julian&mdash;impatient of the
      private colloquy between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I in the way?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian drew back a little, understanding Horace perfectly. He looked round
      at Grace. Nearly the whole length of the spacious room divided them from
      the place in which she was sitting. She had never moved since he had
      placed her in a chair. The direst of all terrors was in possession of her&mdash;terror
      of the unknown. There was no fear of her interfering, and no fear of her
      hearing what they said so long as they were careful to speak in guarded
      tones. Julian set the example by lowering his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask Horace why the police officer is here?&rdquo; he said to Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      She put the question directly. &ldquo;Why is he here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace looked across the room at Grace, and answered, &ldquo;He is here to
      relieve us of that woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean that he will take her away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where will he take her to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the police station.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy started, and looked at Julian. He was still watching the slightest
      changes in her face. She looked back again at Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the police station!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you ask the question?&rdquo; said Horace, irritably. &ldquo;To be placed
      under restraint, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean prison?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean an asylum.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Mercy turned to Julian. There was horror now, as well as surprise,
      in her face. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she said to him, &ldquo;Horace is surely wrong? It can&rsquo;t be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian left it to Horace to answer. Every facility in him seemed to be
      still absorbed in watching Mercy&rsquo;s face. She was compelled to address
      herself to Horace once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of asylum?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t surely mean a madhouse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; he rejoined. &ldquo;The workhouse first, perhaps&mdash;and then the
      madhouse. What is there to surprise you in that? You yourself told her to
      her face she was mad. Good Heavens! how pale you are! What is the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned to Julian for the third time. The terrible alternative that was
      offered to her had showed itself at last, without reserve or disguise.
      Restore the identity that you have stolen, or shut her up in a madhouse&mdash;it
      rests with you to choose! In that form the situation shaped itself in her
      mind. She chose on the instant. Before she opened her lips the higher
      nature in her spoke to Julian, in her eyes. The steady inner light that he
      had seen in them once already shone in them again, brighter and purer than
      before. The conscience that he had fortified, the soul that he had saved,
      looked at him and said, Doubt us no more!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send that man out of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Those were her first words. She spoke (pointing to the police officer) in
      clear, ringing, resolute tones, audible in the remotest corner of the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian&rsquo;s hand stole unobserved to hers, and told her, in its momentary
      pressure, to count on his brotherly sympathy and help. All the other
      persons in the room looked at her in speechless surprise. Grace rose from
      her chair. Even the man in plain clothes started to his feet. Lady Janet
      (hurriedly joining Horace, and fully sharing his perplexity and alarm)
      took Mercy impulsively by the arm, and shook it, as if to rouse her to a
      sense of what she was doing. Mercy held firm; Mercy resolutely repeated
      what she had said: &ldquo;Send that man out of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet lost all her patience with her. &ldquo;What has come to you?&rdquo; she
      asked, sternly. &ldquo;Do you know what you are saying? The man is here in your
      interest, as well as in mine; the man is here to spare you, as well as me,
      further annoyance and insult. And you insist&mdash;insist, in my presence&mdash;on
      his being sent away! What does it mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall know what it means, Lady Janet, in half an hour. I don&rsquo;t insist&mdash;I
      only reiterate my entreaty. Let the man be sent away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian stepped aside (with his aunt&rsquo;s eyes angrily following him) and
      spoke to the police officer. &ldquo;Go back to the station,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and wait
      there till you hear from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The meanly vigilant eyes of the man in plain clothes traveled sidelong
      from Julian to Mercy, and valued her beauty as they had valued the carpet
      and the chairs. &ldquo;The old story,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;The nice-looking woman is
      always at the bottom of it; and, sooner or later, the nice-looking woman
      has her way.&rdquo; He marched back across the room, to the discord of his own
      creaking boots, bowed, with a villainous smile which put the worst
      construction on everything, and vanished through the library door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s high breeding restrained her from saying anything until the
      police officer was out of hearing. Then, and not till then, she appealed
      to Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presume you are in the secret of this?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I suppose you have
      some reason for setting my authority at defiance in my own house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have never yet failed to respect your ladyship,&rdquo; Julian answered.
      &ldquo;Before long you will know that I am not failing in respect toward you
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet looked across the room. Grace was listening eagerly, conscious
      that events had taken some mysterious turn in her favor within the last
      minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it part of your new arrangement of my affairs,&rdquo; her ladyship
      continued, &ldquo;that this person is to remain in the house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The terror that had daunted Grace had not lost all hold of her yet. She
      left it to Julian to reply. Before he could speak Mercy crossed the room
      and whispered to her, &ldquo;Give me time to confess it in writing. I can&rsquo;t own
      it before them&mdash;with this round my neck.&rdquo; She pointed to the
      necklace. Grace cast a threatening glance at her, and suddenly looked away
      again in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy answered Lady Janet&rsquo;s question. &ldquo;I beg your ladyship to permit her
      to remain until the half hour is over,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;My request will have
      explained itself by that time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet raised no further obstacles. For something in Mercy&rsquo;s face, or
      in Mercy&rsquo;s tone, seemed to have silenced her, as it had silenced Grace.
      Horace was the next who spoke. In tones of suppressed rage and suspicion
      he addressed himself to Mercy, standing fronting him by Julian&rsquo;s side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I included,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;in the arrangement which engages you to
      explain your extraordinary conduct in half an hour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>His</i> hand had placed his mother&rsquo;s wedding present round Mercy&rsquo;s
      neck. A sharp pang wrung her as she looked at Horace, and saw how deeply
      she had already distressed and offended him. The tears rose in her eyes;
      she humbly and faintly answered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please,&rdquo; was all she could say, before the cruel swelling at her
      heart rose and silenced her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace&rsquo;s sense of injury refused to be soothed by such simple submission
      as this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dislike mysteries and innuendoes,&rdquo; he went on, harshly. &ldquo;In my family
      circle we are accustomed to meet each other frankly. Why am I to wait half
      an hour for an explanation which might be given now? What am I to wait
      for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet recovered herself as Horace spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I entirely agree with you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I ask, too, what are we to wait
      for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even Julian&rsquo;s self-possession failed him when his aunt repeated that
      cruelly plain question. How would Mercy answer it? Would her courage still
      hold out?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have asked me what you are to wait for,&rdquo; she said to Horace, quietly
      and firmly. &ldquo;Wait to hear something more of Mercy Merrick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet listened with a look of weary disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t return to <i>that!</i>&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We know enough about Mercy
      Merrick already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me&mdash;your ladyship does <i>not</i> know. I am the only person
      who can inform you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She bent her head respectfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have begged you, Lady Janet, to give me half an hour,&rdquo; she went on. &ldquo;In
      half an hour I solemnly engage myself to produce Mercy Merrick in this
      room. Lady Janet Roy, Mr. Horace Holmcroft, you are to wait for that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Steadily pledging herself in those terms to make her confession, she
      unclasped the pearls from her neck, put them away in their cases and
      placed it in Horace&rsquo;s hand. &ldquo;Keep it,&rdquo; she said, with a momentary
      faltering in her voice, &ldquo;until we meet again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace took the case in silence; he looked and acted like a man whose mind
      was paralyzed by surprise. His hand moved mechanically. His eyes followed
      Mercy with a vacant, questioning look. Lady Janet seemed, in her different
      way, to share the strange oppression that had fallen on him. A vague sense
      of dread and distress hung like a cloud over her mind. At that memorable
      moment she felt her age, she looked her age, as she had never felt it or
      looked it yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I your ladyship&rsquo;s leave,&rdquo; said Mercy, respectfully, &ldquo;to go to my
      room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet mutely granted the request. Mercy&rsquo;s last look, before she went
      out, was a look at Grace. &ldquo;Are you satisfied now?&rdquo; the grand gray eyes
      seemed to say, mournfully. Grace turned her head aside, with a quick,
      petulant action. Even her narrow nature opened for a moment unwillingly,
      and let pity in a little way, in spite of itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s parting words recommended Grace to Julian&rsquo;s care:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will see that she is allowed a room to wait in? You will warn her
      yourself when the half hour has expired?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian opened the library door for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well done! Nobly done!&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;All my sympathy is with you&mdash;all
      my help is yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes looked at him, and thanked him, through her gathering tears. His
      own eyes were dimmed. She passed quietly down the room, and was lost to
      him before he had shut the door again.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI. THE FOOTSTEP IN THE CORRIDOR.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      MERCY was alone.
    </h3>
    <p>
      She had secured one half hour of retirement in her own room, designing to
      devote that interval to the writing of her confession, in the form of a
      letter addressed to Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      No recent change in her position had, as yet, mitigated her horror of
      acknowledging to Horace and to Lady Janet that she had won her way to
      their hearts in disguise. Through Julian only could she say the words
      which were to establish Grace Roseberry in her right position in the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      How was her confession to be addressed to him? In writing? or by word of
      mouth?
    </p>
    <p>
      After all that had happened, from the time when Lady Janet&rsquo;s appearance
      had interrupted them, she would have felt relief rather than embarrassment
      in personally opening her heart to the man who had so delicately
      understood her, who had so faithfully befriended her in her sorest need.
      But the repeated betrayals of Horace&rsquo;s jealous suspicion of Julian warned
      her that she would only be surrounding herself with new difficulties, and
      be placing Julian in a position of painful embarrassment, if she admitted
      him to a private interview while Horace was in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The one course left to take was the course that she had adopted.
      Determining to address the narrative of the Fraud to Julian in the form of
      a letter, she arranged to add, at the close, certain instructions,
      pointing out to him the line of conduct which she wished him to pursue.
    </p>
    <p>
      These instructions contemplated the communication of her letter to Lady
      Janet and to Horace in the library, while Mercy&mdash;self-confessed as
      the missing woman whom she had pledged herself to produce&mdash;awaited in
      the adjoining room whatever sentence it pleased them to pronounce on her.
      Her resolution not to screen herself behind Julian from any consequences
      which might follow the confession had taken root in her mind from the
      moment when Horace had harshly asked her (and when Lady Janet had joined
      him in asking) why she delayed her explanation, and what she was keeping
      them waiting for. Out of the very pain which those questions inflicted,
      the idea of waiting her sentence in her own person in one room, while her
      letter to Julian was speaking for her in another, had sprung to life. &ldquo;Let
      them break my heart if they like,&rdquo; she had thought to herself, in the
      self-abasement of that bitter moment; &ldquo;it will be no more than I have
      deserved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She locked her door and opened her writing-desk. Knowing what she had to
      do, she tried to collect herself and do it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The effort was in vain. Those persons who study writing as an art are
      probably the only persons who can measure the vast distance which
      separates a conception as it exists in the mind from the reduction of that
      conception to form and shape in words. The heavy stress of agitation that
      had been laid on Mercy for hours together had utterly unfitted her for the
      delicate and difficult process of arranging the events of a narrative in
      their due sequence and their due proportion toward each other. Again and
      again she tried to begin her letter, and again and again she was baffled
      by the same hopeless confusion of ideas. She gave up the struggle in
      despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sense of sinking at her heart, a weight of hysterical oppression on her
      bosom, warned her not to leave herself unoccupied, a prey to morbid
      self-investigation and imaginary alarms.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned instinctively, for a temporary employment of some kind, to the
      consideration of her own future. Here there were no intricacies or
      entanglements. The prospect began and ended with her return to the Refuge,
      if the matron would receive her. She did no injustice to Julian Gray; that
      great heart would feel for her, that kind hand would be held out to her,
      she knew. But what would happen if she thoughtlessly accepted all that his
      sympathy might offer? Scandal would point to her beauty and to his youth,
      and would place its own vile interpretation on the purest friendship that
      could exist between them. And <i>he</i> would be the sufferer, for <i>he</i>
      had a character&mdash;a clergyman&rsquo;s character&mdash;to lose. No. For his
      sake, out of gratitude to <i>him</i>, the farewell to Mablethorpe House
      must be also the farewell to Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      The precious minutes were passing. She resolved to write to the matron and
      ask if she might hope to be forgiven and employed at the Refuge again.
      Occupation over the letter that was easy to write might have its
      fortifying effect on her mind, and might pave the way for resuming the
      letter that was hard to write. She waited a moment at the window, thinking
      of the past life to which she was soon to return, before she took up the
      pen again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her window looked eastward. The dusky glare of lighted London met her as
      her eyes rested on the sky. It seemed to beckon her back to the horror of
      the cruel streets&mdash;to point her way mockingly to the bridges over the
      black river&mdash;to lure her to the top of the parapet, and the dreadful
      leap into God&rsquo;s arms, or into annihilation&mdash;who knew which?
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned, shuddering, from the window. &ldquo;Will it end in that way,&rdquo; she
      asked herself, &ldquo;if the matron says No?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She began her letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR MADAM&mdash;So long a time has passed since you heard from me that I
      almost shrink from writing to you. I am afraid you have already given me
      up in your own mind as a hard-hearted, ungrateful woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been leading a false life; I have not been fit to write to you
      before to-day. Now, when I am doing what I can to atone to those whom I
      have injured&mdash;now, when I repent with my whole heart&mdash;may I ask
      leave to return to the friend who has borne with me and helped me through
      many miserable years? Oh, madam, do not cast me off! I have no one to turn
      to but you.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you let me own everything to you? Will you forgive me when you know
      what I have done? Will you take me back into the Refuge, if you have any
      employment for me by which I may earn my shelter and my bread?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before the night comes I must leave the house from which I am now
      writing. I have nowhere to go to. The little money, the few valuable
      possessions I have, must be left behind me: they have been obtained under
      false pretenses; they are not mine. No more forlorn creature than I am
      lives at this moment. You are a Christian woman. Not for my sake&mdash;for
      Christ&rsquo;s sake&mdash;pity me and take me back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a good nurse, as you know, and I am a quick worker with my needle.
      In one way or the other can you not find occupation for me?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could also teach, in a very unpretending way. But that is useless. Who
      would trust their children to a woman without a character? There is no
      hope for me in this direction. And yet I am so fond of children! I think I
      could be, not happy again, perhaps, but content with my lot, if I could be
      associated with them in some way. Are there not charitable societies which
      are trying to help and protect destitute children wandering about the
      streets? I think of my own wretched childhood&mdash;and oh! I should so
      like to be employed in saving other children from ending as I have ended.
      I could work, for such an object as that, from morning to night, and never
      feel weary. All my heart would be in it; and I should have this advantage
      over happy and prosperous women&mdash;I should have nothing else to think
      of. Surely they might trust me with the poor little starving wanderers of
      the streets&mdash;if you said a word for me? If I am asking too much,
      please forgive me. I am so wretched, madam&mdash;so lonely and so weary of
      my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is only one thing more. My time here is very short. Will you please
      reply to this letter (to say yes or no) by telegram?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The name by which you know me is not the name by which I have been known
      here. I must beg you to address the telegram to &lsquo;The Reverend Julian Gray,
      Mablethorpe House, Kensington.&rsquo; He is here, and he will show it to me. No
      words of mine can describe what I owe to him. He has never despaired of me&mdash;he
      has saved me from myself. God bless and reward the kindest, truest, best
      man I have ever known!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no more to say, except to ask you to excuse this long letter, and
      to believe me your grateful servant, &mdash;&mdash;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She signed and inclosed the letter, and wrote the address. Then, for the
      first time, an obstacle which she ought to have seen before showed itself,
      standing straight in her way.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no time to forward her letter in the ordinary manner by post. It
      must be taken to its destination by a private messenger. Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      servants had hitherto been, one and all, at her disposal. Could she
      presume to employ them on her own affairs, when she might be dismissed
      from the house, a disgraced woman, in half an hour&rsquo;s time? Of the two
      alternatives it seemed better to take her chance, and present herself at
      the Refuge without asking leave first.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was still considering the question she was startled by a knock
      at her door. On opening it she admitted Lady Janet&rsquo;s maid, with a morsel
      of folded note-paper in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From my lady, miss,&rdquo; said the woman, giving her the note. &ldquo;There is no
      answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy stopped her as she was about to leave the room. The appearance of
      the maid suggested an inquiry to her. She asked if any of the servants
      were likely to be going into town that afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, miss. One of the grooms is going on horseback, with a message to her
      ladyship&rsquo;s coach-maker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Refuge was close by the coach-maker&rsquo;s place of business. Under the
      circumstances, Mercy was emboldened to make use of the man. It was a
      pardonable liberty to employ his services now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you kindly give the groom that letter for me?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It will
      not take him out of his way. He has only to deliver it&mdash;nothing
      more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman willingly complied with the request. Left once more by herself,
      Mercy looked at the little note which had been placed in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time that her benefactress had employed this formal
      method of communicating with her when they were both in the house. What
      did such a departure from established habits mean? Had she received her
      notice of dismissal? Had Lady Janet&rsquo;s quick intelligence found its way
      already to a suspicion of the truth? Mercy&rsquo;s nerves were unstrung. She
      trembled pitiably as she opened the folded note.
    </p>
    <p>
      It began without a form of address, and it ended without a signature. Thus
      it ran:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must request you to delay for a little while the explanation which you
      have promised me. At my age, painful surprises are very trying things. I
      must have time to compose myself, before I can hear what you have to say.
      You shall not be kept waiting longer than I can help. In the meanwhile
      everything will go on as usual. My nephew Julian, and Horace Holmcroft,
      and the lady whom I found in the dining-room, will, by my desire, remain
      in the house until I am able to meet them, and to meet you, again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There the note ended. To what conclusion did it point?
    </p>
    <p>
      Had Lady Janet really guessed the truth? or had she only surmised that her
      adopted daughter was connected in some discreditable manner with the
      mystery of &ldquo;Mercy Merrick&rdquo;? The line in which she referred to the intruder
      in the dining-room as &ldquo;the lady&rdquo; showed very remarkably that her opinions
      had undergone a change in that quarter. But was the phrase enough of
      itself to justify the inference that she had actually anticipated the
      nature of Mercy&rsquo;s confession? It was not easy to decide that doubt at the
      moment&mdash;and it proved to be equally difficult to throw any light on
      it at an aftertime. To the end of her life Lady Janet resolutely refused
      to communicate to any one the conclusions which she might have privately
      formed, the griefs which she might have secretly stifled, on that
      memorable day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amid much, however, which was beset with uncertainty, one thing at least
      was clear. The time at Mercy&rsquo;s disposal in her own room had been
      indefinitely prolonged by Mercy&rsquo;s benefactress. Hours might pass before
      the disclosure to which she stood committed would be expected from her. In
      those hours she might surely compose her mind sufficiently to be able to
      write her letter of confession to Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more she placed the sheet of paper before her. Resting her head on
      her hand as she sat at the table, she tried to trace her way through the
      labyrinth of the past, beginning with the day when she had met Grace
      Roseberry in the French cottage, and ending with the day which had brought
      them face to face, for the second time, in the dining-room at Mablethorpe
      House.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chain of events began to unroll itself in her mind clearly, link by
      link.
    </p>
    <p>
      She remarked, as she pursued the retrospect, how strangely Chance, or
      Fate, had paved the way for the act of personation, in the first place.
    </p>
    <p>
      If they had met under ordinary circumstances, neither Mercy nor Grace
      would have trusted each other with the confidences which had been
      exchanged between them. As the event had happened, they had come together,
      under those extraordinary circumstances of common trial and common peril,
      in a strange country, which would especially predispose two women of the
      same nation to open their hearts to each other. In no other way could
      Mercy have obtained at a first interview that fatal knowledge of Grace&rsquo;s
      position and Grace&rsquo;s affairs which had placed temptation before her as the
      necessary consequence that followed the bursting of the German shell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Advancing from this point through the succeeding series of events which
      had so naturally and yet so strangely favored the perpetration of the
      fraud, Mercy reached the later period when Grace had followed her to
      England. Here again she remarked, in the second place, how Chance, or
      Fate, had once more paved the way for that second meeting which had
      confronted them with one another at Mablethorpe House.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had, as she well remembered, attended at a certain assembly (convened
      by a charitable society) in the character of Lady Janet&rsquo;s representative,
      at Lady Janet&rsquo;s own request. For that reason she had been absent from the
      house when Grace had entered it. If her return had been delayed by a few
      minutes only, Julian would have had time to take Grace out of the room,
      and the terrible meeting which had stretched Mercy senseless on the floor
      would never have taken place. As the event had happened, the period of her
      absence had been fatally shortened by what appeared at the time to be, the
      commonest possible occurrence. The persons assembled at the society&rsquo;s
      rooms had disagreed so seriously on the business which had brought them
      together as to render it necessary to take the ordinary course of
      adjourning the proceedings to a future day. And Chance, or Fate, had so
      timed that adjournment as to bring Mercy back into the dining-room exactly
      at the moment when Grace Roseberry insisted on being confronted with the
      woman who had taken her place.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had never yet seen the circumstances in this sinister light. She was
      alone in her room, at a crisis in her life. She was worn and weakened by
      emotions which had shaken her to the soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little by little she felt the enervating influences let loose on her, in
      her lonely position, by her new train of thought. Little by little her
      heart began to sink under the stealthy chill of superstitious dread.
      Vaguely horrible presentiments throbbed in her with her pulses, flowed
      through her with her blood. Mystic oppressions of hidden disaster hovered
      over her in the atmosphere of the room. The cheerful candle-light turned
      traitor to her and grew dim. Supernatural murmurs trembled round the house
      in the moaning of the winter wind. She was afraid to look behind her. On a
      sudden she felt her own cold hands covering her face, without knowing when
      she had lifted them to it, or why.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still helpless, under the horror that held her, she suddenly heard
      footsteps&mdash;a man&rsquo;s footsteps&mdash;in the corridor outside. At other
      times the sound would have startled her: now it broke the spell. The
      footsteps suggested life, companionship, human interposition&mdash;no
      matter of what sort. She mechanically took up her pen; she found herself
      beginning to remember her letter to Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment the footsteps stopped outside her door. The man
      knocked.
    </p>
    <p>
      She still felt shaken. She was hardly mistress of herself yet. A faint cry
      of alarm escaped her at the sound of the knock. Before it could be
      repeated she had rallied her courage, and had opened the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man in the corridor was Horace Holmcroft.
    </p>
    <p>
      His ruddy complexion had turned pale. His hair (of which he was especially
      careful at other times) was in disorder. The superficial polish of his
      manner was gone; the undisguised man, sullen, distrustful, irritated to
      the last degree of endurance, showed through. He looked at her with a
      watchfully suspicious eye; he spoke to her, without preface or apology, in
      a coldly angry voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you aware,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;of what is going on downstairs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not left my room,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;I know that Lady Janet has
      deferred the explanation which I had promised to give her, and I know no
      more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has nobody told you what Lady Janet did after you left us? Has nobody
      told you that she politely placed her own boudoir at the disposal of the
      very woman whom she had ordered half an hour before to leave the house? Do
      you really not know that Mr. Julian Gray has himself conducted this
      suddenly-honored guest to her place of retirement? and that I am left
      alone in the midst of these changes, contradictions, and mysteries&mdash;the
      only person who is kept out in the dark?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is surely needless to ask me these questions,&rdquo; said Mercy, gently.
      &ldquo;Who could possibly have told me what was going on below stairs before you
      knocked at my door?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her with an ironical affectation of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are strangely forgetful to-day,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Surely your friend Mr.
      Julian Gray might have told you? I am astonished to hear that he has not
      had his private interview yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you, Horace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want you to understand me,&rdquo; he retorted, irritably. &ldquo;The proper
      person to understand me is Julian Gray. I look to <i>him</i> to account to
      me for the confidential relations which seem to have been established
      between you behind my back. He has avoided me thus far, but I shall find
      my way to him yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His manner threatened more than his words expressed. In Mercy&rsquo;s nervous
      condition at the moment, it suggested to her that he might attempt to
      fasten a quarrel on Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are entirely mistaken,&rdquo; she said, warmly. &ldquo;You are ungratefully
      doubting your best and truest friend. I say nothing of myself. You will
      soon discover why I patiently submit to suspicions which other women would
      resent as an insult.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me discover it at once. Now! Without wasting a moment more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There had hitherto been some little distance between them. Mercy had
      listened, waiting on the threshold of her door; Horace had spoken,
      standing against the opposite wall of the corridor. When he said his last
      words he suddenly stepped forward, and (with something imperative in the
      gesture) laid his hand on her arm. The strong grasp of it almost hurt her.
      She struggled to release herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me go!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He dropped her arm as suddenly as he had taken it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall know what I mean,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;A woman who has grossly
      outraged and insulted you&mdash;whose only excuse is that she is mad&mdash;is
      detained in the house at your desire, I might almost say at your command,
      when the police officer is waiting to take her away. I have a right to
      know what this means. I am engaged to marry you. If you won&rsquo;t trust other
      people, you are bound to explain yourself to Me. I refuse to wait for Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s convenience. I insist (if you force me to say so)&mdash;I insist
      on knowing the real nature of your connection with this affair. You have
      obliged me to follow you here; it is my only opportunity of speaking to
      you. You avoid me; you shut yourself up from me in your own room. I am not
      your husband yet&mdash;I have no right to follow you in. But there are
      other rooms open to us. The library is at our disposal, and I will take
      care that we are not interrupted. I am now going there, and I have a last
      question to ask. You are to be my wife in a week&rsquo;s time: will you take me
      into your confidence or not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To hesitate was, in this case, literally to be lost. Mercy&rsquo;s sense of
      justice told her that Horace had claimed no more than his due. She
      answered instantly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will follow you to the library, Horace, in five minutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her prompt and frank compliance with his wishes surprised and touched him.
      He took her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had endured all that his angry sense of injury could say. His
      gratitude wounded her to the quick. The bitterest moment she had felt yet
      was the moment in which he raised her hand to his lips, and murmured
      tenderly, &ldquo;My own true Grace!&rdquo; She could only sign to him to leave her,
      and hurry back into her own room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her first feeling, when she found herself alone again, was wonder&mdash;wonder
      that it should never have occurred to her, until he had himself suggested
      it, that her betrothed husband had the foremost right to her confession.
      Her horror at owning to either of them that she had cheated them out of
      their love had hitherto placed Horace and Lady Janet on the same level.
      She now saw for the first time that there was no comparison between the
      claims which they respectively had on her. She owned an allegiance to
      Horace to which Lady Janet could assert no right. Cost her what it might
      to avow the truth to him with her own lips, the cruel sacrifice must be
      made.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without a moment&rsquo;s hesitation she put away her writing materials. It
      amazed her that she should ever have thought of using Julian Gray as an
      interpreter between the man to whom she was betrothed and herself.
      Julian&rsquo;s sympathy (she thought) must have made a strong impression on her
      indeed to blind her to a duty which was beyond all compromise, which
      admitted of no dispute!
    </p>
    <p>
      She had asked for five minutes of delay before she followed Horace. It was
      too long a time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her one chance of finding courage to crush him with the dreadful
      revelation of who she really was, of what she had really done, was to
      plunge headlong into the disclosure without giving herself time to think.
      The shame of it would overpower her if she gave herself time to think.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned to the door to follow him at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even at that terrible moment the most ineradicable of all a woman&rsquo;s
      instincts&mdash;the instinct of personal self-respect&mdash;brought her to
      a pause. She had passed through more than one terrible trial since she had
      dressed to go downstairs. Remembering this, she stopped mechanically,
      retraced her steps, and looked at herself in the glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no motive of vanity in what she now did. The action was as
      unconscious as if she had buttoned an unfastened glove, or shaken out a
      crumpled dress. Not the faintest idea crossed her mind of looking to see
      if her beauty might still plead for her, and of trying to set it off at
      its best.
    </p>
    <p>
      A momentary smile, the most weary, the most hopeless, that ever saddened a
      woman&rsquo;s face, appeared in the reflection which her mirror gave her back.
      &ldquo;Haggard, ghastly, old before my time!&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;Well! better
      so. He will feel it less&mdash;he will not regret me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that thought she went downstairs to meet him in the library.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII. THE MAN IN THE DINING-ROOM.
    </h2>
    <p>
      IN the great emergencies of life we feel, or we act, as our dispositions
      incline us. But we never think. Mercy&rsquo;s mind was a blank as she descended
      the stairs. On her way down she was conscious of nothing but the one
      headlong impulse to get to the library in the shortest possible space of
      time. Arrived at the door, the impulse capriciously left her. She stopped
      on the mat, wondering why she had hurried herself, with time to spare. Her
      heart sank; the fever of her excitement changed suddenly to a chill as she
      faced the closed door, and asked herself the question, Dare I go in?
    </p>
    <p>
      Her own hand answered her. She lifted it to turn the handle of the lock.
      It dropped again helplessly at her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sense of her own irresolution wrung from her a low exclamation of
      despair. Faint as it was, it had apparently not passed unheard. The door
      was opened from within&mdash;and Horace stood before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      He drew aside to let her pass into the room. But he never followed her in.
      He stood in the doorway, and spoke to her, keeping the door open with his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mind waiting here for me?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him, in vacant surprise, doubting whether she had heard him
      aright.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will not be for long,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;I am far too anxious to hear what
      you have to tell me to submit to any needless delays. The truth is, I have
      had a message from Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (From Lady Janet! What could Lady Janet want with him, at a time when she
      was bent on composing herself in the retirement of her own room?)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ought to have said two messages,&rdquo; Horace proceeded. &ldquo;The first was
      given to me on my way downstairs. Lady Janet wished to see me immediately.
      I sent an excuse. A second message followed. Lady Janet would accept no
      excuse. If I refused to go to her I should be merely obliging her to come
      to me. It is impossible to risk being interrupted in that way; my only
      alternative is to get the thing over as soon as possible. Do you mind
      waiting?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not. Have you any idea of what Lady Janet wants with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Whatever it is, she shall not keep me long away from you. You will be
      quite alone here; I have warned the servants not to show any one in.&rdquo; With
      those words he left her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s first sensation was a sensation of relief&mdash;soon lost in a
      feeling of shame at the weakness which could welcome any temporary relief
      in such a position as hers. The emotion thus roused merged, in its turn,
      into a sense of impatient regret. &ldquo;But for Lady Janet&rsquo;s message,&rdquo; she
      thought to herself, &ldquo;I might have known my fate by this time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The slow minutes followed each other drearily. She paced to and fro in the
      library, faster and faster, under the intolerable irritation, the
      maddening uncertainty, of her own suspense. Ere long, even the spacious
      room seemed to be too small for her. The sober monotony of the long
      book-lined shelves oppressed and offended her. She threw open the door
      which led into the dining-room, and dashed in, eager for a change of
      objects, athirst for more space and more air.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the first step she checked herself; rooted to the spot, under a sudden
      revulsion of feeling which quieted her in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room was only illuminated by the waning fire-light. A man was
      obscurely visible, seated on the sofa, with his elbows on his knees and
      his head resting on his hands. He looked up as the open door let in the
      light from the library lamps. The mellow glow reached his face and
      revealed Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy was standing with her back to the light; her face being necessarily
      hidden in deep shadow. He recognized her by her figure, and by the
      attitude into which it unconsciously fell. That unsought grace, that lithe
      long beauty of line, belonged to but one woman in the house. He rose, and
      approached her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been wishing to see you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and hoping that accident might
      bring about some such meeting as this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He offered her a chair. Mercy hesitated before she took her seat. This was
      their first meeting alone since Lady Janet had interrupted her at the
      moment when she was about to confide to Julian the melancholy story of the
      past. Was he anxious to seize the opportunity of returning to her
      confession? The terms in which he had addressed her seemed to imply it.
      She put the question to him in plain words,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel the deepest interest in hearing all that you have still to confide
      to me,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;But anxious as I may be, I will not hurry you. I
      will wait, if you wish it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid I must own that I do wish it,&rdquo; Mercy rejoined. &ldquo;Not on my
      account&mdash;but because my time is at the disposal of Horace Holmcroft.
      I expect to see him in a few minutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could you give me those few minutes?&rdquo; Julian asked. &ldquo;I have something on
      my side to say to you which I think you ought to know before you see any
      one&mdash;Horace himself included.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke with a certain depression of tone which was not associated with
      her previous experience of him. His face looked prematurely old and
      careworn in the red light of the fire. Something had plainly happened to
      sadden and to disappoint him since they had last met.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I willingly offer you all the time that I have at my own command,&rdquo; Mercy
      replied. &ldquo;Does what you have to tell me relate to Lady Janet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave her no direct reply. &ldquo;What I have to tell you of Lady Janet,&rdquo; he
      said, gravely, &ldquo;is soon told. So far as she is concerned you have nothing
      more to dread. Lady Janet knows all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even the heavy weight of oppression caused by the impending interview with
      Horace failed to hold its place in Mercy&rsquo;s mind when Julian answered her
      in those words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come into the lighted room,&rdquo; she said, faintly. &ldquo;It is too terrible to
      hear you say that in the dark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian followed her into the library. Her limbs trembled under her. She
      dropped into a chair, and shrank under his great bright eyes, as he stood
      by her side looking sadly down on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet knows all!&rdquo; she repeated, with her head on her breast, and the
      tears falling slowly over her cheeks. &ldquo;Have you told her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have said nothing to Lady Janet or to any one. Your confidence is a
      sacred confidence to me, until you have spoken first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has Lady Janet said anything to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a word. She has looked at you with the vigilant eyes of love; she has
      listened to you with the quick hearing of love&mdash;and she has found her
      own way to the truth. She will not speak of it to me&mdash;she will not
      speak of it to any living creature. I only know now how dearly she loved
      you. In spite of herself she clings to you still. Her life, poor soul, has
      been a barren one; unworthy, miserably unworthy, of such a nature as hers.
      Her marriage was loveless and childless. She has had admirers, but never,
      in the higher sense of the word, a friend. All the best years of her life
      have been wasted in the unsatisfied longing for something to love. At the
      end of her life You have filled the void. Her heart has found its youth
      again, through You. At her age&mdash;at any age&mdash;is such a tie as
      this to be rudely broken at the mere bidding of circumstances? No! She
      will suffer anything, risk anything, forgive anything, rather than own,
      even to herself, that she has been deceived in you. There is more than her
      happiness at stake; there is pride, a noble pride, in such love as hers,
      which will ignore the plainest discovery and deny the most unanswerable
      truth. I am firmly convinced&mdash;from my own knowledge of her character,
      and from what I have observed in her to-day&mdash;that she will find some
      excuse for refusing to hear your confession. And more than that, I believe
      (if the exertion of her influence can do it) that she will leave no means
      untried of preventing you from acknowledging your true position here to
      any living creature. I take a serious responsibility on myself in telling
      you this&mdash;and I don&rsquo;t shrink from it. You ought to know, and you
      shall know, what trials and what temptations may yet lie before you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused&mdash;leaving Mercy time to compose herself, if she wished to
      speak to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt that there was a necessity for her speaking to him. He was
      plainly not aware that Lady Janet had already written to her to defer her
      promised explanation. This circumstance was in itself a confirmation of
      the opinion which he had expressed. She ought to mention it to him; she
      tried to mention it to him. But she was not equal to the effort. The few
      simple words in which he had touched on the tie that bound Lady Janet to
      her had wrung her heart. Her tears choked her. She could only sign to him
      to go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may wonder at my speaking so positively,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;with nothing
      better than my own conviction to justify me. I can only say that I have
      watched Lady Janet too closely to feel any doubt. I saw the moment in
      which the truth flashed on her, as plainly as I now see you. It did not
      disclose itself gradually&mdash;it burst on her, as it burst on me. She
      suspected nothing&mdash;she was frankly indignant at your sudden
      interference and your strange language&mdash;until the time came in which
      you pledged yourself to produce Mercy Merrick. Then (and then only) the
      truth broke on her mind, trebly revealed to her in your words, your voice,
      and your look. Then (and then only) I saw a marked change come over her,
      and remain in her while she remained in the room. I dread to think of what
      she may do in the first reckless despair of the discovery that she has
      made. I distrust&mdash;though God knows I am not naturally a suspicious
      man&mdash;the most apparently trifling events that are now taking place
      about us. You have held nobly to your resolution to own the truth. Prepare
      yourself, before the evening is over, to be tried and tempted again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy lifted her head. Fear took the place of grief in her eyes, as they
      rested in startled inquiry on Julian&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is it possible that temptation can come to me now?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will leave it to events to answer that question,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You will
      not have long to wait. In the meantime I have put you on your guard.&rdquo; He
      stooped, and spoke his next words earnestly, close at her ear. &ldquo;Hold fast
      by the admirable courage which you have shown thus far,&rdquo; he went on.
      &ldquo;Suffer anything rather than suffer the degradation of yourself. Be the
      woman whom I once spoke of&mdash;the woman I still have in my mind&mdash;who
      can nobly reveal the noble nature that is in her. And never forget this&mdash;my
      faith in you is as firm as ever!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him proudly and gratefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am pledged to justify your faith in me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I have put it out
      of my own power to yield. Horace has my promise that I will explain
      everything to him, in this room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian started.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has Horace himself asked it of you?&rdquo; he inquired. &ldquo;<i>He</i>, at least,
      has no suspicion of the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horace has appealed to my duty to him as his betrothed wife,&rdquo; she
      answered. &ldquo;He has the first claim to my confidence&mdash;he resents my
      silence, and he has a right to resent it. Terrible as it will be to open
      <i>his</i> eyes to the truth, I must do it if he asks me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was looking at Julian while she spoke. The old longing to associate
      with the hard trial of the confession the one man who had felt for her,
      and believed in her, revived under another form. If she could only know,
      while she was saying the fatal words to Horace, that Julian was listening
      too, she would be encouraged to meet the worst that could happen! As the
      idea crossed her mind, she observed that Julian was looking toward the
      door through which they had lately passed. In an instant she saw the means
      to her end. Hardly waiting to hear the few kind expressions of sympathy
      and approval which he addressed to her, she hinted timidly at the proposal
      which she had now to make to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going back into the next room?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not if you object to it,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t object. I want you to be there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After Horace has joined you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. After Horace has joined me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you wish to see me when it is over?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She summoned her resolution, and told him frankly what she had in her
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to be near me while I am speaking to Horace,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It
      will give me courage if I can feel that I am speaking to you as well as to
      him. I can count on <i>your</i> sympathy&mdash;and sympathy is so precious
      to me now! Am I asking too much, if I ask you to leave the door unclosed
      when you go back to the dining-room? Think of the dreadful trial&mdash;to
      him as well as to me! I am only a woman; I am afraid I may sink under it,
      if I have no friend near me. And I have no friend but you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In those simple words she tried her powers of persuasion on him for the
      first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Between perplexity and distress Julian was, for the moment, at a loss how
      to answer her. The love for Mercy which he dared not acknowledge was as
      vital a feeling in him as the faith in her which he had been free to avow.
      To refuse anything that she asked of him in her sore need&mdash;and, more
      even than that, to refuse to hear the confession which it had been her
      first impulse to make to <i>him</i>&mdash;these were cruel sacrifices to
      his sense of what was due to Horace and of what was due to himself. But
      shrink as he might, even from the appearance of deserting her, it was
      impossible for him (except under a reserve which was almost equivalent to
      a denial) to grant her request.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All that I can do I will do,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The doors shall be left unclosed,
      and I will remain in the next room, on this condition, that Horace knows
      of it as well as you. I should be unworthy of your confidence in me if I
      consented to be a listener on any other terms. You understand that, I am
      sure, as well as I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had never thought of her proposal to him in this light. Woman-like,
      she had thought of nothing but the comfort of having him near her. She
      understood him now. A faint flush of shame rose on her pale cheeks as she
      thanked him. He delicately relieved her from her embarrassment by putting
      a question which naturally occurred under the circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Horace all this time?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Why is he not here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has been called away,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;by a message from Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The reply more than astonished Julian; it seemed almost to alarm him. He
      returned to Mercy&rsquo;s chair; he said to her, eagerly, &ldquo;Are you sure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horace himself told me that Lady Janet had insisted on seeing him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not long ago. He asked me to wait for him here while he went upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian&rsquo;s face darkened ominously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This confirms my worst fears,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Have <i>you</i> had any
      communication with Lady Janet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy replied by showing him his aunt&rsquo;s note. He read it carefully
      through.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I not tell you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that she would find some excuse for
      refusing to hear your confession? She begins by delaying it, simply to
      gain time for something else which she has it in her mind to do. When did
      you receive this note? Soon after you went upstairs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About a quarter of an hour after, as well as I can guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what happened down here after you left us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horace told me that Lady Janet had offered Miss Roseberry the use of her
      boudoir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said that you had shown her the way to the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he tell you what happened after that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I must tell you. If I can do nothing more in this serious state of
      things, I can at least prevent your being taken by surprise. In the first
      place, it is right you should know that I had a motive for accompanying
      Miss Roseberry to the boudoir. I was anxious (for your sake) to make some
      appeal to her better self&mdash;if she had any better self to address. I
      own I had doubts of my success&mdash;judging by what I had already seen of
      her. My doubts were confirmed. In the ordinary intercourse of life I
      should merely have thought her a commonplace, uninteresting woman. Seeing
      her as I saw her while we were alone&mdash;in other words, penetrating
      below the surface&mdash;I have never, in all my sad experience, met with
      such a hopelessly narrow, mean, and low nature as hers. Understanding, as
      she could not fail to do, what the sudden change in Lady Janet&rsquo;s behavior
      toward her really meant, her one idea was to take the cruelest possible
      advantage of it. So far from feeling any consideration for <i>you</i>, she
      was only additionally imbittered toward you. She protested against your
      being permitted to claim the merit of placing her in her right position
      here by your own voluntary avowal of the truth. She insisted on publicly
      denouncing you, and on forcing Lady Janet to dismiss you, unheard, before
      the whole household! &lsquo;Now I can have my revenge! At last Lady Janet is
      afraid of me!&rsquo; Those were her own words&mdash;I am almost ashamed to
      repeat them&mdash;those, on my honor, were her own words! Every possible
      humiliation to be heaped on you; no consideration to be shown for Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s age and Lady Janet&rsquo;s position; nothing, absolutely nothing, to be
      allowed to interfere with Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s vengeance and Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s
      triumph! There is this woman&rsquo;s shameless view of what is due to her, as
      stated by herself in the plainest terms. I kept my temper; I did all I
      could to bring her to a better frame of mind. I might as well have pleaded&mdash;I
      won&rsquo;t say with a savage; savages are sometimes accessible to remonstrance,
      if you know how to reach them&mdash;I might as well have pleaded with a
      hungry animal to abstain from eating while food was within its reach. I
      had just given up the hopeless effort in disgust, when Lady Janet&rsquo;s maid
      appeared with a message for Miss Roseberry from her mistress: &lsquo;My lady&rsquo;s
      compliments, ma&rsquo;am, and she will be glad to see you at your earliest
      convenience, in her room.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another surprise! Grace Roseberry invited to an interview with Lady Janet!
      It would have been impossible to believe it, if Julian had not heard the
      invitation given with his own ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She instantly rose,&rdquo; Julian proceeded. &ldquo;&lsquo;I won&rsquo;t keep her ladyship
      waiting a moment,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;show me the way.&rsquo; She signed to the maid to
      go out of the room first, and then turned round and spoke to me from the
      door. I despair of describing the insolent exultation of her manner. I can
      only repeat her words: &lsquo;This is exactly what I wanted! I had intended to
      insist on seeing Lady Janet: she saves me the trouble. I am infinitely
      obliged to her.&rsquo; With that she nodded to me, and closed the door. I have
      not seen her, I have not heard of her, since. For all I know, she may be
      still with my aunt, and Horace may have found her there when he entered
      the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can Lady Janet have to say to her?&rdquo; Mercy asked, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible even to guess. When you found me in the dining-room I
      was considering that very question. I cannot imagine that any neutral
      ground can exist on which it is possible for Lady Janet and this woman to
      meet. In her present frame of mind she will in all probability insult Lady
      Janet before she has been five minutes in the room. I own I am completely
      puzzled. The one conclusion I can arrive at is that the note which my aunt
      sent to you, the private interview with Miss Roseberry which has followed,
      and the summons to Horace which has succeeded in its turn, are all links
      in the same chain of events, and are all tending to that renewed
      temptation against which I have already warned you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy held up her hand for silence. She looked toward the door that opened
      on the hall; had she heard a footstep outside? No. All was still. Not a
      sign yet of Horace&rsquo;s return.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;what would I not give to know what is going on
      upstairs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will soon know it now,&rdquo; said Julian. &ldquo;It is impossible that our
      present uncertainty can last much longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned away, intending to go back to the room in which she had found
      him. Looking at her situation from a man&rsquo;s point of view, he naturally
      assumed that the best service he could now render to Mercy would be to
      leave her to prepare herself for the interview with Horace. Before he had
      taken three steps away from her she showed him the difference between the
      woman&rsquo;s point of view and the man&rsquo;s. The idea of considering beforehand
      what she should say never entered her mind. In her horror of being left by
      herself at that critical moment, she forgot every other consideration.
      Even the warning remembrance of Horace&rsquo;s jealous distrust of Julian passed
      away from her, for the moment, as completely as if it never had a place in
      her memory. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t leave me!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t wait here alone. Come
      back&mdash;come back!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rose impulsively while she spoke, as if to follow him into the
      dining-room, if he persisted in leaving her.
    </p>
    <p>
      A momentary expression of doubt crossed Julian&rsquo;s face as he retraced his
      steps and signed to her to be seated a gain. Could she be depended on (he
      asked himself) to sustain the coming test of her resolution, when she had
      not courage enough to wait for events in a room by herself? Julian had yet
      to learn that a woman&rsquo;s courage rises with the greatness of the emergency.
      Ask her to accompany you through a field in which some harmless cattle
      happen to be grazing, and it is doubtful, in nine cases out of ten, if she
      will do it. Ask her, as one of the passengers in a ship on fire, to help
      in setting an example of composure to the rest, and it is certain, in nine
      cases out of ten, that she will do it. As soon as Julian had taken a chair
      near her, Mercy was calm again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure of your resolution?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am certain of it,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;as long as you don&rsquo;t leave me by
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The talk between them dropped there. They sat together in silence, with
      their eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Horace to come in.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the lapse of a few minutes their attention was attracted by a sound
      outside in the grounds. A carriage of some sort was plainly audible
      approaching the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The carriage stopped; the bell rang; the front door was opened. Had a
      visitor arrived? No voice could be heard making inquiries. No footsteps
      but the servant&rsquo;s footsteps crossed the hall. Along pause followed, the
      carriage remaining at the door. Instead of bringing some one to the house,
      it had apparently arrived to take some one away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next event was the return of the servant to the front door. They
      listened again. Again no second footstep was audible. The door was closed;
      the servant recrossed the hall; the carriage was driven away. Judging by
      sounds alone, no one had arrived at the house, and no one had left the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian looked at Mercy. &ldquo;Do you understand this?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      She silently shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If any person has gone away in the carriage,&rdquo; Julian went on, &ldquo;that
      person can hardly have been a man, or we must have heard him in the hall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The conclusion which her companion had just drawn from the noiseless
      departure of the supposed visitor raised a sudden doubt in Mercy&rsquo;s mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go and inquire!&rdquo; she said, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian left the room, and returned again, after a brief absence, with
      signs of grave anxiety in his face and manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you I dreaded the most trifling events that were passing about
      us,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;An event, which is far from being trifling, has just
      happened. The carriage which we heard approaching along the drive turns
      out to have been a cab sent for from the house. The person who has gone
      away in it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is a woman, as you supposed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy rose excitedly from her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be Grace Roseberry?&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>is</i> Grace Roseberry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has she gone away alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alone&mdash;after an interview with Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she go willingly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She herself sent the servant for the cab.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does it mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is useless to inquire. We shall soon know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They resumed their seats, waiting, as they had waited already, with their
      eyes on the library door.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII. LADY JANET AT BAY.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE narrative leaves Julian and Mercy for a while, and, ascending to the
      upper regions of the house, follows the march of events in Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The maid had delivered her mistress&rsquo;s note to Mercy, and had gone away
      again on her second errand to Grace Roseberry in her boudoir. Lady Janet
      was seated at her writing-table, waiting for the appearance of the woman
      whom she had summoned to her presence. A single lamp diffused its mild
      light over the books, pictures, and busts round her, leaving the further
      end of the room, in which the bed was placed, almost lost in obscurity.
      The works of art were all portraits; the books were all presentation
      copies from the authors. It was Lady Janet&rsquo;s fancy to associate her
      bedroom with memorials of the various persons whom she had known in the
      long course of her life&mdash;all of them more or less distinguished, most
      of them, by this time, gathered with the dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat near her writing-table, lying back in her easy-chair&mdash;the
      living realization of the picture which Julian&rsquo;s description had drawn.
      Her eyes were fixed on a photographic likeness of Mercy, which was so
      raised upon a little gilt easel as to enable her to contemplate it under
      the full light of the lamp. The bright, mobile old face was strangely and
      sadly changed. The brow was fixed; the mouth was rigid; the whole face
      would have been like a mask, molded in the hardest forms of passive
      resistance and suppressed rage, but for the light and life still thrown
      over it by the eyes. There was something unutterably touching in the keen
      hungering tenderness of the look which they fixed on the portrait,
      intensified by an underlying expression of fond and patient reproach. The
      danger which Julian so wisely dreaded was in the rest of the face; the
      love which he had so truly described was in the eyes alone. <i>They</i>
      still spoke of the cruelly profaned affection which had been the one
      immeasurable joy, the one inexhaustible hope of Lady Janet&rsquo;s closing life.
      The brow expressed nothing but her obstinate determination to stand by the
      wreck of that joy, to rekindle the dead ashes of that hope. The lips were
      only eloquent of her unflinching resolution to ignore the hateful present
      and to save the sacred past. &ldquo;My idol may be shattered, but none of you
      shall know it. I stop the march of discovery; I extinguish the light of
      truth. I am deaf to your words; am blind to your proofs. At seventy years
      old, my idol is my life. It shall be my idol still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The silence in the bedroom was broken by a murmuring of women&rsquo;s voices
      outside the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet instantly raised herself in the chair and snatched the
      photograph off the easel. She laid the portrait face downward, among some
      papers on the table, then abruptly changed her mind, and hid it among the
      thick folds of lace which clothed her neck and bosom. There was a world of
      love in the action itself, and in the sudden softening of the eyes which
      accompanied it. The next moment Lady Janet&rsquo;s mask was on. Any superficial
      observer who had seen her now would have said, &ldquo;This is a hard woman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door was opened by the maid. Grace Roseberry entered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      She advanced rapidly, with a defiant assurance in her manner, and a lofty
      carriage of her head. She sat down in the chair, to which Lady Janet
      silently pointed, with a thump; she returned Lady Janet&rsquo;s grave bow with a
      nod and a smile. Every movement and every look of the little, worn,
      white-faced, shabbily dressed woman expressed insolent triumph, and said,
      as if in words, &ldquo;My turn has come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad to wait on your ladyship,&rdquo; she began, without giving Lady Janet
      an opportunity of speaking first. &ldquo;Indeed, I should have felt it my duty
      to request an interview, if you had not sent your maid to invite me up
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would have felt it your duty to request an interview?&rdquo; Lady Janet
      repeated, very quietly. &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tone in which that one last word was spoken embarrassed Grace at the
      outset. It established as great a distance between Lady Janet and herself
      as if she had been lifted in her chair and conveyed bodily to the other
      end of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am surprised that your ladyship should not understand me,&rdquo; she said,
      struggling to conceal her confusion. &ldquo;Especially after your kind offer of
      your own boudoir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet remained perfectly unmoved. &ldquo;I do <i>not</i> understand you,&rdquo;
       she answered, just as quietly as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s temper came to her assistance. She recovered the assurance which
      had marked her first appearance on the scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;I must enter into particulars, in justice to
      myself. I can place but one interpretation on the extraordinary change in
      your ladyship&rsquo;s behavior to me downstairs. The conduct of that abominable
      woman has at last opened your eyes to the deception that has been
      practiced on you. For some reason of your own, however, you have not yet
      chosen to recognize me openly. In this painful position something is due
      to my own self-respect. I cannot, and will not, permit Mercy Merrick to
      claim the merit of restoring me to my proper place in this house. After
      what I have suffered it is quite impossible for me to endure that. I
      should have requested an interview (if you had not sent for me) for the
      express purpose of claiming this person&rsquo;s immediate expulsion from the
      house. I claim it now as a proper concession to Me. Whatever you or Mr.
      Julian Gray may do, <i>I</i> will not tamely permit her to exhibit herself
      as an interesting penitent. It is really a little too much to hear this
      brazen adventuress appoint her own time for explaining herself. It is too
      deliberately insulting to see her sail out of the room&mdash;with a
      clergyman of the Church of England opening the door for her&mdash;as if
      she was laying me under an obligation! I can forgive much, Lady Janet&mdash;including
      the terms in which you thought it decent to order me out of your house. I
      am quite willing to accept the offer of your boudoir, as the expression on
      your part of a better frame of mind. But even Christian Charity has its
      limits. The continued presence of that wretch under your roof is, you will
      permit me to remark, not only a monument of your own weakness, but a
      perfectly insufferable insult to Me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There she stopped abruptly&mdash;not for want of words, but for want of a
      listener.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet was not even pretending to attend to her. Lady Janet, with a
      deliberate rudeness entirely foreign to her usual habits, was composedly
      busying herself in arranging the various papers scattered about the table.
      Some she tied together with little morsels of string; some she placed
      under paper-weights; some she deposited in the fantastic pigeon-holes of a
      little Japanese cabinet&mdash;working with a placid enjoyment of her own
      orderly occupation, and perfectly unaware, to all outward appearance, that
      any second person was in the room. She looked up, with her papers in both
      hands, when Grace stopped, and said, quietly,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is your ladyship&rsquo;s purpose in sending for me to treat me with studied
      rudeness?&rdquo; Grace retorted, angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My purpose in sending for you is to say something as soon as you will
      allow me the opportunity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The impenetrable composure of that reply took Grace completely by
      surprise. She had no retort ready. In sheer astonishment she waited
      silently with her eyes riveted on the mistress of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet put down her papers, and settled herself comfortably in the
      easy-chair, preparatory to opening the interview on her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The little that I have to say to you,&rdquo; she began, &ldquo;may be said in a
      question. Am I right in supposing that you have no present employment, and
      that a little advance in money (delicately offered) would be very
      acceptable to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to insult me, Lady Janet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not. I mean to ask you a question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your question is an insult.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My question is a kindness, if you will only understand it as it is
      intended. I don&rsquo;t complain of your not understanding it. I don&rsquo;t even hold
      you responsible for any one of the many breaches of good manners which you
      have committed since you have been in this room. I was honestly anxious to
      be of some service to you, and you have repelled my advances. I am sorry.
      Let us drop the subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Expressing herself in the most perfect temper in those terms, Lady Janet
      resumed the arrangement of her papers, and became unconscious once more of
      the presence of any second person in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace opened her lips to reply with the utmost intemperance of an angry
      woman, and thinking better of it, controlled herself. It was plainly
      useless to take the violent way with Lady Janet Roy. Her age and her
      social position were enough of themselves to repel any violence. She
      evidently knew that, and trusted to it. Grace resolved to meet the enemy
      on the neutral ground of politeness, as the most promising ground that she
      could occupy under present circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I have said anything hasty, I beg to apologize to your ladyship,&rdquo; she
      began. &ldquo;May I ask if your only object in sending for me was to inquire
      into my pecuniary affairs, with a view to assisting me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; said Lady Janet, &ldquo;was my only object.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had nothing to say to me on the subject of Mercy Merrick?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing whatever. I am weary of hearing of Mercy Merrick. Have you any
      more questions to ask me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have one more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to ask your ladyship whether you propose to recognize me in the
      presence of your household as the late Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have already recognized you as a lady in embarrassed circumstances, who
      has peculiar claims on my consideration and forbearance. If you wish me to
      repeat those words in the presence of the servants (absurd as it is), I am
      ready to comply with your request.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s temper began to get the better of her prudent resolutions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet!&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;this won&rsquo;t do. I must request you to express
      yourself plainly. You talk of my peculiar claims on your forbearance. What
      claims do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be painful to both of us if we enter into details,&rdquo; replied Lady
      Janet. &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t let us enter into details.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I insist on it, madam.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t insist on it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace was deaf to remonstrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask you in plain words,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;do you acknowledge that you have
      been deceived by an adventuress who has personated me? Do you mean to
      restore me to my proper place in this house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet returned to the arrangement of her papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does your ladyship refuse to listen to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet looked up from her papers as blandly as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If <i>you</i> persist in returning to your delusion,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you will
      oblige <i>me</i> to persist in returning to my papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is my delusion, if you please?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your delusion is expressed in the questions you have just put to me. Your
      delusion constitutes your peculiar claim on my forbearance. Nothing you
      can say or do will shake my forbearance. When I first found you in the
      dining-room, I acted most improperly; I lost my temper. I did worse; I was
      foolish enough and imprudent enough to send for a police officer. I owe
      you every possible atonement (afflicted as you are) for treating you in
      that cruel manner. I offered you the use of my boudoir, as part of my
      atonement. I sent for you, in the hope that you would allow me to assist
      you, as part of my atonement. You may behave rudely to me, you may speak
      in the most abusive terms of my adopted daughter; I will submit to
      anything, as part of my atonement. So long as you abstain from speaking on
      one painful subject, I will listen to you with the greatest pleasure.
      Whenever you return to that subject I shall return to my papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace looked at Lady Janet with an evil smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I begin to understand your ladyship,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You are ashamed to
      acknowledge that you have been grossly imposed upon. Your only
      alternative, of course, is to ignore everything that has happened. Pray
      count on <i>my</i> forbearance. I am not at all offended&mdash;I am merely
      amused. It is not every day that a lady of high rank exhibits herself in
      such a position as yours to an obscure woman like me. Your humane
      consideration for me dates, I presume, from the time when your adopted
      daughter set you the example, by ordering the police officer out of the
      room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s composure was proof even against this assault on it. She
      gravely accepted Grace&rsquo;s inquiry as a question addressed to her in perfect
      good faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not at all surprised,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;to find that my adopted
      daughter&rsquo;s interference has exposed her to misrepresentation. She ought to
      have remonstrated with me privately before she interfered. But she has one
      fault&mdash;she is too impulsive. I have never, in all my experience, met
      with such a warm-hearted person as she is. Always too considerate of
      others; always too forgetful of herself! The mere appearance of the police
      officer placed you in a situation to appeal to her compassion, and her
      impulses carried her away as usual. My fault! All my fault!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace changed her tone once more. She was quick enough to discern that
      Lady Janet was a match for her with her own weapons.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have had enough of this,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It is time to be serious. Your
      adopted daughter (as you call her) is Mercy Merrick, and you know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet returned to her papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Grace Roseberry, whose name she has stolen, and you know <i>that</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet went on with her papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace got up from her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I accept your silence, Lady Janet,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;as an acknowledgment of
      your deliberate resolution to suppress the truth. You are evidently
      determined to receive the adventuress as the true woman; and you don&rsquo;t
      scruple to face the consequences of that proceeding, by pretending to my
      face to believe that I am mad. I will not allow myself to be impudently
      cheated out of my rights in this way. You will hear from me again madam,
      when the Canadian mail arrives in England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She walked toward the door. This time Lady Janet answered, as readily and
      as explicitly as it was possible to desire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall refuse to receive your letters,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace returned a few steps, threateningly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My letters shall be followed by my witnesses,&rdquo; she proceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall refuse to receive your witnesses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Refuse at your peril. I will appeal to the law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t pretend to much knowledge of the subject,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but I
      should be surprised indeed if I discovered that you had any claim on me
      which the law could enforce. However, let us suppose that you <i>can</i>
      set the law in action. You know as well as I do that the only motive power
      which can do that is&mdash;money. I am rich; fees, costs, and all the rest
      of it are matters of no sort of consequence to me. May I ask if you are in
      the same position?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The question silenced Grace. So far as money was concerned, she was
      literally at the end of her resources. Her only friends were friends in
      Canada. After what she had said to him in the boudoir, it would be quite
      useless to appeal to the sympathies of Julian Gray. In the pecuniary
      sense, and in one word, she was absolutely incapable of gratifying her own
      vindictive longings. And there sat the mistress of Mablethorpe House,
      perfectly well aware of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet pointed to the empty chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you sit down again?&rdquo; she suggested. &ldquo;The course of our interview
      seems to have brought us back to the question that I asked you when you
      came into my room. Instead of threatening me with the law, suppose you
      consider the propriety of permitting me to be of some use to you. I am in
      the habit of assisting ladies in embarrassed circumstances, and nobody
      knows of it but my steward&mdash;who keeps the accounts&mdash;and myself.
      Once more, let me inquire if a little advance of the pecuniary sort
      (delicately offered) would be acceptable to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace returned slowly to the chair that she had left. She stood by it,
      with one hand grasping the top rail, and with her eyes fixed in mocking
      scrutiny on Lady Janet&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At last your ladyship shows your hand,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Hush-money!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You <i>will</i> send me back to my papers,&rdquo; rejoined Lady Janet. &ldquo;How
      obstinate you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s hand closed tighter and tighter round the rail of the chair.
      Without witnesses, without means, without so much as a refuge&mdash;thanks
      to her own coarse cruelties of language and conduct&mdash;in the
      sympathies of others, the sense of her isolation and her helplessness was
      almost maddening at that final moment. A woman of finer sensibilities
      would have instantly left the room. Grace&rsquo;s impenetrably hard and narrow
      mind impelled her to meet the emergency in a very different way. A last
      base vengeance, to which Lady Janet had voluntarily exposed herself, was
      still within her reach. &ldquo;For the present,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;there is but one
      way of being even with your ladyship. I can cost you as much as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray make some allowances for me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I am not obstinate&mdash;I
      am only a little awkward at matching the audacity of a lady of high rank.
      I shall improve with practice. My own language is, as I am painfully
      aware, only plain English. Permit me to withdraw it, and to substitute
      yours. What advance is your ladyship (delicately) prepared to offer me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet opened a drawer, and took out her check-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment of relief had come at last! The only question now left to
      discuss was evidently the question of amount. Lady Janet considered a
      little. The question of amount was (to her mind) in some sort a question
      of conscience as well. Her love for Mercy and her loathing for Grace, her
      horror of seeing her darling degraded and her affection profaned by a
      public exposure, had hurried her&mdash;there was no disputing it&mdash;into
      treating an injured woman harshly. Hateful as Grace Roseberry might be,
      her father had left her, in his last moments, with Lady Janet&rsquo;s full
      concurrence, to Lady Janet&rsquo;s care. But for Mercy she would have been
      received at Mablethorpe House as Lady Janet&rsquo;s companion, with a salary of
      one hundred pounds a year. On the other hand, how long (with such a temper
      as she had revealed) would Grace have remained in the service of her
      protectress? She would probably have been dismissed in a few weeks, with a
      year&rsquo;s salary to compensate her, and with a recommendation to some
      suitable employment. What would be a fair compensation now? Lady Janet
      decided that five years&rsquo; salary immediately given, and future assistance
      rendered if necessary, would represent a fit remembrance of the late
      Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s claims, and a liberal pecuniary acknowledgment of any
      harshness of treatment which Grace might have sustained at her hands. At
      the same time, and for the further satisfying of her own conscience, she
      determined to discover the sum which Grace herself would consider
      sufficient by the simple process of making Grace herself propose the
      terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible for me to make you an offer,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;for this reason&mdash;your
      need of money will depend greatly on your future plans. I am quite
      ignorant of your future plans.&lsquo;&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps your ladyship will kindly advise me?&rdquo; said Grace, satirically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot altogether undertake to advise you,&rdquo; Lady Janet replied. &ldquo;I can
      only suppose that you will scarcely remain in England, where you have no
      friends. Whether you go to law with me or not, you will surely feel the
      necessity of communicating personally with your friends in Canada. Am I
      right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace was quite quick enough to understand this as it was meant. Properly
      interpreted, the answer signified&mdash;&ldquo;If you take your compensation in
      money, it is understood, as part of the bargain that you don&rsquo;t remain in
      England to annoy me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your ladyship is quite right,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I shall certainly not remain in
      England. I shall consult my friends&mdash;and,&rdquo; she added, mentally, &ldquo;go
      to law with you afterward, if I possibly can, with your own money!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will return to Canada,&rdquo; Lady Janet proceeded; &ldquo;and your prospects
      there will be, probably, a little uncertain at first. Taking this into
      consideration, at what amount do you estimate, in your own mind, the
      pecuniary assistance which you will require?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I count on your ladyship&rsquo;s, kindness to correct me if my own ignorant
      calculations turn out to be wrong?&rdquo; Grace asked, innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here again the words, properly interpreted, had a special signification of
      their own: &ldquo;It is stipulated, on my part, that I put myself up to auction,
      and that my estimate shall be regulated by your ladyship&rsquo;s highest bid.&rdquo;
       Thoroughly understanding the stipulation, Lady Janet bowed, and waited
      gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gravely, on her side, Grace began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid I should want more than a hundred pounds,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet made her first bid. &ldquo;I think so too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More, perhaps, than two hundred?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet made her second bid. &ldquo;Probably.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More than three hundred? Four hundred? Five hundred?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet made her highest bid. &ldquo;Five hundred pounds will do,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of herself, Grace&rsquo;s rising color betrayed her ungovernable
      excitement. From her earliest childhood she had been accustomed to see
      shillings and sixpences carefully considered before they were parted with.
      She had never known her father to possess so much as five golden
      sovereigns at his own disposal (unencumbered by debt) in all her
      experience of him. The atmosphere in which she had lived and breathed was
      the all-stifling one of genteel poverty. There was something horrible in
      the greedy eagerness of her eyes as they watched Lady Janet, to see if she
      was really sufficiently in earnest to give away five hundred pounds
      sterling with a stroke of her pen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet wrote the check in a few seconds, and pushed it across the
      table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grace&rsquo;s hungry eyes devoured the golden line, &ldquo;Pay to myself or bearer
      five hundred pounds,&rdquo; and verified the signature beneath, &ldquo;Janet Roy.&rdquo;
       Once sure of the money whenever she chose to take it, the native meanness
      of her nature instantly asserted itself. She tossed her head, and let the
      check lie on the table, with an overacted appearance of caring very little
      whether she took it or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your ladyship is not to suppose that I snap at your check,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The very sight of
      Grace Roseberry sickened her. Her mind filled suddenly with the image of
      Mercy. She longed to feast her eyes again on that grand beauty, to fill
      her ears again with the melody of that gentle voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I require time to consider&mdash;in justice to my own self-respect,&rdquo;
       Grace went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet wearily made a sign, granting time to consider.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your ladyship&rsquo;s boudoir is, I presume, still at my disposal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet silently granted the boudoir.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your ladyship&rsquo;s servants are at my orders, if I have occasion to
      employ them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet suddenly opened her eyes. &ldquo;The whole household is at your
      orders,&rdquo; she cried, furiously. &ldquo;Leave me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Grace was far from being offended. If anything, she was gratified&mdash;there
      was a certain triumph in having stung Lady Janet into an open outbreak of
      temper. She insisted forthwith on another condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the event of my deciding to receive the check,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I cannot,
      consistently with my own self-respect, permit it to be delivered to me
      otherwise than inclosed. Your ladyship will (if necessary) be so kind as
      to inclose it. Good-evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sauntered to the door, looking from side to side, with an air of
      supreme disparagement, at the priceless treasures of art which adorned the
      walls. Her eyes dropped superciliously on the carpet (the design of a
      famous French painter), as if her feet condescended in walking over it.
      The audacity with which she had entered the room had been marked enough;
      it shrank to nothing before the infinitely superior proportions of the
      insolence with which she left it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The instant the door was closed Lady Janet rose from her chair. Reckless
      of the wintry chill in the outer air, she threw open one of the windows.
      &ldquo;Pah!&rdquo; she exclaimed, with a shudder of disgust, &ldquo;the very air of the room
      is tainted by her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She returned to her chair. Her mood changed as she sat down again&mdash;her
      heart was with Mercy once more. &ldquo;Oh, my love!&rdquo; she murmured &ldquo;how low I
      have stooped, how miserably I have degraded myself&mdash;and all for You!&rdquo;
       The bitterness of the retrospect was unendurable. The inbred force of the
      woman&rsquo;s nature took refuge from it in an outburst of defiance and despair.
      &ldquo;Whatever she has done, that wretch deserves it! Not a living creature in
      this house shall say she has deceived me. She has <i>not</i> deceived me&mdash;she
      loves me! What do I care whether she has given me her true name or not!
      She has given me her true heart. What right had Julian to play upon her
      feelings and pry into her secrets? My poor, tempted, tortured child! I
      won&rsquo;t hear her confession. Not another word shall she say to any living
      creature. I am mistress&mdash;I will forbid it at once!&rdquo; She snatched a
      sheet of notepaper from the case; hesitated, and threw it from her on the
      table. &ldquo;Why not send for my darling?&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Why write?&rdquo; She
      hesitated once more, and resigned the idea. &ldquo;No! I can&rsquo;t trust myself! I
      daren&rsquo;t see her yet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took up the sheet of paper again, and wrote her second message to
      Mercy. This time the note began fondly with a familiar form of address.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MY DEAR CHILD&mdash;I have had time to think and compose myself a little,
      since I last wrote, requesting you to defer the explanation which you had
      promised me. I already understand (and appreciate) the motives which led
      you to interfere as you did downstairs, and I now ask you to entirely
      abandon the explanation. It will, I am sure, be painful to you (for
      reasons of your own into which I have no wish to inquire) to produce the
      person of whom you spoke, and as you know already, I myself am weary of
      hearing of her. Besides, there is really no need now for you to explain
      anything. The stranger whose visits here have caused us so much pain and
      anxiety will trouble us no more. She leaves England of her own free will,
      after a conversation with me which has perfectly succeeded in composing
      and satisfying her. Not a word more, my dear, to me, or to my nephew, or
      to any other human creature, of what has happened in the dining-room
      to-day. When we next meet, let it be understood between us that the past
      is henceforth and forever <i>buried to oblivion</i>. This is not only the
      earnest request&mdash;it is, if necessary, the positive command, of your
      mother and friend,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;JANET ROY.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;P.S.&mdash;I shall find opportunities (before you leave your room) of
      speaking separately to my nephew and to Horace Holmcroft. You need dread
      no embarrassment, when you next meet them. I will not ask you to answer my
      note in writing. Say yes to the maid who will bring it to you, and I shall
      know we understand each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After sealing the envelope which inclosed these lines, Lady Janet
      addressed it, as usual, to &ldquo;Miss Grace Roseberry.&rdquo; She was just rising to
      ring the bell, when the maid appeared with a message from the boudoir. The
      woman&rsquo;s tones and looks showed plainly that she had been made the object
      of Grace&rsquo;s insolent self-assertion as well as her mistress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please, my lady, the person downstairs wishes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet, frowning contemptuously, interrupted the message at the
      outset. &ldquo;I know what the person downstairs wishes. She has sent you for a
      letter from me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has sent one of the men-servants, my lady, for a cab. If your
      ladyship had only heard how she spoke to him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet intimated by a sign that she would rather not hear. She at once
      inclosed the check in an undirected envelope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take that to her,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and then come back to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dismissing Grace Roseberry from all further consideration, Lady Janet sat,
      with her letter to Mercy in her hand, reflecting on her position, and on
      the efforts which it might still demand from her. Pursuing this train of
      thought, it now occurred to her that accident might bring Horace and Mercy
      together at any moment, and that, in Horace&rsquo;s present frame of mind, he
      would certainly insist on the very explanation which it was the foremost
      interest of her life to suppress. The dread of this disaster was in full
      possession of her when the maid returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Mr. Holmcroft?&rdquo; she asked, the moment the woman entered the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw him open the library door, my lady, just now, on my way upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to him, and say I want to see him here immediately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The maid withdrew on her second errand. Lady Janet rose restlessly, and
      closed the open window. Her impatient desire to make sure of Horace so
      completely mastered her that she left her room, and met the woman in the
      corridor on her return. Receiving Horace&rsquo;s message of excuse, she
      instantly sent back the peremptory rejoinder, &ldquo;Say that he will oblige me
      to go to him, if he persists in refusing to come to me. And, stay!&rdquo; she
      added, remembering the undelivered letter. &ldquo;Send Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s maid
      here; I want her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Left alone again, Lady Janet paced once or twice up and down the corridor&mdash;then
      grew suddenly weary of the sight of it, and went back to her room. The two
      maids returned together. One of them, having announced Horace&rsquo;s
      submission, was dismissed. The other was sent to Mercy&rsquo;s room with Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s letter. In a minute or two the messenger appeared again, with the
      news that she had found the room empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any idea where Miss Roseberry is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet reflected for a moment. If Horace presented himself without any
      needless delay, the plain inference would he that she had succeeded in
      separating him from Mercy. If his appearance was suspiciously deferred,
      she decided on personally searching for Mercy in the reception rooms on
      the lower floor of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you done with the letter?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I left it on Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s table, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. Keep within hearing of the bell, in case I want you again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another minute brought Lady Janet&rsquo;s suspense to an end. She heard the
      welcome sound of a knock at her door from a man&rsquo;s hand. Horace hurriedly
      entered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it you want with me, Lady Janet?&rdquo; he inquired, not very
      graciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down, Horace, and you shall hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace did not accept the invitation. &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if I mention
      that I am rather in a hurry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you in a hurry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have reasons for wishing to see Grace as soon as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And <i>I</i> have reasons,&rdquo; Lady Janet rejoined, &ldquo;for wishing to speak to
      you about Grace before you see her; serious reasons. Sit down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace started. &ldquo;Serious reasons?&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;You surprise me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall surprise you still more before I have done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their eyes met as Lady Janet answered in those terms. Horace observed
      signs of agitation in her, which he now noticed for the first time. His
      face darkened with an expression of sullen distrust&mdash;and he took the
      chair in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV. LADY JANET&rsquo;S LETTER.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE narrative leaves Lady Janet and Horace Holmcroft together, and returns
      to Julian and Mercy in the library.
    </p>
    <p>
      An interval passed&mdash;a long interval, measured by the impatient
      reckoning of suspense&mdash;after the cab which had taken Grace Roseberry
      away had left the house. The minutes followed each other; and still the
      warning sound of Horace&rsquo;s footsteps was not heard on the marble pavement
      of the hall. By common (though unexpressed) consent, Julian and Mercy
      avoided touching upon the one subject on which they were now both
      interested alike. With their thoughts fixed secretly in vain speculation
      on the nature of the interview which was then taking place in Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      room, they tried to speak on topics indifferent to both of them&mdash;tried,
      and failed, and tried again. In a last and longest pause of silence
      between them, the next event happened. The door from the hall was softly
      and suddenly opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was it Horace? No&mdash;not even yet. The person who had opened the door
      was only Mercy&rsquo;s maid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lady&rsquo;s love, miss; and will you please to read this directly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Giving her message in those terms, the woman produced from the pocket of
      her apron Lady Janet&rsquo;s second letter to Mercy, with a strip of paper oddly
      pinned round the envelope. Mercy detached the paper, and found on the
      inner side some lines in pencil, hurriedly written in Lady Janet&rsquo;s hand.
      They ran thus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t lose a moment in reading my letter. And mind this, when H. returns
      to you&mdash;meet him firmly: say nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Enlightened by the warning words which Julian had spoken to her, Mercy was
      at no loss to place the right interpretation on those strange lines.
      Instead of immediately opening the letter, she stopped the maid at the
      library door. Julian&rsquo;s suspicion of the most trifling events that were
      taking place in the house had found its way from his mind to hers. &ldquo;Wait!&rdquo;
       she said. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand what is going on upstairs; I want to ask you
      something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman came back&mdash;not very willingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you know I was here?&rdquo; Mercy inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please, miss, her ladyship ordered me to take the letter to you
      some little time since. You were not in your room, and I left it on your
      table.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand that. But how came you to bring the letter here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lady rang for me, miss. Before I could knock at her door she came out
      into the corridor with that morsel of paper in her hand&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So as to keep you from entering her room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, miss. Her ladyship wrote on the paper in a great hurry, and told me
      to pin it round the letter that I had left in your room. I was to take
      them both together to you, and to let nobody see me. &lsquo;You will find Miss
      Roseberry in the library&rsquo; (her ladyship says), &lsquo;and run, run, run! there
      isn&rsquo;t a moment to lose!&rsquo; Those were her own words, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear anything in the room before Lady Janet came out and met
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman hesitated, and looked at Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly know whether I ought to tell you, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian turned away to leave the library. Mercy stopped him by a motion of
      her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that I shall not get you into any trouble,&rdquo; she said to the
      maid. &ldquo;And you may speak quite safely before Mr. Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus re-assured, the maid spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To own the truth, miss, I heard Mr. Holmcroft in my lady&rsquo;s room. His
      voice sounded as if he was angry. I may say they were both angry&mdash;Mr.
      Holmcroft and my lady.&rdquo; (She turned to Julian.) &ldquo;And just before her
      ladyship came out, sir, I heard your name, as if it was you they were
      having words about. I can&rsquo;t say exactly what it was; I hadn&rsquo;t time to
      hear. And I didn&rsquo;t listen, miss; the door was ajar; and the voices were so
      loud nobody could help hearing them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was useless to detain the woman any longer. Having given her leave to
      withdraw, Mercy turned to Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why were they quarreling about you?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian pointed to the unopened letter in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The answer to your question may be there,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Read the letter
      while you have the chance. And if I can advise you, say so at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a strange reluctance she opened the envelope. With a sinking heart
      she read the lines in which Lady Janet, as &ldquo;mother and friend,&rdquo; commanded
      her absolutely to suppress the confession which she had pledged herself to
      make in the sacred interests of justice and truth. A low cry of despair
      escaped her, as the cruel complication in her position revealed itself in
      all its unmerited hardship. &ldquo;Oh, Lady Janet, Lady Janet!&rdquo; she thought,
      &ldquo;there was but one trial more left in my hard lot&mdash;and it comes to me
      from <i>you!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She handed the letter to Julian. He took it from her in silence. His pale
      complexion turned paler still as he read it. His eyes rested on her
      compassionately as he handed it back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To my mind,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Lady Janet herself sets all further doubt at rest.
      Her letter tells me what she wanted when she sent for Horace, and why my
      name was mentioned between them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me!&rdquo; cried Mercy, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not immediately answer her. He sat down again in the chair by her
      side, and pointed to the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has Lady Janet shaken your resolution?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has strengthened my resolution,&rdquo; Mercy answered. &ldquo;She has added a new
      bitterness to my remorse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not mean it harshly, but the reply sounded harshly in Julian&rsquo;s
      ears. It stirred the generous impulses, which were the strongest impulses
      in his nature. He who had once pleaded with Mercy for compassionate
      consideration for herself now pleaded with her for compassionate
      consideration for Lady Janet. With persuasive gentleness he drew a little
      nearer, and laid his hand on her arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t judge her harshly,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;She is wrong, miserably wrong. She
      has recklessly degraded herself; she has recklessly tempted you. Still, is
      it generous&mdash;is it even just&mdash;to hold her responsible for
      deliberate sin? She is at the close of her days; she can feel no new
      affection; she can never replace you. View her position in that light, and
      you will see (as I see) that it is no base motive which has led her
      astray. Think of her wounded heart and her wasted life&mdash;and say to
      yourself forgivingly, She loves me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s eyes filled with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do say it!&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Not forgivingly&mdash;it is <i>I</i> who
      have need of forgiveness. I say it gratefully when I think of her&mdash;I
      say it with shame and sorrow when I think of myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took her hand for the first time. He looked, guiltlessly looked, at her
      downcast face. He spoke as he had spoken at the memorable interview
      between them which had made a new woman of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can imagine no crueler trial,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;than the trial that is now
      before you. The benefactress to whom you owe everything asks nothing from
      you but your silence. The person whom you have wronged is no longer
      present to stimulate your resolution to speak. Horace himself (unless I am
      entirely mistaken) will not hold you to the explanation that you have
      promised. The temptation to keep your false position in this house is, I
      do not scruple to say, all but irresistible. Sister and friend! can you
      still justify my faith in you? Will you still own the truth, without the
      base fear of discovery to drive you to it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lifted her head, with the steady light of resolution shining again in
      her grand, gray eyes. Her low, sweet voice answered him, without a
      faltering note in it,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will do justice to the woman whom you have wronged&mdash;unworthy as
      she is; powerless as she is to expose you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will sacrifice everything you have gained by the fraud to the sacred
      duty of atonement? You will suffer anything&mdash;even though you offend
      the second mother who has loved you and sinned for you&mdash;rather than
      suffer the degradation of yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her hand closed firmly on his. Again, and for the last time, she answered,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice had not trembled yet. It failed him now. His next words were
      spoken in faint whispering tones&mdash;to himself; not to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God for this day!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have been of some service to one of
      the noblest of God&rsquo;s creatures!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some subtle influence, as he spoke, passed from his hand to hers. It
      trembled through her nerves; it entwined itself mysteriously with the
      finest sensibilities in her nature; it softly opened her heart to a first
      vague surmising of the devotion that she had inspired in him. A faint glow
      of color, lovely in its faintness, stole over her face and neck. Her
      breathing quickened tremblingly. She drew her hand away from him, and
      sighed when she had released it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose suddenly to his feet and left her, without a word or a look,
      walking slowly down the length of the room. When he turned and came back
      to her, his face was composed; he was master of himself again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy was the first to speak. She turned the conversation from herself by
      reverting to the proceedings in Lady Janet&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You spoke of Horace just now,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;in terms which surprised me.
      You appeared to think that he would not hold me to my explanation. Is that
      one of the conclusions which you draw from Lady Janet&rsquo;s letter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most assuredly,&rdquo; Julian answered. &ldquo;You will see the conclusion as I see
      it if we return for a moment to Grace Roseberry&rsquo;s departure from the
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy interrupted him there. &ldquo;Can you guess,&rdquo; she asked, &ldquo;how Lady Janet
      prevailed upon her to go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly like to own it,&rdquo; said Julian. &ldquo;There is an expression in the
      letter which suggests to me that Lady Janet has offered her money, and
      that she has taken the bribe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I can&rsquo;t think that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us return to Horace. Miss Roseberry once out of the house, but one
      serious obstacle is left in Lady Janet&rsquo;s way. That obstacle is Horace
      Holmcroft.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is Horace an obstacle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is an obstacle in this sense. He is under an engagement to marry you
      in a week&rsquo;s time; and Lady Janet is determined to keep him (as she is
      determined to keep every one else) in ignorance of the truth. She will do
      that without scruple. But the inbred sense of honor in her is not utterly
      silenced yet. She cannot, she dare not, let Horace make you his wife under
      the false impression that you are Colonel Roseberry&rsquo;s daughter. You see
      the situation? On the one hand, she won&rsquo;t enlighten him. On the other
      hand, she cannot allow him to marry you blindfold. In this emergency what
      is she to do? There is but one alternative that I can discover. She must
      persuade Horace (or she must irritate Horace) into acting for himself, and
      breaking off the engagement on his own responsibility.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy stopped him. &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; she cried, warmly. &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look again at her letter,&rdquo; Julian rejoined. &ldquo;It tells you plainly that
      you need fear no embarrassment when you next meet Horace. If words mean
      anything, those words mean that he will not claim from you the confidence
      which you have promised to repose in him. On what condition is it possible
      for him to abstain from doing that? On the one condition that you have
      ceased to represent the first and foremost interest of his life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy still held firm. &ldquo;You are wronging Lady Janet,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian smiled sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try to look at it,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;from Lady Janet&rsquo;s point of view. Do you
      suppose <i>she</i> sees anything derogatory to her in attempting to break
      off the marriage? I will answer for it, she believes she is doing you a
      kindness. In one sense it <i>would</i> be a kindness to spare you the
      shame of a humiliating confession, and to save you (possibly) from being
      rejected to your face by the man you love. In my opinion, the thing is
      done already. I have reasons of my own for believing that my aunt will
      succeed far more easily than she could anticipate. Horace&rsquo;s temper will
      help her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s mind began to yield to him, in spite of herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by Horace&rsquo;s temper?&rdquo; she inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must you ask me that?&rdquo; he said, drawing back a little from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean by Horace&rsquo;s temper, Horace&rsquo;s unworthy distrust of the interest
      that I feel in you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She instantly understood him. And more than that, she secretly admired him
      for the scrupulous delicacy with which he had expressed himself. Another
      man would not have thought of sparing her in that way. Another man would
      have said, plainly, &ldquo;Horace is jealous of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian did not wait for her to answer him. He considerately went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the reason that I have just mentioned,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Horace will be
      easily irritated into taking a course which, in his calmer moments,
      nothing would induce him to adopt. Until I heard what your maid said to
      you I had thought (for your sake) of retiring before he joined you here.
      Now I know that my name has been introduced, and has made mischief
      upstairs, I feel the necessity (for your sake again) of meeting Horace and
      his temper face to face before you see him. Let me, if I can, prepare him
      to hear you without any angry feeling in his mind toward you. Do you
      object to retire to the next room for a few minutes in the event of his
      coming back to the library?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s courage instantly rose with the emergency. She refused to leave
      the two men together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t think me insensible to your kindness,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;If I leave you
      with Horace I may expose you to insult. I refuse to do that. What makes
      you doubt his coming back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His prolonged absence makes me doubt it,&rdquo; Julian replied. &ldquo;In my belief,
      the marriage is broken off. He may go as Grace Roseberry has gone. You may
      never see him again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The instant the opinion was uttered, it was practically contradicted by
      the man himself. Horace opened the library door.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV. THE CONFESSION
    </h2>
    <p>
      HE stopped just inside the door. His first look was for Mercy; his is
      second look was for Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew it!&rdquo; he said, with an assumption of sardonic composure. &ldquo;If I
      could only have persuaded Lady Janet to bet, I should have won a hundred
      pounds.&rdquo; He advanced to Julian, with a sudden change from irony to anger.
      &ldquo;Would you like to hear what the bet was?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should prefer seeing you able to control yourself in the presence of
      this lady,&rdquo; Julian answered, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I offered to lay Lady Janet two hundred pounds to one,&rdquo; Horace proceeded,
      &ldquo;that I should find you here, making love to Miss Roseberry behind my
      back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy interfered before Julian could reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you cannot speak without insulting one of us,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;permit me to
      request that you will <i>not</i> address yourself to Mr. Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace bowed to her with a mockery of respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t alarm yourself&mdash;I am pledged to be scrupulously civil to
      both of you,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Lady Janet only allowed me to leave her on
      condition of my promising to behave with perfect politeness. What else can
      I do? I have two privileged people to deal with&mdash;a parson and a
      woman. The parson&rsquo;s profession protects him, and the woman&rsquo;s sex protects
      her. You have got me at a disadvantage, and you both of you know it. I beg
      to apologize if I have forgotten the clergyman&rsquo;s profession and the lady&rsquo;s
      sex.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have forgotten more than that,&rdquo; said Julian. &ldquo;You have forgotten that
      you were born a gentleman and bred a man of honor. So far as I am
      concerned, I don&rsquo;t ask you to remember that I am a clergyman&mdash;I
      obtrude my profession on nobody&mdash;I only ask you to remember your
      birth and your breeding. It is quite bad enough to cruelly and unjustly
      suspect an old friend who has never forgotten what he owes to you and to
      himself. But it is still more unworthy of you to acknowledge those
      suspicions in the hearing of a woman whom your own choice has doubly bound
      you to respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped. The two eyed each other for a moment in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was impossible for Mercy to look at them, as she was looking now,
      without drawing the inevitable comparison between the manly force and
      dignity of Julian and the womanish malice and irritability of Horace. A
      last faithful impulse of loyalty toward the man to whom she had been
      betrothed impelled her to part them, before Horace had hopelessly degraded
      himself in her estimation by contrast with Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better wait to speak to me,&rdquo; she said to him, &ldquo;until we are
      alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; Horace answered with a sneer, &ldquo;if Mr. Julian Gray will permit
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy turned to Julian, with a look which said plainly, &ldquo;Pity us both, and
      leave us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you wish me to go?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Add to all your other kindnesses to me,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Wait for me in
      that room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pointed to the door that led into the dining-room. Julian hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You promise to let me know it if I can be of the smallest service to
      you?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes!&rdquo; She followed him as he withdrew, and added, rapidly, in a
      whisper, &ldquo;Leave the door ajar!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made no answer. As she returned to Horace he entered the dining-room.
      The one concession he could make to her he did make. He closed the door so
      noiselessly that not even her quick hearing could detect that he had shut
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy spoke to Horace, without waiting to let him speak first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have promised you an explanation of my conduct,&rdquo; she said, in accents
      that trembled a little in spite of herself. &ldquo;I am ready to perform my
      promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a question to ask you before you do that,&rdquo; he rejoined. &ldquo;Can you
      speak the truth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am waiting to speak the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will give you an opportunity. Are you or are you not in love with
      Julian Gray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to be ashamed to ask the question!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that your only answer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have never been unfaithful to you, Horace, even in thought. If I had <i>not</i>
      been true to you, should I feel my position as you see I feel it now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled bitterly. &ldquo;I have my own opinion of your fidelity and of his
      honor,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t even send him into the next room without
      whispering to him first. Never mind that now. At least you know that
      Julian Gray is in love with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Julian Gray has never breathed a word of it to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man can show a woman that he loves her, without saying it in words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s power of endurance began to fail her. Not even Grace Roseberry had
      spoken more insultingly to her of Julian than Horace was speaking now.
      &ldquo;Whoever says that of Mr. Julian Gray, lies!&rdquo; she answered, warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then Lady Janet lies,&rdquo; Horace retorted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet never said it! Lady Janet is incapable of saying it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She may not have said it in so many words; but she never denied it when
      <i>I</i> said it. I reminded her of the time when Julian Gray first heard
      from me that I was going to marry you: he was so overwhelmed that he was
      barely capable of being civil to me. Lady Janet was present, and could not
      deny it. I asked her if she had observed, since then, signs of a
      confidential understanding between you two. She could not deny the signs.
      I asked if she had ever found you two together. She could not deny that
      she had found you together, this very day, under circumstances which
      justified suspicion. Yes! yes! Look as angry as you like! you don&rsquo;t know
      what has been going on upstairs. Lady Janet is bent on breaking off our
      engagement&mdash;and Julian Gray is at the bottom of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As to Julian, Horace was utterly wrong. But as to Lady Janet, he echoed
      the warning words which Julian himself had spoken to Mercy. She was
      staggered, but she still held to her own opinion. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it,&rdquo;
       she said, firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He advanced a step, and fixed his angry eyes on her searchingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know why Lady Janet sent for me?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I will tell you. Lady Janet is a stanch friend of yours, there is no
      denying that. She wished to inform me that she had altered her mind about
      your promised explanation of your conduct. She said, &lsquo;Reflection has
      convinced me that no explanation is required; I have laid my positive
      commands on my adopted daughter that no explanation shall take place.&rsquo; Has
      she done that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now observe! I waited till she had finished, and then I said, &lsquo;What have
      I to do with this?&rsquo; Lady Janet has one merit&mdash;she speaks out. &lsquo;You
      are to do as I do,&rsquo; she answered. &lsquo;You are to consider that no explanation
      is required, and you are to consign the whole matter to oblivion from this
      time forth.&rsquo; &lsquo;Are you serious?&rsquo; I asked. &lsquo;Quite serious.&rsquo; &lsquo;In that case I
      have to inform your ladyship that you insist on more than you may suppose:
      you insist on my breaking my engagement to Miss Roseberry. Either I am to
      have the explanation that she has promised me, or I refuse to marry her.&rsquo; 
      How do you think Lady Janet took that? She shut up her lips, and she
      spread out her hands, and she looked at me as much as to say, &lsquo;Just as you
      please! Refuse if you like; it&rsquo;s nothing to me!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused for a moment. Mercy remained silent, on her side: she foresaw
      what was coming. Mistaken in supposing that Horace had left the house,
      Julian had, beyond all doubt, been equally in error in concluding that he
      had been entrapped into breaking off the engagement upstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you understand me so far?&rdquo; Horace asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand you perfectly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not trouble you much longer,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;I said to Lady Janet,
      &lsquo;Be so good as to answer me in plain words. Do you still insist on closing
      Miss Roseberry&rsquo;s lips?&rsquo; &lsquo;I still insist,&rsquo; she answered. &lsquo;No explanation is
      required. If you are base enough to suspect your betrothed wife, I am just
      enough to believe in my adopted daughter.&rsquo; I replied&mdash;and I beg you
      will give your best attention to what I am now going to say&mdash;I
      replied to that, &lsquo;It is not fair to charge me with suspecting her. I don&rsquo;t
      understand her confidential relations with Julian Gray, and I don&rsquo;t
      understand her language and conduct in the presence of the police officer.
      I claim it as my right to be satisfied on both those points&mdash;in the
      character of the man who is to marry her.&rsquo; There was my answer. I spare
      you all that followed. I only repeat what I said to Lady Janet. She has
      commanded you to be silent. If you obey her commands, I owe it to myself
      and I owe it to my family to release you from your engagement. Choose
      between your duty to Lady Janet and your duty to Me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had mastered his temper at last: he spoke with dignity, and he spoke to
      the point. His position was unassailable; he claimed nothing but his
      right.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My choice was made,&rdquo; Mercy answered, &ldquo;when I gave you my promise
      upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She waited a little, struggling to control herself on the brink of the
      terrible revelation that was coming. Her eyes dropped before his; her
      heart beat faster and faster; but she struggled bravely. With a desperate
      courage she faced the position. &ldquo;If you are ready to listen,&rdquo; she went on,
      &ldquo;I am ready to tell you why I insisted on having the police officer sent
      out of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace held up his hand warningly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;that is not all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His infatuated jealousy of Julian (fatally misinterpreting her agitation)
      distrusted her at the very outset. She had limited herself to clearing up
      the one question of her interference with the officer of justice. The
      other question of her relations with Julian she had deliberately passed
      over. Horace instantly drew his own ungenerous conclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us not misunderstand one another,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The explanation of your
      conduct in the other room is only one of the explanations which you owe
      me. You have something else to account for. Let us begin with <i>that</i>,
      if you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him in unaffected surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else have I to account for?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He again repeated his reply to Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have told you already,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand your confidential
      relations with Julian Gray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s color rose; Mercy&rsquo;s eyes began to brighten.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t return to that!&rdquo; she cried, with an irrepressible outbreak of
      disgust. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, for God&rsquo;s sake, make me despise you at such a moment as
      this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His obstinacy only gathered fresh encouragement from that appeal to his
      better sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I insist on returning to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had resolved to bear anything from him&mdash;as her fit punishment for
      the deception of which she had been guilty. But it was not in womanhood
      (at the moment when the first words of her confession were trembling on
      her lips) to endure Horace&rsquo;s unworthy suspicion of her. She rose from her
      seat and met his eye firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I refuse to degrade myself, and to degrade Mr. Julian Gray, by answering
      you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Consider what you are doing,&rdquo; he rejoined. &ldquo;Change your mind, before it
      is too late!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have had my reply.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Those resolute words, that steady resistance, seemed to infuriate him. He
      caught her roughly by the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are as false as hell!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all over between you and me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The loud threatening tone in which he had spoken penetrated through the
      closed door of the dining-room. The door instantly opened. Julian returned
      to the library.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had just set foot in the room, when there was a knock at the other door&mdash;the
      door that opened on the hall. One of the men-servants appeared, with a
      telegraphic message in his hand. Mercy was the first to see it. It was the
      Matron&rsquo;s answer to the letter which she had sent to the Refuge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For Mr. Julian Gray?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She signed to the man to withdraw, and herself gave the telegram to
      Julian. &ldquo;It is addressed to you, at my request,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You will
      recognize the name of the person who sends it, and you will find a message
      in it for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace interfered before Julian could open the telegram.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another private understanding between you!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Give me that
      telegram.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian looked at him with quiet contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is directed to Me,&rdquo; he answered&mdash;and opened the envelope.
    </p>
    <p>
      The message inside was expressed in these terms: &ldquo;I am as deeply
      interested in her as you are. Say that I have received her letter, and
      that I welcome her back to the Refuge with all my heart. I have business
      this evening in the neighborhood. I will call for her myself at
      Mablethorpe House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The message explained itself. Of her own free-will she had made the
      expiation complete! Of her own free-will she was going back to the
      martyrdom of her old life! Bound as he knew himself to be to let no
      compromising word or action escape him in the presence of Horace, the
      irrepressible expression of Julian&rsquo;s admiration glowed in his eyes as they
      rested on Mercy. Horace detected the look. He sprang forward and tried to
      snatch the telegram out of Julian&rsquo;s hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it to me!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I will have it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian silently put him back at arms-length.
    </p>
    <p>
      Maddened with rage, he lifted his hand threateningly. &ldquo;Give it to me!&rdquo; he
      repeated between his set teeth, &ldquo;or it will be the worse for you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it to <i>me!</i>&rdquo; said Mercy, suddenly placing herself between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian gave it. She turned, and offered it to Horace, looking at him with
      a steady eye, holding it out to him with a steady hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read it,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian&rsquo;s generous nature pitied the man who had insulted him. Julian&rsquo;s
      great heart only remembered the friend of former times.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spare him!&rdquo; he said to Mercy. &ldquo;Remember he is unprepared.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She neither answered nor moved. Nothing stirred the horrible torpor of her
      resignation to her fate. She knew that the time had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian appealed to Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t read it!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Hear what she has to say to you first!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace&rsquo;s hand answered him with a contemptuous gesture. Horace&rsquo;s eyes
      devoured, word by word, the Matron&rsquo;s message.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked up when he had read it through. There was a ghastly change in
      his face as he turned it on Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood between the two men like a statue. The life in her seemed to
      have died out, except in her eyes. Her eyes rested on Horace with a
      steady, glittering calmness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The silence was only broken by the low murmuring of Julian&rsquo;s voice. His
      face was hidden in his hands&mdash;he was praying for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace spoke, laying his finger on the telegram. His voice had changed
      with the change in his face. The tone was low and trembling: no one would
      have recognized it as the tone of Horace&rsquo;s voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; he said to Mercy. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>is</i> for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have You to do with a Refuge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without a change in her face, without a movement in her limbs, she spoke
      the fatal words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have come from a Refuge, and I am going back to a Refuge. Mr. Horace
      Holmcroft, I am Mercy Merrick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI. GREAT HEART AND LITTLE HEART.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THERE was a pause.
    </h3>
    <p>
      The moments passed&mdash;and not one of the three moved. The moments
      passed&mdash;and not one of the three spoke. Insensibly the words of
      supplication died away on Julian&rsquo;s lips. Even his energy failed to sustain
      him, tried as it now was by the crushing oppression of suspense. The first
      trifling movement which suggested the idea of change, and which so brought
      with it the first vague sense of relief, came from Mercy. Incapable of
      sustaining the prolonged effort of standing, she drew back a little and
      took a chair. No outward manifestation of emotion escaped her. There she
      sat&mdash;with the death-like torpor of resignation in her face&mdash;waiting
      her sentence in silence from the man at whom she had hurled the whole
      terrible confession of the truth in one sentence!
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian lifted his head as she moved. He looked at Horace, and advancing a
      few steps, looked again. There was fear in his face, as he suddenly turned
      it toward Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak to him!&rdquo; he said, in a whisper. &ldquo;Rouse him, before it&rsquo;s too late!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She moved mechanically in her chair; she looked mechanically at Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What more have I to say to him?&rdquo; she asked, in faint, weary tones. &ldquo;Did I
      not tell him everything when I told him my name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The natural sound of her voice might have failed to affect Horace. The
      altered sound of it roused him. He approached Mercy&rsquo;s chair, with a dull
      surprise in his face, and put his hand, in a weak, wavering way, on her
      shoulder. In that position he stood for a while, looking down at her in
      silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The one idea in him that found its way outward to expression was the idea
      of Julian. Without moving his hand, without looking up from Mercy, he
      spoke for the first time since the shock had fallen on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Julian?&rdquo; he asked, very quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am here, Horace&mdash;close by you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you do me a service?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly. How can I help you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He considered a little before he replied. His hand left Mercy&rsquo;s shoulder,
      and went up to his head&mdash;then dropped at his side. His next words
      were spoken in a sadly helpless, bewildered way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have an idea, Julian, that I have been somehow to blame. I said some
      hard words to you. It was a little while since. I don&rsquo;t clearly remember
      what it was all about. My temper has been a good deal tried in this house;
      I have never been used to the sort of thing that goes on here&mdash;secrets
      and mysteries, and hateful low-lived quarrels. We have no secrets and
      mysteries at home. And as for quarrels&mdash;ridiculous! My mother and my
      sisters are highly bred women (you know them); gentlewomen, in the best
      sense of the word. When I am with <i>them</i> I have no anxieties. I am
      not harassed at home by doubts of who people are, and confusion about
      names, and so on. I suspect the contrast weighs a little on my mind and
      upsets it. They make me over-suspicious among them here, and it ends in my
      feeling doubts and fears that I can&rsquo;t get over: doubts about you and fears
      about myself. I have got a fear about myself now. I want you to help me.
      Shall I make an apology first?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say a word. Tell me what I can do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned his face toward Julian for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just look at me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Does it strike you that I am at all wrong in
      my mind? Tell me the truth, old fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your nerves are a little shaken, Horace. Nothing more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He considered again after that reply, his eyes remaining anxiously fixed
      on Julian&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My nerves are a little shaken,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;That is true; I feel they
      are shaken. I should like, if you don&rsquo;t mind, to make sure that it&rsquo;s no
      worse. Will you help me to try if my memory is all right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do anything you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you are a good fellow, Julian&mdash;and a clear-headed fellow too,
      which is very important just now. Look here! I say it&rsquo;s about a week since
      the troubles began in this house. Do you say so too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The troubles came in with the coming of a woman from Germany, a stranger
      to us, who behaved very violently in the dining-room there. Am I right, so
      far?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The woman carried matters with a high hand. She claimed Colonel Roseberry&mdash;I
      wish to be strictly accurate&mdash;she claimed <i>the late</i> Colonel
      Roseberry as her father. She told a tiresome story about her having been
      robbed of her papers and her name by an impostor who had personated her.
      She said the name of the impostor was Mercy Merrick. And she afterward put
      the climax to it all: she pointed to the lady who is engaged to be my
      wife, and declared that <i>she</i> was Mercy Merrick. Tell me again, is
      that right or wrong?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian answered him as before. He went on, speaking more confidently and
      more excitedly than he had spoken yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now attend to this, Julian. I am going to pass from my memory of what
      happened a week ago to my memory of what happened five minutes since. You
      were present; I want to know if you heard it too.&rdquo; He paused, and, without
      taking his eyes off Julian, pointed backward to Mercy. &ldquo;There is the lady
      who is engaged to marry me,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;Did I, or did I not, hear her
      say that she had come out of a Refuge, and that she was going back to a
      Refuge? Did I, or did I not, hear her own to my face that her name was
      Mercy Merrick? Answer me, Julian. My good friend, answer me, for the sake
      of old times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice faltered as he spoke those imploring words. Under the dull blank
      of his face there appeared the first signs of emotion slowly forcing its
      way outward. The stunned mind was reviving faintly. Julian saw his
      opportunity of aiding the recovery, and seized it. He took Horace gently
      by the arm, and pointed to Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is your answer!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Look!&mdash;and pity her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had not once interrupted them while they had been speaking: she had
      changed her position again, and that was all. There was a writing-table at
      the side of her chair; her outstretched arms rested on it. Her head had
      dropped on her arms, and her face was hidden. Julian&rsquo;s judgment had not
      misled him; the utter self-abandonment of her attitude answered Horace as
      no human language could have answered him. He looked at her. A quick spasm
      of pain passed across his face. He turned once more to the faithful friend
      who had forgiven him. His head fell on Julian&rsquo;s shoulder, and he burst
      into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy started wildly to her feet, and looked at the two men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O God&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;what have I done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian quieted her by a motion of his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have helped me to save him,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Let his tears have their way.
      Wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put one arm round Horace to support him. The manly tenderness of the
      action, the complete and noble pardon of past injuries which it implied,
      touched Mercy to the heart. She went back to her chair. Again shame and
      sorrow overpowered her, and again she hid her face from view.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian led Horace to a seat, and silently waited by him until he had
      recovered his self-control. He gratefully took the kind hand that had
      sustained him: he said, simply, almost boyishly, &ldquo;Thank you, Julian. I am
      better now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you composed enough to listen to what is said to you?&rdquo; Julian asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Do <i>you</i> wish to speak to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian left him without immediately replying, and returned to Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The time has come,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Tell him all&mdash;truly, unreservedly, as
      you would tell it to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shuddered as he spoke. &ldquo;Have I not told him enough?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Do
      you want me to break his heart? Look at him! Look what I have done
      already!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace shrank from the ordeal as Mercy shrank from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! I can&rsquo;t listen to it! I daren&rsquo;t listen to it!&rdquo; he cried, and rose
      to leave the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian had taken the good work in hand: he never faltered over it for an
      instant. Horace had loved her&mdash;how dearly Julian now knew for the
      first time. The bare possibility that she might earn her pardon if she was
      allowed to plead her own cause was a possibility still left. To let her
      win on Horace to forgive her, was death to the love that still filled his
      heart in secret. But he never hesitated. With a resolution which the
      weaker man was powerless to resist, he took him by the arm and led him
      back to his place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For her sake, and for your sake, you shall not condemn her unheard,&rdquo; he
      said to Horace, firmly. &ldquo;One temptation to deceive you after another has
      tried her, and she has resisted them all. With no discovery to fear, with
      a letter from the benefactress who loves her commanding her to be silent,
      with everything that a woman values in this world to lose, if she owns
      what she has done&mdash;<i>this</i> woman, for the truth&rsquo;s sake, has
      spoken the truth. Does she deserve nothing at your hands in return for
      that? Respect her, Horace&mdash;and hear her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Horace yielded. Julian turned to Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have allowed me to guide you so far,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Will you allow me to
      guide you still?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes sank before his; her bosom rose and fell rapidly. His influence
      over her maintained its sway. She bowed her head in speechless submission.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him,&rdquo; Julian proceeded, in accents of entreaty, not of command&mdash;&ldquo;tell
      him what your life has been. Tell him how you were tried and tempted, with
      no friend near to speak the words which might have saved you. And then,&rdquo;
       he added, raising her from the chair, &ldquo;let him judge you&mdash;if he can!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He attempted to lead her across the room to the place which Horace
      occupied. But her submission had its limits. Half-way to the place she
      stopped, and refused to go further. Julian offered her a chair. She
      declined to take it. Standing with one hand on the back of the chair, she
      waited for the word from Horace which would permit her to speak. She was
      resigned to the ordeal. Her face was calm; her mind was clear. The hardest
      of all humiliations to endure&mdash;the humiliation of acknowledging her
      name&mdash;she had passed through. Nothing remained but to show her
      gratitude to Julian by acceding to his wishes, and to ask pardon of Horace
      before they parted forever. In a little while the Matron would arrive at
      the house&mdash;and then it would be over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unwillingly Horace looked at her. Their eyes met. He broke out suddenly
      with something of his former violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t realize it even now!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;<i>Is</i> it true that you are
      not Grace Roseberry? Don&rsquo;t look at me! Say in one word&mdash;Yes or No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She answered him, humbly and sadly, &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have done what that woman accused you of doing? Am I to believe
      that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are to believe it, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the weakness of Horace&rsquo;s character disclosed itself when she made that
      reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Infamous!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;What excuse can you make for the cruel
      deception you have practiced on me? Too bad! too bad! There can be no
      excuse for you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She accepted his reproaches with unshaken resignation. &ldquo;I have deserved
      it!&rdquo; was all she said to herself, &ldquo;I have deserved it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian interposed once more in Mercy&rsquo;s defense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait till you are sure there is no excuse for her, Horace,&rdquo; he said,
      quietly. &ldquo;Grant her justice, if you can grant no more. I leave you
      together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He advanced toward the door of the dining-room. Horace&rsquo;s weakness
      disclosed itself once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t leave me alone with her!&rdquo; he burst out. &ldquo;The misery of it is more
      than I can bear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian looked at Mercy. Her face brightened faintly. That momentary
      expression of relief told him how truly he would be befriending her if he
      consented to remain in the room. A position of retirement was offered to
      him by a recess formed by the central bay-window of the library. If he
      occupied this place, they could see or not see that he was present, as
      their own inclinations might decide them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will stay with you, Horace, as long as you wish me to be here.&rdquo; Having
      answered in those terms, he stopped as he passed Mercy, on his way to the
      window. His quick and kindly insight told him that he might still be of
      some service to her. A hint from him might show her the shortest and the
      easiest way of making her confession. Delicately and briefly he gave her
      the hint. &ldquo;The first time I met you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I saw that your life had
      had its troubles. Let us hear how those troubles began.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He withdrew to his place in the recess. For the first time, since the
      fatal evening when she and Grace Roseberry had met in the French cottage,
      Mercy Merrick looked back into the purgatory on earth of her past life,
      and told her sad story simply and truly in these words.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII. MAGDALEN&rsquo;S APPRENTICESHIP.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MR. JULIAN GRAY has asked me to tell him, and to tell you, Mr. Holmcroft,
      how my troubles began. They began before my recollection. They began with
      my birth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother (as I have heard her say) ruined her prospects, when she was
      quite a young girl, by a marriage with one of her father&rsquo;s servants&mdash;the
      groom who rode out with her. She suffered, poor creature, the usual
      penalty of such conduct as hers. After a short time she and her husband
      were separated&mdash;on the condition of her sacrificing to the man whom
      she had married the whole of the little fortune that she possessed in her
      right.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gaining her freedom, my mother had to gain her daily bread next. Her
      family refused to take her back. She attached herself to a company of
      strolling players.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was earning a bare living in this way, when my father accidentally
      met with her. He was a man of high rank, proud of his position, and well
      known in the society of that time for his many accomplishments and his
      refined tastes. My mother&rsquo;s beauty fascinated him. He took her from the
      strolling players, and surrounded her with every luxury that a woman could
      desire in a house of her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how long they lived together. I only know that my father, at
      the time of my first recollections, had abandoned her. She had excited his
      suspicions of her fidelity&mdash;suspicions which cruelly wronged her, as
      she declared to her dying day. I believed her, because she was my mother.
      But I cannot expect others to do as I did&mdash;I can only repeat what she
      said. My father left her absolutely penniless. He never saw her again; and
      he refused to go to her when she sent to him in her last moments on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was back again among the strolling players when I first remember her.
      It was not an unhappy time for me. I was the favorite pet and plaything of
      the poor actors. They taught me to sing and to dance at an age when other
      children are just beginning to learn to read. At five years old I was in
      what is called &lsquo;the profession,&rsquo; and had made my poor little reputation in
      booths at country fairs. As early as that, Mr. Holmcroft, I had begun to
      live under an assumed name&mdash;the prettiest name they could invent for
      me &lsquo;to look well in the bills.&rsquo; It was sometimes a hard struggle for us,
      in bad seasons, to keep body and soul together. Learning to sing and dance
      in public often meant learning to bear hunger and cold in private, when I
      was apprenticed to the stage. And yet I have lived to look back on my days
      with the strolling players as the happiest days of my life!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was ten years old when the first serious misfortune that I can remember
      fell upon me. My mother died, worn out in the prime of her life. And not
      long afterward the strolling company, brought to the end of its resources
      by a succession of bad seasons, was broken up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was left on the world, a nameless, penniless outcast, with one fatal
      inheritance&mdash;God knows, I can speak of it without vanity, after what
      I have gone through!&mdash;the inheritance of my mother&rsquo;s beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My only friends were the poor starved-out players. Two of them (husband
      and wife) obtained engagements in another company, and I was included in
      the bargain The new manager by whom I was employed was a drunkard and a
      brute. One night I made a trifling mistake in the course of the
      performances&mdash;and I was savagely beaten for it. Perhaps I had
      inherited some of my father&rsquo;s spirit&mdash;without, I hope, also
      inheriting my father&rsquo;s pitiless nature. However that may be, I resolved
      (no matter what became of me) never again to serve the man who had beaten
      me. I unlocked the door of our miserable lodging at daybreak the next
      morning; and, at ten years old, with my little bundle in my hand, I faced
      the world alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother had confided to me, in her last moments, my father&rsquo;s name and
      the address of his house in London. &lsquo;He may feel some compassion for you&rsquo; 
      (she said), &lsquo;though he feels none for me: try him.&rsquo; I had a few shillings,
      the last pitiful remains of my wages, in my pocket; and I was not far from
      London. But I never went near my father: child as I was, I would have
      starved and died rather than go to him. I had loved my mother dearly; and
      I hated the man who had turned his back on her when she lay on her
      deathbed. It made no difference to Me that he happened to be my father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does this confession revolt you? You look at me, Mr. Holmcroft, as if it
      did.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think a little, sir. Does what I have just said condemn me as a heartless
      creature, even in my earliest years? What is a father to a child&mdash;when
      the child has never sat on his knee, and never had a kiss or a present
      from him? If we had met in the street, we should not have known each
      other. Perhaps in after-days, when I was starving in London, I may have
      begged of my father without knowing it; and he may have thrown his
      daughter a penny to get rid of her, without knowing it either! What is
      there sacred in the relations between father and child, when they are such
      relations as these? Even the flowers of the field cannot grow without
      light and air to help them! How is a child&rsquo;s love to grow, with nothing to
      help it?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My small savings would have been soon exhausted, even if I had been old
      enough and strong enough to protect them myself. As things were, my few
      shillings were taken from me by gypsies. I had no reason to complain. They
      gave me food and the shelter of their tents, and they made me of use to
      them in various ways. After a while hard times came to the gypsies, as
      they had come to the strolling players. Some of them were imprisoned; the
      rest were dispersed. It was the season for hop-gathering at the time. I
      got employment among the hop-pickers next; and that done, I went to London
      with my new friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no wish to weary and pain you by dwelling on this part of my
      childhood in detail. It will be enough if I tell you that I sank lower and
      lower until I ended in selling matches in the street. My mother&rsquo;s legacy
      got me many a sixpence which my matches would never have charmed out of
      the pockets of strangers if I had been an ugly child. My face. which was
      destined to be my greatest misfortune in after-years, was my best friend
      in those days.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there anything, Mr. Holmcroft, in the life I am now trying to describe
      which reminds you of a day when we were out walking together not long
      since?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I surprised and offended you, I remember; and it was not possible for me
      to explain my conduct at the time. Do you recollect the little wandering
      girl, with the miserable faded nosegay in her hand, who ran after us, and
      begged for a half-penny? I shocked you by bursting out crying when the
      child asked us to buy her a bit of bread. Now you know why I was so sorry
      for her. Now you know why I offended you the next day by breaking an
      engagement with your mother and sisters, and going to see that child in
      her wretched home. After what I have confessed, you will admit that my
      poor little sister in adversity had the first claim on me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me go on. I am sorry if I have distressed you. Let me go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The forlorn wanderers of the streets have (as I found it) one way always
      open to them of presenting their sufferings to the notice of their rich
      and charitable fellow-creatures. They have only to break the law&mdash;and
      they make a public appearance in a court of justice. If the circumstances
      connected with their offense are of an interesting kind, they gain a
      second advantage: they are advertised all over England by a report in the
      newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! even <i>I</i> have my knowledge of the law. I know that it
      completely overlooked me as long as I respected it. But on two different
      occasions it became my best friend when I set it at defiance! My first
      fortunate offense was committed when I was just twelve years old.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was evening time. I was half dead with starvation; the rain was
      falling; the night was coming on. I begged&mdash;openly, loudly, as only a
      hungry child can beg. An old lady in a carriage at a shop door complained
      of my importunity. The policeman did his duty. The law gave me a supper
      and shelter at the station-house that night. I appeared at the police
      court, and, questioned by the magistrate, I told my story truly. It was
      the every-day story of thousands of children like me; but it had one
      element of interest in it. I confessed to having had a father (he was then
      dead) who had been a man of rank; and I owned (just as openly as I owned
      everything else) that I had never applied to him for help, in resentment
      of his treatment of my mother. This incident was new, I suppose; it led to
      the appearance of my &lsquo;case&rsquo; in the newspapers. The reporters further
      served my interests by describing me as &lsquo;pretty and interesting.&rsquo; 
      Subscriptions were sent to the court. A benevolent married couple, in a
      respectable sphere of life, visited the workhouse to see me. I produced a
      favorable impression on them&mdash;especially on the wife. I was literally
      friendless; I had no unwelcome relatives to follow me and claim me. The
      wife was childless; the husband was a good-natured man. It ended in their
      taking me away with them to try me in service.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have always felt the aspiration, no matter how low I may have fallen,
      to struggle upward to a position above me; to rise, in spite of fortune,
      superior to my lot in life. Perhaps some of my father&rsquo;s pride may be at
      the root of this restless feeling in me. It seems to be a part of my
      nature. It brought me into this house&mdash;and it will go with me out of
      this house. Is it my curse or my blessing? I am not able to decide.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the first night when I slept in my new home I said to myself, &lsquo;They
      have taken me to be their servant: I will be something more than that&mdash;they
      shall end in taking me for their child.&rsquo; Before I had been a week in the
      house I was the wife&rsquo;s favorite companion in the absence of her husband at
      his place of business. She was a highly accomplished woman, greatly her
      husband&rsquo;s superior in cultivation, and, unfortunately for herself, also
      his superior in years. The love was all on her side. Excepting certain
      occasions on which he roused her jealousy, they lived together on
      sufficiently friendly terms. She was one of the many wives who resign
      themselves to be disappointed in their husbands&mdash;and he was one of
      the many husbands who never know what their wives really think of them.
      Her one great happiness was in teaching me. I was eager to learn; I made
      rapid progress. At my pliant age I soon acquired the refinements of
      language and manner which characterized my mistress. It is only the truth
      to say that the cultivation which has made me capable of personating a
      lady was her work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For three happy years I lived under that friendly roof. I was between
      fifteen and sixteen years of age, when the fatal inheritance from my
      mother cast its first shadow on my life. One miserable day the wife&rsquo;s
      motherly love for me changed in an instant to the jealous hatred that
      never forgives. Can you guess the reason? The husband fell in love with
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was innocent; I was blameless. He owned it himself to the clergyman who
      was with him at his death. By that time years had passed. It was too late
      to justify me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was at an age (when I was under his care) when men are usually
      supposed to regard women with tranquillity, if not with indifference. It
      had been the habit of years with me to look on him as my second father. In
      my innocent ignorance of the feeling which really inspired him, I
      permitted him to indulge in little paternal familiarities with me, which
      inflamed his guilty passion. His wife discovered him&mdash;not I. No words
      can describe my astonishment and my horror when the first outbreak of her
      indignation forced on me the knowledge of the truth. On my knees I
      declared myself guiltless. On my knees I implored her to do justice to my
      purity and my youth. At other times the sweetest and the most considerate
      of women, jealousy had now transformed her to a perfect fury. She accused
      me of deliberately encouraging him; she declared she would turn me out of
      the house with her own hands. Like other easy-tempered men, her husband
      had reserves of anger in him which it was dangerous to provoke. When his
      wife lifted her hand against me, he lost all self-control, on his side. He
      openly told her that life was worth nothing to him without me. He openly
      avowed his resolution to go with me when I left the house. The maddened
      woman seized him by the arm&mdash;I saw that, and saw no more. I ran out
      into the street, panic-stricken. A cab was passing. I got into it before
      he could open the house door, and drove to the only place of refuge I
      could think of&mdash;a small shop, kept by the widowed sister of one of
      our servants. Here I obtained shelter for the night. The next day he
      discovered me. He made his vile proposals; he offered me the whole of his
      fortune; he declared his resolution, say what I might, to return the next
      day. That night, by help of the good woman who had taken care of me&mdash;under
      cover of the darkness, as if <i>I</i> had been to blame!&mdash;I was
      secretly removed to the East End of London, and placed under the charge of
      a trustworthy person who lived, in a very humble way, by letting lodgings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, in a little back garret at the top of the house, I was thrown again
      on the world&mdash;an age when it was doubly perilous for me to be left to
      my own resources to earn the bread I ate and the roof that covered me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I claim no credit to myself&mdash;young as I was, placed as I was between
      the easy life of Vice and the hard life of Virtue&mdash;for acting as I
      did. The man simply horrified me: my natural impulse was to escape from
      him. But let it be remembered, before I approach the saddest part of my
      sad story, that I was an innocent girl, and that I was at least not to
      blame.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me for dwelling as I have done on my early years. I shrink from
      speaking of the events that are still to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In losing the esteem of my first benefactress, I had, in my friendless
      position, lost all hold on an honest life&mdash;except the one frail hold
      of needle-work. The only reference of which I could now dispose was the
      recommendation of me by my landlady to a place of business which largely
      employed expert needle-women. It is needless for me to tell you how
      miserably work of that sort is remunerated: you have read about it in the
      newspapers. As long as my health lasted I contrived to live and to keep
      out of debt. Few girls could have resisted as long as I did the
      slowly-poisoning influences of crowded work-room, insufficient
      nourishment, and almost total privation of exercise. My life as a child
      had been a life in the open air: it had helped to strengthen a
      constitution naturally hardy, naturally free from all taint of hereditary
      disease. But my time came at last. Under the cruel stress laid on it my
      health gave way. I was struck down by low fever, and sentence was
      pronounced on me by my fellow-lodgers: &lsquo;Ah, poor thing, <i>her</i>
      troubles will soon be at an end!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prediction might have proved true&mdash;I might never have committed
      the errors and endured the sufferings of after years&mdash;if I had fallen
      ill in another house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it was my good, or my evil, fortune&mdash;I dare not say which&mdash;to
      have interested in myself and my sorrows an actress at a suburban theatre,
      who occupied the room under mine. Except when her stage duties took her
      away for two or three hours in the evening, this noble creature never left
      my bedside. Ill as she could afford it, her purse paid my inevitable
      expenses while I lay helpless. The landlady, moved by her example,
      accepted half the weekly rent of my room. The doctor, with the Christian
      kindness of his profession, would take no fees. All that the tenderest
      care could accomplish was lavished on me; my youth and my constitution did
      the rest. I struggled back to life&mdash;and then I took up my needle
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may surprise you that I should have failed (having an actress for my
      dearest friend) to use the means of introduction thus offered to me to try
      the stage&mdash;especially as my childish training had given me, in some
      small degree, a familiarity with the Art.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had only one motive for shrinking from an appearance at the theatre&mdash;but
      it was strong enough to induce me to submit to any alternative that
      remained, no matter how hopeless it might be. If I showed myself on the
      public stage, my discovery by the man from whom I had escaped would be
      only a question of time. I knew him to be habitually a play-goer and a
      subscriber to a theatrical newspaper. I had even heard him speak of the
      theatre to which my friend was attached, and compare it advantageously
      with places of amusement of far higher pretensions. Sooner or later, if I
      joined the company he would be certain to go and see &lsquo;the new actress.&rsquo; 
      The bare thought of it reconciled me to returning to my needle. Before I
      was strong enough to endure the atmosphere of the crowded workroom I
      obtained permission, as a favor, to resume my occupation at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely my choice was the choice of a virtuous girl? And yet the day when
      I returned to my needle was the fatal day of my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had now not only to provide for the wants of the passing hour&mdash;I
      had my debts to pay. It was only to be done by toiling harder than ever,
      and by living more poorly than ever. I soon paid the penalty, in my
      weakened state, of leading such a life as this. One evening my head turned
      suddenly giddy; my heart throbbed frightfully. I managed to open the
      window, and to let the fresh air into the room, and I felt better. But I
      was not sufficiently recovered to be able to thread my needle. I thought
      to myself, &lsquo;If I go out for half an hour, a little exercise may put me
      right again.&rsquo; I had not, as I suppose, been out more than ten minutes when
      the attack from which I had suffered in my room was renewed. There was no
      shop near in which I could take refuge. I tried to ring the bell of the
      nearest house door. Before I could reach it I fainted in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long hunger and weakness left me at the mercy of the first stranger
      who might pass by, it is impossible for me to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I partially recovered my senses I was conscious of being under
      shelter somewhere, and of having a wine-glass containing some cordial
      drink held to my lips by a man. I managed to swallow&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know
      how little, or how much. The stimulant had a very strange effect on me.
      Reviving me at first, it ended in stupefying me. I lost my senses once
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I next recovered myself, the day was breaking. I was in a bed in a
      strange room. A nameless terror seized me. I called out. Three or four
      women came in, whose faces betrayed, even to my inexperienced eyes, the
      shameless infamy of their lives. I started up in the bed. I implored them
      to tell me where I was, and what had happened&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spare me! I can say no more. Not long since you heard Miss Roseberry call
      me an outcast from the streets. Now you know&mdash;as God is my judge I am
      speaking the truth!&mdash;now you know what made me an outcast, and in
      what measure I deserved my disgrace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her voice faltered, her resolution failed her, for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a few minutes,&rdquo; she said, in low, pleading tones. &ldquo;If I try to go
      on now, I am afraid I shall cry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took the chair which Julian had placed for her, turning her face aside
      so that neither of the men could see it. One of her hands was pressed over
      her bosom, the other hung listlessly at her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian rose from the place that he had occupied. Horace neither moved nor
      spoke. His head was on his breast: the traces of tears on his cheeks owned
      mutely that she had touched his heart. Would he forgive her? Julian passed
      on, and approached Mercy&rsquo;s chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      In silence he took the hand which hung at her side. In silence he lifted
      it to his lips and kissed it, as her brother might have kissed it. She
      started, but she never looked up. Some strange fear of discovery seemed to
      possess her. &ldquo;Horace?&rdquo; she whispered, timidly. Julian made no reply. He
      went back to his place, and allowed her to think it was Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sacrifice was immense enough&mdash;feeling toward her as he felt&mdash;to
      be worthy of the man who made it.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few minutes had been all she asked for. In a few minutes she turned
      toward them again. Her sweet voice was steady once more; her eyes rested
      softly on Horace as she went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was it possible for a friendless girl in my position to do, when the
      full knowledge of the outrage had been revealed to me?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had possessed near and dear relatives to protect and advise me, the
      wretches into whose hands I had fallen might have felt the penalty of the
      law. I knew no more of the formalities which set the law in motion than a
      child. But I had another alternative (you will say). Charitable societies
      would have received me and helped me, if I had stated my case to them. I
      knew no more of the charitable societies than I knew of the law. At least,
      then, I might have gone back to the honest people among whom I had lived?
      When I received my freedom, after the interval of some days, I was ashamed
      to go back to the honest people. Helplessly and hopelessly, without sin or
      choice of mine, I drifted, as thousands of other women have drifted, into
      the life which set a mark on me for the rest of my days.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you surprised at the ignorance which this confession reveals?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, who have your solicitors to inform you of legal remedies and your
      newspapers, circulars, and active friends to sound the praises of
      charitable institutions continually in your ears&mdash;you, who possess
      these advantages, have no idea of the outer world of ignorance in which
      your lost fellow-creatures live. They know nothing (unless they are rogues
      accustomed to prey on society) of your benevolent schemes to help them.
      The purpose of public charities, and the way to discover and apply to
      them, ought to be posted at the corner of every street. What do we know of
      public dinners and eloquent sermons and neatly printed circulars? Every
      now and then the case of some forlorn creature (generally of a woman) who
      has committed suicide, within five minutes&rsquo; walk, perhaps, of an
      institution which would have opened its doors to her, appears in the
      newspapers, shocks you dreadfully, and is then forgotten again. Take as
      much pains to make charities and asylums known among the people without
      money as are taken to make a new play, a new journal, or a new medicine
      known among the people with money and you will save many a lost creature
      who is perishing now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will forgive and understand me if I say no more of this period of my
      life. Let me pass to the new incident in my career which brought me for
      the second time before the public notice in a court of law.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sad as my experience has been, it has not taught me to think ill of human
      nature. I had found kind hearts to feel for me in my former troubles; and
      I had friends&mdash;faithful, self-denying, generous friends&mdash;among
      my sisters in adversity now. One of these poor women (she has gone, I am
      glad to think, from the world that used her so hardly) especially
      attracted my sympathies. She was the gentlest, the most unselfish creature
      I have ever met with. We lived together like sisters. More than once in
      the dark hours when the thought of self-destruction comes to a desperate
      woman, the image of my poor devoted friend, left to suffer alone, rose in
      my mind and restrained me. You will hardly understand it, but even we had
      our happy days. When she or I had a few shillings to spare, we used to
      offer one another little presents, and enjoy our simple pleasure in giving
      and receiving as keenly as if we had been the most reputable women living.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One day I took my friend into a shop to buy her a ribbon&mdash;only a bow
      for her dress. She was to choose it, and I was to pay for it, and it was
      to be the prettiest ribbon that money could buy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The shop was full; we had to wait a little before we could be served.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Next to me, as I stood at the counter with my companion, was a
      gaudily-dressed woman, looking at some handkerchiefs. The handkerchiefs
      were finely embroidered, but the smart lady was hard to please. She
      tumbled them up disdainfully in a heap, and asked for other specimens from
      the stock in the shop. The man, in clearing the handkerchiefs out of the
      way, suddenly missed one. He was quite sure of it, from a peculiarity in
      the embroidery which made the handkerchief especially noticeable. I was
      poorly dressed, and I was close to the handkerchiefs. After one look at me
      he shouted to the superintendent: &lsquo;Shut the door! There is a thief in the
      shop!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The door was closed; the lost handkerchief was vainly sought for on the
      counter and on the floor. A robbery had been committed; and I was accused
      of being the thief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will say nothing of what I felt&mdash;I will only tell you what
      happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was searched, and the handkerchief was discovered on me. The woman who
      had stood next to me, on finding herself threatened with discovery, had no
      doubt contrived to slip the stolen handkerchief into my pocket. Only an
      accomplished thief could have escaped detection in that way without my
      knowledge. It was useless, in the face of the facts, to declare my
      innocence. I had no character to appeal to. My friend tried to speak for
      me; but what was she? Only a lost woman like myself. My landlady&rsquo;s
      evidence in favor of my honesty produced no effect; it was against her
      that she let lodgings to people in my position. I was prosecuted, and
      found guilty. The tale of my disgrace is now complete, Mr. Holmcroft. No
      matter whether I was innocent or not, the shame of it remains&mdash;I have
      been imprisoned for theft.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The matron of the prison was the next person who took an interest in me.
      She reported favorably of my behavior to the authorities and when I had
      served my time (as the phrase was among us) she gave me a letter to the
      kind friend and guardian of my later years&mdash;to the lady who is coming
      here to take me back with her to the Refuge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From this time the story of my life is little more than the story of a
      woman&rsquo;s vain efforts to recover her lost place in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The matron, on receiving me into the Refuge, frankly acknowledged that
      there were terrible obstacles in my way. But she saw that I was sincere,
      and she felt a good woman&rsquo;s sympathy and compassion for me. On my side, I
      did not shrink from beginning the slow and weary journey back again to a
      reputable life from the humblest starting-point&mdash;from domestic
      service. After first earning my new character in the Refuge, I obtained a
      trial in a respectable house. I worked hard, and worked uncomplainingly;
      but my mother&rsquo;s fatal legacy was against me from the first. My personal
      appearance excited remark; my manners and habits were not the manners and
      habits of the women among whom my lot was cast. I tried one place after
      another&mdash;always with the same results. Suspicion and jealousy I could
      endure; but I was defenseless when curiosity assailed me in its turn.
      Sooner or later inquiry led to discovery. Sometimes the servants
      threatened to give warning in a body&mdash;and I was obliged to go.
      Sometimes, where there was a young man in the family, scandal pointed at
      me and at him&mdash;and again I was obliged to go. If you care to know it,
      Miss Roseberry can tell you the story of those sad days. I confided it to
      her on the memorable night when we met in the French cottage; I have no
      heart repeat it now. After a while I wearied of the hopeless struggle.
      Despair laid its hold on me&mdash;I lost all hope in the mercy of God.
      More than once I walked to one or other of the bridges, and looked over
      the parapet at the river, and said to myself &lsquo;Other women have done it:
      why shouldn&rsquo;t I?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You saved me at that time, Mr. Gray&mdash;as you have saved me since. I
      was one of your congregation when you preached in the chapel of the Refuge
      You reconciled others besides me to our hard pilgrimage. In their name and
      in mine, sir, I thank you.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forget how long it was after the bright day when you comforted and
      sustained us that the war broke out between France and Germany. But I can
      never forget the evening when the matron sent for me into her own room and
      said, &lsquo;My dear, your life here is a wasted life. If you have courage
      enough left to try it, I can give you another chance.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I passed through a month of probation in a London hospital. A week after
      that I wore the red cross of the Geneva Convention&mdash;I was appointed
      nurse in a French ambulance. When you first saw me, Mr. Holmcroft, I still
      had my nurse&rsquo;s dress on, hidden from you and from everybody under a gray
      cloak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know what the next event was; you know how I entered this house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not tried to make the worst of my trials and troubles in telling
      you what my life has been. I have honestly described it for what it was
      when I met with Miss Roseberry&mdash;a life without hope. May you never
      know the temptation that tried me when the shell struck its victim in the
      French cottage! There she lay&mdash;dead! <i>Her</i> name was untainted.
      <i>Her</i> future promised me the reward which had been denied to the
      honest efforts of a penitent woman. My lost place in the world was offered
      back to me on the one condition that I stooped to win it by a fraud. I had
      no prospect to look forward to; I had no friend near to advise me and to
      save me; the fairest years of my womanhood had been wasted in the vain
      struggle to recover my good name. Such was my position when the
      possibility of personating Miss Roseberry first forced itself on my mind.
      Impulsively, recklessly&mdash;wickedly, if you like&mdash;I seized the
      opportunity, and let you pass me through the German lines under Miss
      Roseberry&rsquo;s name. Arrived in England, having had time to reflect, I made
      my first and last effort to draw back before it was too late. I went to
      the Refuge, and stopped on the opposite side of the street, looking at it.
      The old hopeless life of irretrievable disgrace confronted me as I fixed
      my eyes on the familiar door; the horror of returning to that life was
      more than I could force myself to endure. An empty cab passed me at the
      moment. The driver held up his hand. In sheer despair I stopped him, and
      when he said &lsquo;Where to?&rsquo; in sheer despair again I answered, &lsquo;Mablethorpe
      House.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of what I have suffered in secret since my own successful deception
      established me under Lady Janet&rsquo;s care I shall say nothing. Many things
      which must have surprised you in my conduct are made plain to you by this
      time. You must have noticed long since that I was not a happy woman. Now
      you know why.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My confession is made; my conscience has spoken at last. You are released
      from your promise to me&mdash;you are free. Thank Mr. Julian Gray if I
      stand here self-accused of the offense, that I have committed, before the
      man whom I have wronged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII. SENTENCE IS PRONOUNCED ON HER.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      IT was done. The last tones of her voice died away in silence.
    </h3>
    <p>
      Her eyes still rested on Horace. After hearing what he had heard could he
      resist that gentle, pleading look? Would he forgive her? A while since
      Julian had seen tears on his cheeks, and had believed that he felt for
      her. Why was he now silent? Was it possible that he only felt for himself?
    </p>
    <p>
      For the last time&mdash;at the crisis of her life&mdash;Julian spoke for
      her. He had never loved her as he loved her at that moment; it tried even
      his generous nature to plead her cause with Horace against himself. But he
      had promised her, without reserve, all the help that her truest friend
      could offer. Faithfully and manfully he redeemed his promise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horace!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace slowly looked up. Julian rose and approached him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has told you to thank <i>me</i>, if her conscience has spoken. Thank
      the noble nature which answered when I called upon it! Own the priceless
      value of a woman who can speak the truth. Her heartfelt repentance is a
      joy in heaven. Shall it not plead for her on earth? Honor her, if you are
      a Christian! Feel for her, if you are a man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He waited. Horace never answered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy&rsquo;s eyes turned tearfully on Julian. <i>His</i> heart was the heart
      that felt for her! <i>His</i> words were the words which comforted and
      pardoned her! When she looked back again at Horace, it was with an effort.
      His last hold on her was lost. In her inmost mind a thought rose unbidden&mdash;a
      thought which was not to be repressed. &ldquo;Can I ever have loved this man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She advanced a step toward him; it was not possible, even yet, to
      completely forget the past. She held out her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose on his side&mdash;without looking at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before we part forever,&rdquo; she said to him, &ldquo;will you take my hand as a
      token that you forgive me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated. He half lifted his hand. The next moment the generous
      impulse died away in him. In its place came the mean fear of what might
      happen if he trusted himself to the dangerous fascination of her touch.
      His hand dropped again at his side; he turned away quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t forgive her!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      With that horrible confession&mdash;without even a last look at her&mdash;he
      left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the moment when he opened the door Julian&rsquo;s contempt for him burst its
      way through all restraints.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horace,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I pity you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the words escaped him he looked back at Mercy. She had turned aside
      from both of them&mdash;she had retired to a distant part of the library
      The first bitter foretaste of what was in store for her when she faced the
      world again had come to her from Horace! The energy which had sustained
      her thus far quailed before the dreadful prospect&mdash;doubly dreadful to
      a woman&mdash;of obloquy and contempt. She sank on her knees before a
      little couch in the darkest corner of the room. &ldquo;O Christ, have mercy on
      me!&rdquo; That was her prayer&mdash;no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian followed her. He waited a little. Then his kind hand touched her;
      his friendly voice fell consolingly on her ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God&rsquo;s angels rejoice
      over you! Take your place among the noblest of God&rsquo;s creatures!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He raised her as he spoke. All her heart went out to him. She caught his
      hand&mdash;she pressed it to her bosom; she pressed it to her lips&mdash;then
      dropped it suddenly, and stood before him trembling like a frightened
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me!&rdquo; was all she could say. &ldquo;I was so lost and lonely&mdash;and
      you are so good to me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She tried to leave him. It was useless&mdash;her strength was gone; she
      caught at the head of the couch to support herself. He looked at her. The
      confession of his love was just rising to his lips&mdash;he looked again,
      and checked it. No, not at that moment; not when she was helpless and
      ashamed; not when her weakness might make her yield, only to regret it at
      a later time. The great heart which had spared her and felt for her from
      the first spared her and felt for her now.
    </p>
    <p>
      He, too, left her&mdash;but not without a word at parting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t think of your future life just yet,&rdquo; he said, gently. &ldquo;I have
      something to propose when rest and quiet have restored you.&rdquo; He opened the
      nearest door&mdash;the door of the dining-room&mdash;and went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The servants engaged in completing the decoration of the dinner-table
      noticed, when &ldquo;Mr. Julian&rdquo; entered the room, that his eyes were &ldquo;brighter
      than ever.&rdquo; He looked (they remarked) like a man who &ldquo;expected good news.&rdquo;
       They were inclined to suspect&mdash;though he was certainly rather young
      for it&mdash;that her ladyship&rsquo;s nephew was in a fair way of preferment in
      the Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy seated herself on the couch.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are limits, in the physical organization of man, to the action of
      pain. When suffering has reached a given point of intensity the nervous
      sensibility becomes incapable of feeling more. The rule of Nature, in this
      respect, applies not only to sufferers in the body, but to sufferers in
      the mind as well. Grief, rage, terror, have also their appointed limits.
      The moral sensibility, like the nervous sensibility, reaches its period of
      absolute exhaustion, and feels no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The capacity for suffering in Mercy had attained its term. Alone in the
      library, she could feel the physical relief of repose; she could vaguely
      recall Julian&rsquo;s parting words to her, and sadly wonder what they meant&mdash;she
      could do no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      An interval passed; a brief interval of perfect rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      She recovered herself sufficiently to be able to look at her watch and to
      estimate the lapse of time that might yet pass before Julian returned to
      her as he had promised. While her mind was still languidly following this
      train of thought she was disturbed by the ringing of a bell in the hall,
      used to summon the servant whose duties were connected with that part of
      the house. In leaving the library, Horace had gone out by the door which
      led into the hall, and had failed to close it. She plainly heard the bell&mdash;and
      a moment later (more plainly still) she heard Lady Janet&rsquo;s voice!
    </p>
    <p>
      She started to her feet. Lady Janet&rsquo;s letter was still in the pocket of
      her apron&mdash;the letter which imperatively commanded her to abstain
      from making the very confession that had just passed her lips! It was near
      the dinner hour, and the library was the favorite place in which the
      mistress of the house and her guests assembled at that time. It was no
      matter of doubt; it was an absolute certainty that Lady Janet had only
      stopped in the hall on her way into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The alternative for Mercy lay between instantly leaving the library by the
      dining-room door&mdash;or remaining where she was, at the risk of being
      sooner or later compelled to own that she had deliberately disobeyed her
      benefactress. Exhausted by what she had already suffered, she stood
      trembling and irresolute, incapable of deciding which alternative she
      should choose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s voice, clear and resolute, penetrated into the room. She was
      reprimanding the servant who had answered the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it your duty in my house to look after the lamps?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it my duty to pay you your wages?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do I find the light in the hall dim, and the wick of that lamp
      smoking? I have not failed in my duty to You. Don&rsquo;t let me find you
      failing again in your duty to Me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (Never had Lady Janet&rsquo;s voice sounded so sternly in Mercy&rsquo;s ear as it
      sounded now. If she spoke with that tone of severity to a servant who had
      neglected a lamp, what had her adopted daughter to expect when she
      discovered that her entreaties and her commands had been alike set at
      defiance?)
    </p>
    <p>
      Having administered her reprimand, Lady Janet had not done with the
      servant yet. She had a question to put to him next.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Miss Roseberry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the library, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy returned to the couch. She could stand no longer; she had not even
      resolution enough left to lift her eyes to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet came in more rapidly than usual. She advanced to the couch, and
      tapped Mercy playfully on the cheek with two of her fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You lazy child! Not dressed for dinner? Oh, fie, fie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her tone was as playfully affectionate as the action which had accompanied
      her words. In speechless astonishment Mercy looked up at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Always remarkable for the taste and splendor of her dress, Lady Janet had
      on this occasion surpassed herself. There she stood revealed in her
      grandest velvet, her richest jewelry, her finest lace&mdash;with no one to
      entertain at the dinner-table but the ordinary members of the circle at
      Mablethorpe House. Noticing this as strange to begin with, Mercy further
      observed, for the first time in her experience, that Lady Janet&rsquo;s eyes
      avoided meeting hers. The old lady took her place companionably on the
      couch; she ridiculed her &ldquo;lazy child&rsquo;s&rdquo; plain dress, without an ornament
      of any sort on it, with her best grace; she affectionately put her arm
      round Mercy&rsquo;s waist, and rearranged with her own hand the disordered locks
      of Mercy&rsquo;s hair&mdash;but the instant Mercy herself looked at her, Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s eyes discovered something supremely interesting in the familiar
      objects that surrounded her on the library walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      How were these changes to be interpreted? To what possible conclusion did
      they point?
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian&rsquo;s profounder knowledge of human nature, if Julian had been present,
      might have found a clew to the mystery. <i>He</i> might have surmised
      (incredible as it was) that Mercy&rsquo;s timidity before Lady Janet was fully
      reciprocated by Lady Janet&rsquo;s timidity before Mercy. It was even so. The
      woman whose immovable composure had conquered Grace Roseberry&rsquo;s utmost
      insolence in the hour of her triumph&mdash;the woman who, without once
      flinching, had faced every other consequence of her resolution to ignore
      Mercy&rsquo;s true position in the house&mdash;quailed for the first time when
      she found herself face to face with the very person for whom she had
      suffered and sacrificed so much. She had shrunk from the meeting with
      Mercy, as Mercy had shrunk from the meeting with <i>her</i>. The splendor
      of her dress meant simply that, when other excuses for delaying the
      meeting downstairs had all been exhausted, the excuse of a long, and
      elaborate toilet had been tried next. Even the moments occupied in
      reprimanding the servant had been moments seized on as the pretext for
      another delay. The hasty entrance into the room, the nervous assumption of
      playfulness in language and manner, the evasive and wandering eyes, were
      all referable to the same cause. In the presence of others, Lady Janet had
      successfully silenced the protest of her own inbred delicacy and inbred
      sense of honor. In the presence of Mercy, whom she loved with a mother&rsquo;s
      love&mdash;in the presence of Mercy, for whom she had stooped to
      deliberate concealment of the truth&mdash;all that was high and noble in
      the woman&rsquo;s nature rose in her and rebuked her. What will the daughter of
      my adoption, the child of my first and last experience of maternal love,
      think of me, now that I have made myself an accomplice in the fraud of
      which she is ashamed? How can I look her in the face, when I have not
      hesitated, out of selfish consideration for my own tranquillity, to forbid
      that frank avowal of the truth which her finer sense of duty had
      spontaneously bound her to make? Those were the torturing questions in
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s mind, while her arm was wound affectionately round Mercy&rsquo;s
      waist, while her fingers were busying themselves familiarly with the
      arrangement of Mercy&rsquo;s hair. Thence, and thence only, sprang the impulse
      which set her talking, with an uneasy affectation of frivolity, of any
      topic within the range of conversation, so long as it related to the
      future, and completely ignored the present and the past.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The winter here is unendurable,&rdquo; Lady Janet began. &ldquo;I have been thinking,
      Grace, about what we had better do next.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy started. Lady Janet had called her &ldquo;Grace.&rdquo; Lady Janet was still
      deliberately assuming to be innocent of the faintest suspicion of the
      truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; resumed her ladyship, affecting to misunderstand Mercy&rsquo;s movement,
      &ldquo;you are not to go up now and dress. There is no time, and I am quite
      ready to excuse you. You are a foil to me, my dear. You have reached the
      perfection of shabbiness. Ah! I remember when I had my whims and fancies
      too, and when I looked well in anything I wore, just as you do. No more of
      that. As I was saying, I have been thinking and planning what we are to
      do. We really can&rsquo;t stay here. Cold one day, and hot the next&mdash;what a
      climate! As for society, what do we lose if we go away? There is no such
      thing as society now. Assemblies of well-dressed mobs meet at each other&rsquo;s
      houses, tear each other&rsquo;s clothes, tread on each other&rsquo;s toes. If you are
      particularly lucky, you sit on the staircase, you get a tepid ice, and you
      hear vapid talk in slang phrases all round you. There is modern society.
      If we had a good opera, it would be something to stay in London for. Look
      at the programme for the season on that table&mdash;promising as much as
      possible on paper, and performing as little as possible on the stage. The
      same works, sung by the same singers year after year, to the same stupid
      people&mdash;in short the dullest musical evenings in Europe. No! the more
      I think of it, the more plainly I perceive that there is but one sensible
      choice before us: we must go abroad. Set that pretty head to work; choose
      north or south, east or west; it&rsquo;s all the same to me. Where shall we go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy looked at her quickly as she put the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet, more quickly yet, looked away at the programme of the
      opera-house. Still the same melancholy false pretenses! still the same
      useless and cruel delay! Incapable of enduring the position now forced
      upon her, Mercy put her hand into the pocket of her apron, and drew from
      it Lady Janet&rsquo;s letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will your ladyship forgive me,&rdquo; she began, in faint, faltering tones, &ldquo;if
      I venture on a painful subject? I hardly dare acknowledge&mdash;&rdquo; In spite
      of her resolution to speak out plainly, the memory of past love and past
      kindness prevailed with her; the next words died away on her lips. She
      could only hold up the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet declined to see the letter. Lady Janet suddenly became absorbed
      in the arrangement of her bracelets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know what you daren&rsquo;t acknowledge, you foolish child!&rdquo; she exclaimed.
      &ldquo;You daren&rsquo;t acknowledge that you are tired of this dull house. My dear! I
      am entirely of your opinion&mdash;I am weary of my own magnificence; I
      long to be living in one snug little room, with one servant to wait on me.
      I&rsquo;ll tell you what we will do. We will go to Paris, in the first place. My
      excellent Migliore, prince of couriers, shall be the only person in
      attendance. He shall take a lodging for us in one of the unfashionable
      quarters of Paris. We will rough it, Grace (to use the slang phrase),
      merely for a change. We will lead what they call a &lsquo;Bohemian life.&rsquo; I know
      plenty of writers and painters and actors in Paris&mdash;the liveliest
      society in the world, my dear, until one gets tired of them. We will dine
      at the restaurant, and go to the play, and drive about in shabby little
      hired carriages. And when it begins to get monotonous (which it is only
      too sure to do!) we will spread our wings and fly to Italy, and cheat the
      winter in that way. There is a plan for you! Migliore is in town. I will
      send to him this evening, and we will start to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy made another effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I entreat your ladyship to pardon me,&rdquo; she resumed. &ldquo;I have something
      serious to say. I am afraid&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand. You are afraid of crossing the Channel, and you don&rsquo;t like
      to acknowledge it. Pooh! The passage barely lasts two hours; we will shut
      ourselves up in a private cabin. I will send at once&mdash;the courier may
      be engaged. Ring the bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet, I must submit to my hard lot. I cannot hope to associate
      myself again with any future plans of yours&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you are afraid of our &lsquo;Bohemian life&rsquo; in Paris? Observe this,
      Grace! If there is one thing I hate more than another, it is &lsquo;an old head
      on young shoulders.&rsquo; I say no more. Ring the bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This cannot go on, Lady Janet! No words can say how unworthy I feel of
      your kindness, how ashamed I am&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my honor, my dear, I agree with you. You <i>ought</i> to be ashamed,
      at your age, of making me get up to ring the bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her obstinacy was immovable; she attempted to rise from the couch. But one
      choice was left to Mercy. She anticipated Lady Janet, and rang the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man-servant came in. He had his little letter-tray in his hand, with a
      card on it, and a sheet of paper beside the card, which looked like an
      open letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know where my courier lives when he is in London?&rsquo; asked Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send one of the grooms to him on horseback; I am in a hurry. The courier
      is to come here without fail to-morrow morning&mdash;in time for the tidal
      train to Paris. You understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you got there? Anything for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For Miss Roseberry, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he answered, the man handed the card and the open letter to Mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lady is waiting in the morning-room, miss. She wished me to say she
      has time to spare, and she will wait for you if you are not ready yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having delivered his message in those terms, he withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy read the name on the card. The matron had arrived! She looked at the
      letter next. It appeared to be a printed circular, with some lines in
      pencil added on the empty page. Printed lines and written lines swam
      before her eyes. She felt, rather than saw, Lady Janet&rsquo;s attention
      steadily and suspiciously fixed on her. With the matron&rsquo;s arrival the
      foredoomed end of the flimsy false pretenses and the cruel delays had
      come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friend of yours, my dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I acquainted with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You appear to be agitated. Does your visitor bring bad news? Is there
      anything that I can do for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can add&mdash;immeasurably add, madam&mdash;to all your past
      kindness, if you will only bear with me and forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bear with you and forgive you? I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try to explain. Whatever else you may think of me, Lady Janet, for
      God&rsquo;s sake don&rsquo;t think me ungrateful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet held up her hand for silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dislike explanations,&rdquo; she said, sharply. &ldquo;Nobody ought to know that
      better than you. Perhaps the lady&rsquo;s letter will explain for you. Why have
      you not looked at it yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in great trouble, madam, as you noticed just now&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any objection to my knowing who your visitor is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Lady Janet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me look at her card, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy gave the matron&rsquo;s card to Lady Janet, as she had given the matron&rsquo;s
      telegram to Horace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet read the name on the card&mdash;considered&mdash;decided that
      it was a name quite unknown to her&mdash;and looked next at the address:
      &ldquo;Western District Refuge, Milburn Road.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A lady connected with a Refuge?&rdquo; she said, speaking to herself; &ldquo;and
      calling here by appointment&mdash;if I remember the servant&rsquo;s message? A
      strange time to choose, if she has come for a subscription!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused. Her brow contracted; her face hardened. A word from her would
      now have brought the interview to its inevitable end, and she refused to
      speak the word. To the last moment she persisted in ignoring the truth!
      Placing the card on the couch at her side, she pointed with her long
      yellow-white forefinger to the printed letter lying side by side with her
      own letter on Mercy&rsquo;s lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to read it, or not?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy lifted her eyes, fast filling with tears, to Lady Janet&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I beg that your ladyship will read it for me?&rdquo; she said&mdash;and
      placed the matron&rsquo;s letter in Lady Janet&rsquo;s hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a printed circular announcing a new development in the charitable
      work of the Refuge. Subscribers were informed that it had been decided to
      extend the shelter and the training of the institution (thus far devoted
      to fallen women alone) so as to include destitute and helpless children
      found wandering in the streets. The question of the number of children to
      be thus rescued and protected was left dependent, as a matter of course,
      on the bounty of the friends of the Refuge, the cost of the maintenance of
      each child being stated at the lowest possible rate. A list of influential
      persons who had increased their subscriptions so as to cover the cost, and
      a brief statement of the progress already made with the new work,
      completed the appeal, and brought the circular to its end.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lines traced in pencil (in the matron&rsquo;s handwriting) followed on the
      blank page.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your letter tells me, my dear, that you would like&mdash;remembering your
      own childhood&mdash;to be employed when you return among us in saving
      other poor children left helpless on the world. Our circular will inform
      you that I am able to meet your wishes. My first errand this evening in
      your neighborhood was to take charge of a poor child&mdash;a little girl&mdash;who
      stands sadly in need of our care. I have ventured to bring her with me,
      thinking she might help to reconcile you to the coming change in your
      life. You will find us both waiting to go back with you to the old home. I
      write this instead of saying it, hearing from the servant that you are not
      alone, and being unwilling to intrude myself, as a stranger, on the lady
      of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet read the penciled lines, as she had read the printed sentences,
      aloud. Without a word of comment she laid the letter where she had laid
      the card; and, rising from her seat, stood for a moment in stern silence,
      looking at Mercy. The sudden change in her which the letter had produced&mdash;quietly
      as it had taken place&mdash;was terrible to see. On the frowning brow, in
      the flashing eyes, on the hardened lips, outraged love and outraged pride
      looked down on the lost woman, and said, as if in words, You have roused
      us at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that letter means anything,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it means you are about to
      leave my house. There can be but one reason for your taking such a step as
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the only atonement I can make, madam.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see another letter on your lap. Is it my letter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you read it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have read it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you seen Horace Holmcroft?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you told Horace Holmcroft&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Lady Janet&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t interrupt me. Have you told Horace Holmcroft what my letter
      positively forbade you to communicate, either to him or to any living
      creature? I want no protestations and excuses. Answer me instantly, and
      answer in one word&mdash;Yes, or No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not even that haughty language, not even those pitiless tones, could
      extinguish in Mercy&rsquo;s heart the sacred memories of past kindness and past
      love. She fell on her knees&mdash;her outstretched hands touched Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s dress. Lady Janet sharply drew her dress away, and sternly
      repeated her last words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes? or No?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had owned it at last! To this end Lady Janet had submitted to Grace
      Roseberry; had offended Horace Holmcroft; had stooped, for the first time
      in her life, to concealments and compromises that degraded her. After all
      that she had sacrificed and suffered, there Mercy knelt at her feet,
      self-convicted of violating her commands, trampling on her feelings,
      deserting her house! And who was the woman who had done this? The same
      woman who had perpetrated the fraud, and who had persisted in the fraud
      until her benefactress had descended to become her accomplice. Then, and
      then only, she had suddenly discovered that it was her sacred duty to tell
      the truth!
    </p>
    <p>
      In proud silence the great lady met the blow that had fallen on her. In
      proud silence she turned her back on her adopted daughter and walked to
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy made her last appeal to the kind friend whom she had offended&mdash;to
      the second mother whom she had loved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet! Lady Janet! Don&rsquo;t leave me without a word. Oh, madam, try to
      feel for me a little! I am returning to a life of humiliation&mdash;the
      shadow of my old disgrace is falling on me once more. We shall never meet
      again. Even though I have not deserved it, let my repentance plead with
      you! Say you forgive me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lady Janet turned round on the threshold of the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never forgive ingratitude,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Go back to the Refuge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door opened and closed on her. Mercy was alone again in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unforgiven by Horace, unforgiven by Lady Janet! She put her hands to her
      burning head and tried to think. Oh, for the cool air of the night! Oh,
      for the friendly shelter of the Refuge! She could feel those sad longings
      in her: it was impossible to think.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rang the bell&mdash;and shrank back the instant she had done it. Had
      <i>she</i> any right to take that liberty? She ought to have thought of it
      before she rang. Habit&mdash;all habit. How many hundreds of times she had
      rung the bell at Mablethorpe House!
    </p>
    <p>
      The servant came in. She amazed the man&mdash;she spoke to him so timidly:
      she even apologized for troubling him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry to disturb you. Will you be so kind as to say to the lady that
      I am ready for her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait to give that message,&rdquo; said a voice behind them, &ldquo;until you hear the
      bell rung again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mercy looked round in amazement. Julian had returned to the library by the
      dining-room door.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIX. THE LAST TRIAL.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE servant left them together. Mercy spoke first.
    </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Gray!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;why have you delayed my message? If you knew
      all, you would know that it is far from being a kindness to me to keep me
      in this house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He advanced closer to her&mdash;surprised by her words, alarmed by her
      looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has any one been here in my absence?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet has been here in your absence. I can&rsquo;t speak of it&mdash;my
      heart feels crushed&mdash;I can bear no more. Let me go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Briefly as she had replied, she had said enough. Julian&rsquo;s knowledge of
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s character told him what had happened. His face showed plainly
      that he was disappointed as well as distressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had hoped to have been with you when you and my aunt met, and to have
      prevented this,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Believe me, she will atone for all that she may
      have harshly and hastily done when she has had time to think. Try not to
      regret it, if she has made your hard sacrifice harder still. She has only
      raised you the higher&mdash;she has additionally ennobled you and endeared
      you in my estimation. Forgive me if I own this in plain words. I cannot
      control myself&mdash;I feel too strongly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At other times Mercy might have heard the coming avowal in his tones,
      might have discovered it in his eyes. As it was, her delicate insight was
      dulled, her fine perception was blunted. She held out her hand to him,
      feeling a vague conviction that he was kinder to her than ever&mdash;and
      feeling no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must thank you for the last time,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;As long as life is left,
      my gratitude will be a part of my life. Let me go. While I can still
      control myself, let me go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She tried to leave him, and ring the bell. He held her hand firmly, and
      drew her closer to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the Refuge?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Home again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear to hear it. Don&rsquo;t call the
      Refuge your home!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else is it? Where else can I go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have come here to tell you. I said, if you remember, I had something to
      propose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She felt the fervent pressure of his hand; she saw the mounting enthusiasm
      flashing in his eyes. Her weary mind roused itself a little. She began to
      tremble under the electric influence of his touch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something to propose?&rdquo; she repeated, &ldquo;What is there to propose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me ask you a question on my side. What have you done to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know what I have done: it is your work,&rdquo; she answered, humbly. &ldquo;Why
      return to it now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I return to it for the last time; I return to it with a purpose which you
      will soon understand. You have abandoned your marriage engagement; you
      have forfeited Lady Janet&rsquo;s love; you have ruined all your worldly
      prospects; you are now returning, self-devoted, to a life which you have
      yourself described as a life without hope. And all this you have done of
      your own free-will&mdash;at a time when you are absolutely secure of your
      position in the house&mdash;for the sake of speaking the truth. Now tell
      me, is a woman who can make that sacrifice a woman who will prove unworthy
      of the trust if a man places in her keeping his honor and his name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She understood him at last. She broke away from him with a cry. She stood
      with her hands clasped, trembling and looking at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave her no time to think. The words poured from his lips without
      conscious will or conscious effort of his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy, from the first moment when I saw you I loved you! You are free; I
      may own it; I may ask you to be my wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She drew back from him further and further, with a wild imploring gesture
      of her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Think of what you are saying! think of what you
      would sacrifice! It cannot, must not be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His face darkened with a sudden dread. His head fell on his breast. His
      voice sank so low that she could barely hear it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had forgotten something,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve reminded me of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She ventured back a little nearer to him. &ldquo;Have I offended you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled sadly. &ldquo;You have enlightened me. I had forgotten that it doesn&rsquo;t
      follow, because I love you, that you should love me in return. Say that it
      is so, Mercy, and I leave you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A faint tinge of color rose on her face&mdash;then left it again paler
      than ever. Her eyes looked downward timidly under the eager gaze that he
      fastened on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How <i>can</i> I say so?&rdquo; she answered, simply. &ldquo;Where is the woman in my
      place whose heart could resist you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He eagerly advanced; he held out his arms to her in breathless, speechless
      joy. She drew back from him once more with a look that horrified him&mdash;a
      look of blank despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I fit to be your wife?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Must I remind you of what you owe
      to your high position, your spotless integrity, your famous name? Think of
      all that you have done for me, and then think of the black ingratitude of
      it if I ruin you for life by consenting to our marriage&mdash;if I
      selfishly, cruelly, wickedly, drag you down to the level of a woman like
      me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I raise you to <i>my</i> level when I make you my wife,&rdquo; he answered.
      &ldquo;For Heaven&rsquo;s sake do me justice! Don&rsquo;t refer me to the world and its
      opinions. It rests with you, and you alone, to make the misery or the
      happiness of my life. The world! Good God! what can the world give me in
      exchange for You?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She clasped her hands imploringly; the tears flowed fast over her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, have pity on my weakness!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Kindest, best of men, help me
      to do my hard duty toward you! It is so hard, after all that I have
      suffered&mdash;when my heart is yearning for peace and happiness and
      love!&rdquo; She checked herself, shuddering at the words that had escaped her.
      &ldquo;Remember how Mr. Holmcroft has used me! Remember how Lady Janet has left
      me! Remember what I have told you of my life! The scorn of every creature
      you know would strike at you through me. No! no! no! Not a word more.
      Spare me! pity me! leave me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her voice failed her; sobs choked her utterance. He sprang to her and took
      her in his arms. She was incapable of resisting him; but there was no
      yielding in her. Her head lay on his bosom, passive&mdash;horribly
      passive, like the head of a corpse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy! My darling! We will go away&mdash;we will leave England&mdash;we
      will take refuge among new people in a new world&mdash;I will change my
      name&mdash;I will break with relatives, friends, everybody. Anything,
      anything, rather than lose you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lifted her head slowly and looked at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He suddenly released her; he reeled back like a man staggered by a blow,
      and dropped into a chair. Before she had uttered a word he saw the
      terrible resolution in her face&mdash;Death, rather than yield to her own
      weakness and disgrace him.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood with her hands lightly clasped in front of her. Her grand head
      was raised; her soft gray eyes shone again undimmed by tears. The storm of
      emotion had swept over her and had passed away A sad tranquillity was in
      her face; a gentle resignation was in her voice. The calm of a martyr was
      the calm that confronted him as she spoke her last words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman who has lived my life, a woman who has suffered what I have
      suffered, may love you&mdash;as <i>I</i> love you&mdash;but she must not
      be your wife. <i>That</i> place is too high above her. Any other place is
      too far below her and below you.&rdquo; She paused, and advancing to the bell,
      gave the signal for her departure. That done, she slowly retraced her
      steps until she stood at Julian&rsquo;s side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tenderly she lifted his head and laid it for a moment on her bosom.
      Silently she stooped and touched his forehead with her lips. All the
      gratitude that filled her heart and all the sacrifice that rent it were in
      those two actions&mdash;so modestly, so tenderly performed! As the last
      lingering pressure of her fingers left him, Julian burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      The servant answered the bell. At the moment he opened the door a woman&rsquo;s
      voice was audible in the hall speaking to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let the child go in,&rdquo; the voice said. &ldquo;I will wait here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child appeared&mdash;the same forlorn little creature who had reminded
      Mercy of her own early years on the day when she and Horace Holmcroft had
      been out for their walk.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no beauty in this child; no halo of romance brightened the
      commonplace horror of her story. She came cringing into the room, staring
      stupidly at the magnificence all round her&mdash;the daughter of the
      London streets! the pet creation of the laws of political economy! the
      savage and terrible product of a worn-out system of government and of a
      civilization rotten to its core! Cleaned for the first time in her life,
      fed sufficiently for the first time in her life, dressed in clothes
      instead of rags for the first time in her life, Mercy&rsquo;s sister in
      adversity crept fearfully over the beautiful carpet, and stopped
      wonder-struck before the marbles of an inlaid table&mdash;a blot of mud on
      the splendor of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mercy turned from Julian to meet the child. The woman&rsquo;s heart, hungering
      in its horrible isolation for something that it might harmlessly love,
      welcomed the rescued waif of the streets as a consolation sent from God.
      She caught the stupefied little creature up in her arms. &ldquo;Kiss me!&rdquo; she
      whispered, in the reckless agony of the moment. &ldquo;Call me sister!&rdquo; The
      child stared, vacantly. Sister meant nothing to her mind but an older girl
      who was strong enough to beat her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She put the child down again, and turned for a last look at the man whose
      happiness she had wrecked&mdash;in pity to <i>him</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had never moved. His head was down; his face was hidden. She went back
      to him a few steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The others have gone from me without one kind word. Can <i>you</i>
      forgive me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He held out his hand to her without looking up. Sorely as she had wounded
      him, his generous nature understood her. True to her from the first, <i>he</i>
      was true to her still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless and comfort you,&rdquo; he said, in broken tones. &ldquo;The earth holds no
      nobler woman than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knelt and kissed the kind hand that pressed hers for the last time.
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t end with this world,&rdquo; she whispered: &ldquo;there is a better world
      to come!&rdquo; Then she rose, and went back to the child. Hand in hand the two
      citizens of the Government of God&mdash;outcasts of the government of Man&mdash;passed
      slowly down the length of the room. Then out into the hall. Then out into
      the night. The heavy clang of the closing door tolled the knell of their
      departure. They were gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the orderly routine of the house&mdash;inexorable as death&mdash;pursued
      its appointed course. As the clock struck the hour the dinner-bell rang.
      An interval of a minute passed, and marked the limit of delay. The butler
      appeared at the dining-room door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dinner is served, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian looked up. The empty room met his eyes. Something white lay on the
      carpet close by him. It was her handkerchief&mdash;wet with her tears. He
      took it up and pressed it to his lips. Was that to be the last of her? Had
      she left him forever?
    </p>
    <p>
      The native energy of the man, arming itself with all the might of his
      love, kindled in him again. No! While life was in him, while time was
      before him, there was the hope of winning her yet!
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned to the servant, reckless of what his face might betray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Lady Janet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the dining-room, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He reflected for a moment. His own influence had failed. Through what
      other influence could he now hope to reach her? As the question crossed
      his mind the light broke on him. He saw the way back to her&mdash;through
      the influence of Lady Janet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her ladyship is waiting, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian entered the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_EPIL">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      EPILOGUE:
    </h2>
    <p>
      CONTAINING SELECTIONS FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF MISS GRACE ROSEBERRY AND
      MR. HORACE HOLMCROFT; TO WHICH ARE ADDED EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF THE
      REVEREND JULIAN GRAY.
    </p>
    <p>
      I.
    </p>
    <p>
      From MR. HORACE HOLMCROFT to MISS GRACE ROSEBERRY.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I HASTEN to thank you, dear Miss Roseberry, for your last kind letter,
      received by yesterday&rsquo;s mail from Canada. Believe me, I appreciate your
      generous readiness to pardon and forget what I so rudely said to you at a
      time when the arts of an adventuress had blinded me to the truth. In the
      grace which has forgiven me I recognize the inbred sense of justice of a
      true lady. Birth and breeding can never fail to assert themselves: I
      believe in them, thank God, more firmly than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ask me to keep you informed of the progress of Julian Gray&rsquo;s
      infatuation, and of the course of conduct pursued toward him by Mercy
      Merrick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had not favored me by explaining your object, I might have felt
      some surprise at receiving from a lady in your position such a request as
      this. But the motives by which you describe yourself as being actuated are
      beyond dispute. The existence of Society, as you truly say, is threatened
      by the present lamentable prevalence of Liberal ideas throughout the
      length and breadth of the land. We can only hope to protect ourselves
      against impostors interested in gaining a position among persons of our
      rank by becoming in some sort (unpleasant as it may be) familiar with the
      arts by which imposture too frequently succeeds. If we wish to know to
      what daring lengths cunning can go, to what pitiable self-delusion
      credulity can consent, we must watch the proceedings&mdash;even while we
      shrink from them&mdash;of a Mercy Merrick and a Julian Gray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In taking up my narrative again where my last letter left off, I must
      venture to set you right on one point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certain expressions which have escaped your pen suggest to me that you
      blame Julian Gray as the cause of Lady Janet&rsquo;s regrettable visit to the
      Refuge the day after Mercy Merrick had left her house. This is not quite
      correct. Julian, as you will presently see, has enough to answer for
      without being held responsible for errors of judgment in which he has had
      no share. Lady Janet (as she herself told me) went to the Refuge of her
      own free-will to ask Mercy Merrick&rsquo;s pardon for the language which she had
      used on the previous day. &lsquo;I passed a night of such misery as no words can
      describe&rsquo;&mdash;this, I assure you, is what her ladyship really said to me&mdash;&lsquo;thinking
      over what my vile pride and selfishness and obstinacy had made me say and
      do. I would have gone down on my knees to beg her pardon if she would have
      let me. My first happy moment was when I won her consent to come and visit
      me sometimes at Mablethorpe House.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will, I am sure, agree with me that such extravagance as this is to
      be pitied rather than blamed. How sad to see the decay of the faculties
      with advancing age! It is a matter of grave anxiety to consider how much
      longer poor Lady Janet can be trusted to manage her own affairs. I shall
      take an opportunity of touching on the matter delicately when I next see
      her lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am straying from my subject. And&mdash;is it not strange?&mdash;I am
      writing to you as confidentially as if we were old friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To return to Julian Gray. Innocent of instigating his aunt&rsquo;s first visit
      to the Refuge, he is guilty of having induced her to go there for the
      second time the day after I had dispatched my last letter to you. Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s object on this occasion was neither more nor less than to plead
      her nephew&rsquo;s cause as humble suitor for the hand of Mercy Merrick. Imagine
      the descent of one of the oldest families in England inviting an
      adventuress in a Refuge to honor a clergyman of the Church of England by
      becoming his wife! In what times do we live! My dear mother shed tears of
      shame when she heard of it. How you would love and admire my mother!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dined at Mablethorpe House, by previous appointment, on the day when
      Lady Janet returned from her degrading errand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Well?&rsquo; I said, waiting, of course, until the servant was out of the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Well,&rsquo; Lady Janet answered, &lsquo;Julian was quite right.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Quite right in what?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;In saying that the earth holds no nobler woman than Mercy Merrick.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Has she refused him again?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She has refused him again.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Thank God!&rsquo; I felt it fervently, and I said it fervently. Lady Janet
      laid down her knife and fork, and fixed one of her fierce looks on me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It may not be your fault, Horace,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;if your nature is
      incapable of comprehending what is great and generous in other natures
      higher than yours. But the least you can do is to distrust your own
      capacity of appreciation. For the future keep your opinions (on questions
      which you don&rsquo;t understand) modestly to yourself. I have a tenderness for
      you for your father&rsquo;s sake; and I take the most favorable view of your
      conduct toward Mercy Merrick. I humanely consider it the conduct of a
      fool.&rsquo; (Her own words, Miss Roseberry. I assure you once more, her own
      words.) &lsquo;But don&rsquo;t trespass too far on my indulgence&mdash;don&rsquo;t insinuate
      again that a woman who is good enough (if she died this night) to go to
      heaven, is <i>not</i> good enough to be my nephew&rsquo;s wife.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expressed to you my conviction a little way back that it was doubtful
      whether poor Lady Janet would be much longer competent to manage her own
      affairs. Perhaps you thought me hasty then? What do you think now?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was, of course, useless to reply seriously to the extraordinary
      reprimand that I had received. Besides, I was really shocked by a decay of
      principle which proceeded but too plainly from decay of the mental powers.
      I made a soothing and respectful reply, and I was favored in return with
      some account of what had really happened at the Refuge. My mother and my
      sisters were disgusted when I repeated the particulars to them. You will
      be disgusted too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The interesting penitent (expecting Lady Janet&rsquo;s visit) was, of course,
      discovered in a touching domestic position! She had a foundling baby
      asleep on her lap; and she was teaching the alphabet to an ugly little
      vagabond girl whose acquaintance she had first made in the street. Just
      the sort of artful <i>tableau vivant</i> to impose on an old lady&mdash;was
      it not?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will understand what followed, when Lady Janet opened her matrimonial
      negotiation. Having perfected herself in her part, Mercy Merrick, to do
      her justice, was not the woman to play it badly. The most magnanimous
      sentiments flowed from her lips. She declared that her future life was
      devoted to acts of charity, typified, of course, by the foundling infant
      and the ugly little girl. However she might personally suffer, whatever
      might be the sacrifice of her own feelings&mdash;observe how artfully this
      was put, to insinuate that she was herself in love with him!&mdash;she
      could not accept from Mr. Julian Gray an honor of which she was unworthy.
      Her gratitude to him and her interest in him alike forbade her to
      compromise his brilliant future by consenting to a marriage which would
      degrade him in the estimation of all his friends. She thanked him (with
      tears); she thanked Lady Janet (with more tears); but she dare not, in the
      interests of <i>his</i> honor and <i>his</i> happiness, accept the hand
      that he offered to her. God bless and comfort him; and God help her to
      bear with her hard lot!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The object of this contemptible comedy is plain enough to my mind. She is
      simply holding off (Julian, as you know, is a poor man) until the
      influence of Lady Janet&rsquo;s persuasion is backed by the opening of Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s purse. In one word&mdash;Settlements! But for the profanity of the
      woman&rsquo;s language, and the really lamentable credulity of the poor old
      lady, the whole thing would make a fit subject for a burlesque.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the saddest part of the story is still to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In due course of time the lady&rsquo;s decision was communicated to Julian
      Gray. He took leave of his senses on the spot. Can you believe it?&mdash;he
      has resigned his curacy! At a time when the church is thronged every
      Sunday to hear him preach, this madman shuts the door and walks out of the
      pulpit. Even Lady Janet was not far enough gone in folly to abet him in
      this. She remonstrated, like the rest of his friends. Perfectly useless!
      He had but one answer to everything they could say: &lsquo;My career is closed.&rsquo; 
      What stuff!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will ask, naturally enough, what this perverse man is going to do
      next. I don&rsquo;t scruple to say that he is bent on committing suicide. Pray
      do not be alarmed! There is no fear of the pistol, the rope, or the river.
      Julian is simply courting death&mdash;within the limits of the law.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is strong language, I know. You shall hear what the facts are, and
      judge for yourself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Having resigned his curacy, his next proceeding was to offer his
      services, as volunteer, to a new missionary enterprise on the West Coast
      of Africa. The persons at the head of the mission proved, most
      fortunately, to have a proper sense of their duty. Expressing their
      conviction of the value of Julian&rsquo;s assistance in the most handsome terms,
      they made it nevertheless a condition of entertaining his proposal that he
      should submit to examination by a competent medical man. After some
      hesitation he consented to this. The doctor&rsquo;s report was conclusive. In
      Julian&rsquo;s present state of health the climate of West Africa would in all
      probability kill him in three months&rsquo; time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foiled in his first attempt, he addressed himself next to a London
      Mission. Here it was impossible to raise the question of climate, and
      here, I grieve to say, he has succeeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is now working&mdash;in other words, he is now deliberately risking
      his life&mdash;in the Mission to Green Anchor Fields. The district known
      by this name is situated in a remote part of London, near the Thames. It
      is notoriously infested by the most desperate and degraded set of wretches
      in the whole metropolitan population, and it is so thickly inhabited that
      it is hardly ever completely free from epidemic disease. In this horrible
      place, and among these dangerous people, Julian is now employing himself
      from morning to night. None of his old friends ever see him. Since he
      joined the Mission he has not even called on Lady Janet Roy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My pledge is redeemed&mdash;the facts are before you. Am I wrong in
      taking my gloomy view of the prospect? I cannot forget that this unhappy
      man was once my friend, and I really see no hope for him in the future.
      Deliberately self-exposed to the violence of ruffians and the outbreak of
      disease, who is to extricate him from his shocking position? The one
      person who can do it is the person whose association with him would be his
      ruin&mdash;Mercy Merrick. Heaven only knows what disasters it may be my
      painful duty to communicate to you in my next letter!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are so kind as to ask me to tell you something about myself and my
      plans.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have very little to say on either head. After what I have suffered&mdash;my
      feelings trampled on, my confidence betrayed&mdash;I am as yet hardly
      capable of deciding what I shall do. Returning to my old profession&mdash;to
      the army&mdash;is out of the question, in these leveling days, when any
      obscure person who can pass an examination may call himself my brother
      officer, and may one day, perhaps, command me as my superior in rank. If I
      think of any career, it is the career of diplomacy. Birth and breeding
      have not quite disappeared as essential qualifications in <i>that</i>
      branch of the public service. But I have decided nothing as yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother and sisters, in the event of your returning to England, desire
      me to say that it will afford them the greatest pleasure to make your
      acquaintance. Sympathizing with me, they do not forget what you too have
      suffered. A warm welcome awaits you when you pay your first visit at our
      house. Most truly yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;HORACE HOLMCROFT.&rdquo; II.
    </p>
    <p>
      From MISS GRACE ROSEBERRY to MR. HORACE HOLMCROFT.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR MR. HOLMCROFT&mdash;I snatch a few moments from my other avocations
      to thank you for your most interesting and delightful letter. How well you
      describe, how accurately you judge! If Literature stood a little higher as
      a profession, I should almost advise you&mdash;but no! if you entered
      Literature, how could <i>you</i> associate with the people whom you would
      be likely to meet?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Between ourselves, I always thought Mr. Julian Gray an overrated man. I
      will not say he has justified my opinion. I will only say I pity him. But,
      dear Mr. Holmcroft, how can you, with your sound judgment, place the sad
      alternatives now before him on the same level? To die in Green Anchor
      Fields, or to fall into the clutches of that vile wretch&mdash;is there
      any comparison between the two? Better a thousand times die at the post of
      duty than marry Mercy Merrick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I have written the creature&rsquo;s name, I may add&mdash;so as to have all
      the sooner done with the subject&mdash;that I shall look with anxiety for
      your next letter. Do not suppose that I feel the smallest curiosity about
      this degraded and designing woman. My interest in her is purely religious.
      To persons of my devout turn of mind she is an awful warning. When I feel
      Satan near me&mdash;it will be <i>such</i> a means of grace to think of
      Mercy Merrick!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Lady Janet! I noticed those signs of mental decay to which you so
      feelingly allude at the last interview I had with her in Mablethorpe
      House. If you can find an opportunity, will you say that I wish her well,
      here and hereafter? and will you please add that I do not omit to remember
      her in my prayers?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is just a chance of my visiting England toward the close of the
      autumn. My fortunes have changed since I wrote last. I have been received
      as reader and companion by a lady who is the wife of one of our high
      judicial functionaries in this part of the world. I do not take much
      interest in <i>him</i>; he is what they call a &lsquo;self-made man.&rsquo; His wife
      is charming. Besides being a person of highly intellectual tastes, she is
      greatly her husband&rsquo;s superior&mdash;as you will understand when I tell
      you that she is related to the Gommerys of Pommery; <i>not</i> the
      Pommerys of Gommery, who (as your knowledge of our old families will
      inform you) only claim kindred with the younger branch of that ancient
      race.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the elegant and improving companionship which I now enjoy I should
      feel quite happy but for one drawback. The climate of Canada is not
      favorable to my kind patroness, and her medical advisers recommend her to
      winter in London. In this event, I am to have the privilege of
      accompanying her. Is it necessary to add that my first visit will be paid
      at your house? I feel already united by sympathy to your mother and your
      sisters. There is a sort of freemasonry among gentlewomen, is there not?
      With best thanks and remembrances, and many delightful anticipations of
      your next letter, believe me, dear Mr. Holmcroft,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;GRACE ROSEBERRY.&rdquo; III.
    </p>
    <p>
      From MR. HORACE HOLMCROFT to MISS GRACE ROSEBERRY.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MY DEAR MISS ROSEBERRY&mdash;Pray excuse my long silence. I have waited
      for mail after mail, in the hope of being able to send you some good news
      at last. It is useless to wait longer. My worst forebodings have been
      realized: my painful duty compels me to write a letter which will surprise
      and shock you.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me describe events in their order as they happened. In this way I may
      hope to gradually prepare your mind for what is to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About three weeks after I wrote to you last, Julian Gray paid the penalty
      of his headlong rashness. I do not mean that he suffered any actual
      violence at the hands of the people among whom he had cast his lot. On the
      contrary, he succeeded, incredible as it may appear, in producing a
      favorable impression on the ruffians about him. As I understand it, they
      began by respecting his courage in venturing among them alone; and they
      ended in discovering that he was really interested in promoting their
      welfare. It is to the other peril, indicated in my last letter, that he
      has fallen a victim&mdash;the peril of disease. Not long after he began
      his labors in the district fever broke out. We only heard that Julian had
      been struck down by the epidemic when it was too late to remove him from
      the lodging that he occupied in the neighborhood. I made inquiries
      personally the moment the news reached us. The doctor in attendance
      refused to answer for his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In this alarming state of things poor Lady Janet, impulsive and
      unreasonable as usual, insisted on leaving Mablethorpe House and taking up
      her residence near her nephew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Finding it impossible to persuade her of the folly of removing from home
      and its comforts at her age, I felt it my duty to accompany her. We found
      accommodation (such as it was) in a river-side inn, used by ship-captains
      and commercial travelers. I took it on myself to provide the best medical
      assistance, Lady Janet&rsquo;s insane prejudices against doctors impelling her
      to leave this important part of the arrangements entirely in my hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is needless to weary you by entering into details on the subject of
      Julian&rsquo;s illness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fever pursued the ordinary course, and was characterized by the usual
      intervals of delirium and exhaustion succeeding each other. Subsequent
      events, which it is, unfortunately, necessary to relate to you, leave me
      no choice but to dwell (as briefly as possible) on the painful subject of
      the delirium. In other cases the wanderings of fever-stricken people
      present, I am told, a certain variety of range. In Julian&rsquo;s case they were
      limited to one topic. He talked incessantly of Mercy Merrick. His
      invariable petition to his medical attendants entreated them to send for
      her to nurse him. Day and night that one idea was in his mind, and that
      one name on his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The doctors naturally made inquiries as to this absent person. I was
      obliged (in confidence) to state the circumstances to them plainly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The eminent physician whom I had called in to superintend the treatment
      behaved admirably. Though he has risen from the lower order of the people,
      he has, strange to say, the instincts of a gentleman. He thoroughly
      understood our trying position, and felt all the importance of preventing
      such a person as Mercy Merrick from seizing the opportunity of intruding
      herself at the bedside. A soothing prescription (I have his own authority
      for saying it) was all that was required to meet the patient&rsquo;s case. The
      local doctor, on the other hand, a young man (and evidently a red-hot
      radical), proved to be obstinate, and, considering his position, insolent
      as well. &lsquo;I have nothing to do with the lady&rsquo;s character, and with your
      opinion of it,&rsquo; he said to me. &lsquo;I have only, to the best of my judgment,
      to point out to you the likeliest means of saving the patient&rsquo;s life. Our
      art is at the end of its resources. Send for Mercy Merrick, no matter who
      she is or what she is. There is just a chance&mdash;especially if she
      proves to be a sensible person and a good nurse&mdash;that he may astonish
      you all by recognizing her. In that case only, his recovery is probable.
      If you persist in disregarding his entreaties, if you let the delirium go
      on for four-and-twenty hours more, he is a dead man.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet was, most unluckily, present when this impudent opinion was
      delivered at the bedside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Need I tell you the sequel? Called upon to choose between the course
      indicated by a physician who is making his five thousand a year, and who
      is certain of the next medical baronetcy, and the advice volunteered by an
      obscure general practitioner at the East End of London, who is not making
      his five hundred a year&mdash;need I stop to inform you of her ladyship&rsquo;s
      decision? You know her; and you will only too well understand that her
      next proceeding was to pay a third visit to the Refuge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two hours later&mdash;I give you my word of honor I am not exaggerating&mdash;Mercy
      Merrick was established at Julian&rsquo;s bedside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The excuse, of course, was that it was her duty not to let any private
      scruples of her own stand in the way, when a medical authority had
      declared that she might save the patient&rsquo;s life. You will not be surprised
      to hear that I withdrew from the scene. The physician followed my example&mdash;after
      having written his soothing prescription, and having been grossly insulted
      by the local practitioner&rsquo;s refusing to make use of it. I went back in the
      doctor&rsquo;s carriage. He spoke most feelingly and properly. Without giving
      any positive opinion, I could see that he had abandoned all hope of
      Julian&rsquo;s recovery. &lsquo;We are in the hands of Providence, Mr. Holmcroft;&rsquo; 
      those were his last words as he set me down at my mother&rsquo;s door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have hardly the heart to go on. If I studied my own wishes, I should
      feel inclined to stop here.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me, at least, hasten to the end. In two or three days&rsquo; time I
      received my first intelligence of the patient and his nurse. Lady Janet
      informed me that he had recognized her. When I heard this I felt prepared
      for what was to come. The next report announced that he was gaining
      strength, and the next that he was out of danger. Upon this Lady Janet
      returned to Mablethorpe House. I called there a week ago&mdash;and heard
      that he had been removed to the sea-side. I called yesterday&mdash;and
      received the latest information from her ladyship&rsquo;s own lips. My pen
      almost refuses to write it. Mercy Merrick has consented to marry him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An outrage on Society&mdash;that is how my mother and my sisters view it;
      that is how <i>you</i> will view it too. My mother has herself struck
      Julian&rsquo;s name off her invitation-list. The servants have their orders, if
      he presumes to call: &lsquo;Not at home.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am unhappily only too certain that I am correct in writing to you of
      this disgraceful marriage as of a settled thing. Lady Janet went the
      length of showing me the letters&mdash;one from Julian, the other from the
      woman herself. Fancy Mercy Merrick in correspondence with Lady Janet Roy!
      addressing her as &lsquo;My dear Lady Janet,&rsquo; and signing, &lsquo;Yours
      affectionately!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had not the patience to read either of the letters through. Julian&rsquo;s
      tone is the tone of a Socialist; in my opinion his bishop ought to be
      informed of it. As for <i>her</i> she plays her part just as cleverly with
      her pen as she played it with her tongue. &lsquo;I cannot disguise from myself
      that I am wrong in yielding.... Sad forebodings fill my mind when I think
      of the future.... I feel as if the first contemptuous look that is cast at
      my husband will destroy <i>my</i> happiness, though it may not disturb <i>him</i>....
      As long as I was parted from him I could control my own weakness, I could
      accept my hard lot. But how can I resist him after having watched for
      weeks at his bedside; after having seen his first smile, and heard his
      first grateful words to me while I was slowly helping him back to life?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is the tone which she takes through four closely written pages of
      nauseous humility and clap-trap sentiment! It is enough to make one
      despise women. Thank God, there is the contrast at hand to remind me of
      what is due to the better few among the sex. I feel that my mother and my
      sisters are doubly precious to me now. May I add, on the side of
      consolation, that I prize with hardly inferior gratitude the privilege of
      corresponding with <i>you?</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell for the present. I am too rudely shaken in my most cherished
      convictions, I am too depressed and disheartened, to write more. All good
      wishes go with you, dear Miss Roseberry, until we meet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most truly yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;HORACE HOLMCROFT.&rdquo; IV.
    </p>
    <p>
      Extracts from the DIARY of THE REVEREND JULIAN GRAY.
    </p>
    <p>
      FIRST EXTRACT.
    </p>
    <p>
      ....&ldquo;A month to-day since we were married! I have only one thing to say: I
      would cheerfully go through all that I have suffered to live this one
      month over again. I never knew what happiness was until now. And better
      still, I have persuaded Mercy that it is all her doing. I have scattered
      her misgivings to the winds; she is obliged to submit to evidence, and to
      own that she can make the happiness of my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We go back to London to-morrow. She regrets leaving the tranquil
      retirement of this remote sea-side place&mdash;she dreads change. I care
      nothing for it. It is all one to me where I go, so long as my wife is with
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      SECOND EXTRACT.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The first cloud has risen. I entered the room unexpectedly just now, and
      found her in tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With considerable difficulty I persuaded her to tell me what had
      happened. Are there any limits to the mischief that can be done by the
      tongue of a foolish woman? The landlady at my lodgings is the woman, in
      this case. Having no decided plans for the future as yet, we returned
      (most unfortunately, as the event has proved) to the rooms in London which
      I inhabited in my bachelor days. They are still mine for six weeks to
      come, and Mercy was unwilling to let me incur the expense of taking her to
      a hotel. At breakfast this morning I rashly congratulated myself (in my
      wife&rsquo;s hearing) on finding that a much smaller collection than usual of
      letters and cards had accumulated in my absence. Breakfast over, I was
      obliged to go out. Painfully sensitive, poor thing, to any change in my
      experience of the little world around me which it is possible to connect
      with the event of my marriage, Mercy questioned the landlady, in my
      absence, about the diminished number of my visitors and my correspondents.
      The woman seized the opportunity of gossiping about me and my affairs, and
      my wife&rsquo;s quick perception drew the right conclusion unerringly. My
      marriage has decided certain wise heads of families on discontinuing their
      social relations with me. The facts, unfortunately, speak for themselves.
      People who in former years habitually called upon me and invited me&mdash;or
      who, in the event of my absence, habitually wrote to me at this season&mdash;have
      abstained with a remarkable unanimity from calling, inviting, or writing
      now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would have been sheer waste of time&mdash;to say nothing of its also
      implying a want of confidence in my wife&mdash;if I had attempted to set
      things right by disputing Mercy&rsquo;s conclusion. I could only satisfy her
      that not so much as the shadow of disappointment or mortification rested
      on my mind. In this way I have, to some extent, succeeded in composing my
      poor darling. But the wound has been inflicted, and the wound is felt.
      There is no disguising that result. I must face it boldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trifling as this incident is in my estimation, it has decided me on one
      point already. In shaping my future course I am now resolved to act on my
      own convictions&mdash;in preference to taking the well-meant advice of
      such friends as are still left to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All my little success in life has been gained in the pulpit. I am what is
      termed a popular preacher&mdash;but I have never, in my secret self, felt
      any exultation in my own notoriety, or any extraordinary respect for the
      means by which it has been won. In the first place, I have a very low idea
      of the importance of oratory as an intellectual accomplishment. There is
      no other art in which the conditions of success are so easy of attainment;
      there is no other art in the practice of which so much that is purely
      superficial passes itself off habitually for something that claims to be
      profound. Then, again, how poor it is in the results which it achieves!
      Take my own case. How often (for example) have I thundered with all my
      heart and soul against the wicked extravagance of dress among women&mdash;against
      their filthy false hair and their nauseous powders and paints! How often
      (to take another example) have I denounced the mercenary and material
      spirit of the age&mdash;the habitual corruptions and dishonesties of
      commerce, in high places and in low! What good have I done? I have
      delighted the very people whom it was my object to rebuke. &lsquo;What a
      charming sermon!&rsquo; &lsquo;More eloquent than ever!&rsquo; &lsquo;I used to dread the sermon
      at the other church&mdash;do you know, I quite look forward to it now.&rsquo; 
      That is the effect I produce on Sunday. On Monday the women are off to the
      milliners to spend more money than ever; the city men are off to business
      to make more money than ever&mdash;while my grocer, loud in my praises in
      his Sunday coat, turns up his week-day sleeves and adulterates his
      favorite preacher&rsquo;s sugar as cheerfully as usual!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have often, in past years, felt the objections to pursuing my career
      which are here indicated. They were bitterly present to my mind when I
      resigned my curacy, and they strongly influence me now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am weary of my cheaply won success in the pulpit. I am weary of society
      as I find it in my time. I felt some respect for myself, and some heart
      and hope in my works among the miserable wretches in Green Anchor Fields.
      But I can not, and must not, return among them: I have no right, <i>now</i>,
      to trifle with my health and my life. I must go back to my preaching, or I
      must leave England. Among a primitive people, away from the cities&mdash;in
      the far and fertile West of the great American continent&mdash;I might
      live happily with my wife, and do good among my neighbors, secure of
      providing for our wants out of the modest little income which is almost
      useless to me here. In the life which I thus picture to myself I see love,
      peace, health, and duties and occupations that are worthy of a Christian
      man. What prospect is before me if I take the advice of my friends and
      stay here? Work of which I am weary, because I have long since ceased to
      respect it; petty malice that strikes at me through my wife, and mortifies
      and humiliates her, turn where she may. If I had only myself to think of,
      I might defy the worst that malice can do. But I have Mercy to think of&mdash;Mercy,
      whom I love better than my own life! Women live, poor things, in the
      opinions of others. I have had one warning already of what my wife is
      likely to suffer at the hands of my &lsquo;friends&rsquo;&mdash;Heaven forgive me for
      misusing the word! Shall I deliberately expose her to fresh
      mortifications?&mdash;and this for the sake of returning to a career the
      rewards of which I no longer prize? No! We will both be happy&mdash;we
      will both be free! God is merciful, Nature is kind, Love is true, in the
      New World as well as the Old. To the New World we will go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      THIRD EXTRACT.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly know whether I have done right or wrong. I mentioned yesterday
      to Lady Janet the cold reception of me on my return to London, and the
      painful sense of it felt by my wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My aunt looks at the matter from her own peculiar point of view, and
      makes light of it accordingly. &lsquo;You never did, and never will, understand
      Society, Julian,&rsquo; said her ladyship. &lsquo;These poor stupid people simply
      don&rsquo;t know what to do. They are waiting to be told by a person of
      distinction whether they are, or are not, to recognize your marriage. In
      plain English, they are waiting to be led by Me. Consider it done. I will
      lead them.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought my aunt was joking. The event of to-day has shown me that she
      is terribly in earnest. Lady Janet has issued invitations for one of her
      grand balls at Mablethorpe House; and she has caused the report to be
      circulated everywhere that the object of the festival is &lsquo;to celebrate the
      marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Julian Gray!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I at first refused to be present. To my amazement, however, Mercy sides
      with my aunt. She reminds me of all that we both owe to Lady Janet; and
      she has persuaded me to alter my mind. We are to go to the ball&mdash;at
      my wife express request!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The meaning of this, as I interpret it, is that my poor love is still
      pursued in secret by the dread that my marriage has injured me in the
      general estimation. She will suffer anything, risk anything, believe
      anything, to be freed from that one haunting doubt. Lady Janet predicts a
      social triumph; and my wife&rsquo;s despair&mdash;not my wife&rsquo;s conviction&mdash;accepts
      the prophecy. As for me, I am prepared for the result. It will end in our
      going to the New World, and trying Society in its infancy, among the
      forests and the plains. I shall quietly prepare for our departure, and own
      what I have done at the right time&mdash;that is to say, when the ball is
      over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      FOURTH EXTRACT.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have met with the man for my purpose&mdash;an old college friend of
      mine, now partner in a firm of ship-owners, largely concerned in
      emigration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of their vessels sails for America, from the port of London, in a
      fortnight, touching at Plymouth. By a fortunate coincidence, Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      ball takes place in a fortnight. I see my way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Helped by the kindness of my friend, I have arranged to have a cabin kept
      in reserve, on payment of a small deposit. If the ball ends (as I believe
      it will) in new mortifications for Mercy&mdash;do what they may, I defy
      them to mortify <i>me</i>&mdash;I have only to say the word by telegraph,
      and we shall catch the ship at Plymouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know the effect it will have when I break the news to her, but I am
      prepared with my remedy. The pages of my diary, written in past years,
      will show plainly enough that it is not <i>she</i> who is driving me away
      from England. She will see the longing in me for other work and other
      scenes expressing itself over and over again long before the time when we
      first met.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      FIFTH EXTRACT.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy&rsquo;s ball dress&mdash;a present from kind Lady Janet&mdash;is
      finished. I was allowed to see the first trial, or preliminary rehearsal,
      of this work of art. I don&rsquo;t in the least understand the merits of silk
      and lace; but one thing I know&mdash;my wife will be the most beautiful
      woman at the ball.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same day I called on Lady Janet to thank her, and encountered a new
      revelation of the wayward and original character of my dear old aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was on the point of tearing up a letter when I went into her room.
      Seeing me, she suspended her purpose and handed me the letter. It was in
      Mercy&rsquo;s handwriting. Lady Janet pointed to a passage on the last page.
      &lsquo;Tell your wife, with my love,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;that I am the most obstinate
      woman of the two. I positively refuse to read her, as I positively refuse
      to listen to her, whenever she attempts to return to that one subject. Now
      give me the letter back.&rsquo; I gave it back, and saw it torn up before my
      face. The &lsquo;one subject&rsquo; prohibited to Mercy as sternly as ever is still
      the subject of the personation of Grace Roseberry! Nothing could have been
      more naturally introduced, or more delicately managed, than my wife&rsquo;s
      brief reference to the subject. No matter. The reading of the first line
      was enough. Lady Janet shut her eyes and destroyed the letter&mdash;Lady
      Janet is determined to live and die absolutely ignorant of the true story
      of &lsquo;Mercy Merrick.&rsquo; What unanswerable riddles we are! Is it wonderful if
      we perpetually fail to understand one another?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      SIXTH EXTRACT.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The morning after the ball.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is done and over. Society has beaten Lady Janet. I have neither
      patience nor time to write at length of it. We leave for Plymouth by the
      afternoon express.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were rather late in arriving at the ball. The magnificent rooms were
      filling fast. Walking through them with my wife, she drew my attention to
      a circumstance which I had not noticed at the time. &lsquo;Julian,&rsquo; she said,
      &lsquo;look round among the lades, and tell me if you see anything strange.&rsquo; As
      I looked round the band began playing a waltz. I observed that a few
      people only passed by us to the dancing-room. I noticed next that of those
      few fewer still were young. At last it burst upon me. With certain
      exceptions (so rare as to prove the rule), there were no young girls at
      Lady Janet&rsquo;s ball. I took Mercy at once back to the reception-room. Lady
      Janet&rsquo;s face showed that she, too, was aware of what had happened. The
      guests were still arriving. We received the men and their wives, the men
      and their mothers, the men and their grandmothers&mdash;but, in place of
      their unmarried daughters, elaborate excuses, offered with a shameless
      politeness wonderful to see. Yes! This was how the matrons in high life
      had got over the difficulty of meeting Mrs. Julian Gray at Lady Janet&rsquo;s
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me do strict justice to every one. The ladies who <i>were</i> present
      showed the needful respect for their hostess. They did their duty&mdash;no,
      overdid it, is perhaps the better phrase.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really had no adequate idea of the coarseness and rudeness which have
      filtered their way through society in these later times until I saw the
      reception accorded to my wife. The days of prudery and prejudice are days
      gone by. Excessive amiability and excessive liberality are the two
      favorite assumptions of the modern generation. To see the women expressing
      their liberal forgetfulness of my wifely misfortunes, and the men their
      amiable anxiety to encourage her husband; to hear the same set phrases
      repeated in every room&mdash;&lsquo;So charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs.
      Gray; so <i>much</i> obliged to dear Lady Janet for giving us this
      opportunity!&mdash;Julian, old man, what a beautiful creature! I envy you;
      upon my honor, I envy you!&rsquo;&mdash;to receive this sort of welcome,
      emphasized by obtrusive hand-shakings, sometimes actually by downright
      kissings of my wife, and then to look round and see that not one in thirty
      of these very people had brought their unmarried daughters to the ball,
      was, I honestly believe, to see civilized human nature in its basest
      conceivable aspect. The New World may have its disappointments in store
      for us, but it cannot possibly show us any spectacle so abject as the
      spectacle which we witnessed last night at my aunt&rsquo;s ball.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lady Janet marked her sense of the proceeding adopted by her guests by
      leaving them to themselves. Her guests remained and supped heartily
      notwithstanding. They all knew by experience that there were no stale
      dishes and no cheap wines at Mablethorpe House. They drank to the end of
      the bottle, and they ate to the last truffle in the dish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy and I had an interview with my aunt upstairs before we left. I felt
      it necessary to state plainly my resolution to leave England. The scene
      that followed was so painful that I cannot prevail on myself to return to
      it in these pages. My wife is reconciled to our departure; and Lady Janet
      accompanies us as far as Plymouth&mdash;these are the results. No words
      can express my sense of relief, now that it is all settled. The one sorrow
      I shall carry away with me from the shores of England will be the sorrow
      of parting with dear, warm-hearted Lady Janet. At her age it is a parting
      for life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So closes my connection with my own country. While I have Mercy by my
      side I face the unknown future, certain of carrying my happiness with me,
      go where I may. We shall find five hundred adventurers like ourselves when
      we join the emigrant ship, for whom their native land has no occupation
      and no home. Gentlemen of the Statistical Department, add two more to the
      number of social failures produced by England in the year of our Lord
      eighteen hundred and seventy-one&mdash;Julian Gray and Mercy Merrick.&rdquo;
     </p>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1623 ***</div>
  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-01-07 17:32:04 +0000