"You look very pale this morning, my child."

Mercy sighed wearily. "I am not well," she answered. "Theslightest noises startle me. I feel tired if I only walk acrossthe room."

Lady Janet patted her kindly on the shoulder. "We must try what achange will do for you. Which shall it be? the Continent or thesea-side?"

"Your ladyship is too kind to me."

"It is impossible to be too kind to you."

Mercy started. The color flowed charmingly over her pale face."Oh!" she exclaimed, impulsively. "Say that again!"

"Say it again?" repeated Lady Janet, with a look of surprise.

"Yes! Don't think me presuming; only think me vain. I can't hearyou say too often that you have learned to like me. Is it reallya pleasure to you to have me in the house? Have I always behavedwell since I have been with you?"

(The one excuse for the act of personation--if excuse there couldbe--lay in the affirmative answer to those questions. It would besomething, surely, to say of the false Grace that the true Gracecould not have been worthier of her welcome, if the true Gracehad been received at Mablethorpe House!)

Lady Janet was partly touched, partly amused, by theextraordinary earnestness of the appeal that had been made toher.

"Have you behaved well?" she repeated. "My dear, you talk as ifyou were a child!" She laid her hand caressingly on Mercy's arm,and continued, in a graver tone: "It is hardly too much to say,Grace, that I bless the day when you first came to me. I dobelieve I could be hardly fonder of you if you were my owndaughter."

Mercy suddenly turned her head aside, so as to hide her face.Lady Janet, still touching her arm, felt it tremble. "What is thematter with you?" she asked, in her abrupt, downright manner.

"I am only very grateful to your ladyship--that is all." Thewords were spoken faintly, in broken tones. The face was stillaverted from Lady Janet's view. "What have I said to provokethis?" wondered the old lady. "Is she in the melting mood to-day?If she is, now is the time to say a word for Horace!" Keepingthat excellent object in view, Lady Janet approached the delicatetopic with all needful caution at starting.

"We have got on so well together," she resumed, "that it will notbe easy for either of us to feel reconciled to a change in ourlives. At my age, it will fall hardest on me. What shall I do,Grace, when the day comes for parting with my adopted daughter?"

Mercy started, and showed her face again. The traces of tearswere in her eyes. "Why should I leave you?" she asked, in a toneof alarm.

"Surely you know!" exclaimed Lady Janet.

"Indeed I don't. Tell me why."

"Ask Horace to tell you."

The last allusion was too plain to be misunderstood. Mercy's headdrooped. She began to tremble again. Lady Janet looked at her inblank amazement.

"Is there anything wrong between Horace and you?" she asked.

"No."

"You know your own heart, my dear child? You have surely notencouraged Horace without loving him?"

"Oh no!"

"And yet--"

For the first time in their experience of each other Mercyventured to interrupt her benefactress. "Dear Lady Janet," sheinterposed, gently, "I am in no hurry to be married. There willbe plenty of time in the future to talk of that. You hadsomething you wished to say to me. What is it?"

It was no easy matter to disconcert Lady Janet Roy. But that lastquestion fairly reduced her to silence. After all that hadpassed, there sat her young companion, innocent of the faintestsuspicion of the subject that was to be discussed between them!"What are the young women of the present time made of?" thoughtthe old lady, utterly at a loss to know what to say next. Mercywaited, on her side, with an impenetrable patience which onlyaggravated the difficulties of the position. The silence was fastthreatening to bring the interview to a sudden and untimely end,when the door from the library opened, and a man-servant, bearinga little silver salver, entered the room.

Lady Janet's rising sense of annoyance instantly seized on theservant as a victim. "What do you want?" she asked, sharply. "Inever rang for you."

"A letter, my lady. The messenger waits for an answer."

The man presented his salver with the letter on it, and withdrew.

Lady Janet recognized the handwriting on the address with a lookof surprise. "Excuse me, my dear," she said, pausing, with herold-fashioned courtesy, before she opened the envelope. Mercymade the necessary acknowledgment, and moved away to the otherend of the room, little thinking that the arrival of the lettermarked a crisis in her life. Lady Janet put on her spectacles."Odd that he should have come back already!" she said to herself,as she threw the empty envelope on the table.

The letter contained these lines, the writer of them being noother than the man who had preached in the chapel of the Refuge:

"DEAR AUNT--I am back again in London before my time. My friendthe rector has shortened his holiday, and has resumed his dutiesin the country. I am afraid you will blame me when you hear ofthe reasons which have hastened his return. The sooner I make myconfession, the easier I shall feel. Besides, I have a specialobject in wishing to see you as soon as possible. May I follow myletter to Mablethorpe House? And may I present a lady to you--aperfect stranger--in whom I am interested? Pray say Yes, by thebearer, and oblige your affectionate nephew,

"JULIAN GRAY."

Lady Janet referred again suspiciously to the sentence in theletter which alluded to the "lady."

Julian Gray was her only surviving nephew, the son of a favoritesister whom she had lost. He would have held no very exaltedposition in the estimation of his aunt--who regarded his views inpolitics and religion with the strongest aversion--but for hismarked resemblance to his mother. This pleaded for him with theold lady, aided as it was by the pride that she secretly felt inthe early celebrity which the young clergyman had achieved as awriter and a preacher. Thanks to these mitigating circumstances,and to Julian's inexhaustible good-humor, the aunt and the nephew generally met on friendly terms. Apart from what she called"his detestable opinions," Lady Janet was sufficiently interestedin Julian to feel some curiosity about the mysterious "lady"mentioned in the letter. Had he determined to settle in life? Washis choice already made? And if so, would it prove to be a choiceacceptable to the family? Lady Janet's bright face showed signsof doubt as she asked herself that last question. Julian'sliberal views were capable of leading him to dangerous extremes.His aunt shook her head ominously as she rose from the sofa andadvanced to the library door.

"Grace," she said, pausing and turning round, "I have a note towrite to my nephew. I shall be back directly."

Mercy approached her, from the opposite extremity of the room,with an exclamation of surprise.

"Your nephew?" she repeated. "Your ladyship never told me you hada nephew."

Lady Janet laughed. "I must have had it on the tip of my tongueto tell you, over and over again," she said. "But we have had somany things to talk about--and, to own the truth, my nephew isnot one of my favorite subjects of conversation. I don't meanthat I dislike him; I detest his principles, my dear, that's all.However, you shall form your own opinion of him; he is coming tosee me to-day. Wait here till I return; I have something more tosay about Horace."

Mercy opened the library door for her, closed it again, andwalked slowly to and fro alone in the room, thinking.

Was her mind running on Lady Janet's nephew? No. Lady Janet'sbrief allusion to her relative had not led her into alluding tohim by his name. Mercy was still as ignorant as ever that thepreacher at the Refuge and the nephew of her benefactress wereone and the same man. Her memory was busy now with the tributewhich Lady Janet had paid to her at the outset of the interviewbetween them: "It is hardly too much to say, Grace, that I blessthe day when you first came to me." For the moment there was balmfor her wounded spirit in the remembrance of those words. GraceRoseberry herself could surely have earned no sweeter praise thanthe praise that she had won. The next instant she was seized witha sudden horror of her own successful fraud. The sense of herdegradation had never been so bitterly present to her as at thatmoment. If she could only confess the truth--if she couldinnocently enjoy her harmless life at Mablethorpe House--what agrateful, happy woman she might be! Was it possible (if she madethe confession) to trust to her own good conduct to plead herexcuse? No! Her calmer sense warned her that it was hopeless. Theplace she had won--honestly won--in Lady Janet's estimation hadbeen obtained by a trick. Nothing could alter, nothing couldexcuse, _that_. She took out her handkerchief and dashed away theuseless tears that had gathered in her eyes, and tried to turnher thoughts some other way. What was it Lady Janet had said ongoing into the library? She had said she was coming back to speakabout Horace. Mercy guessed what the object was; she knew but toowell what Horace wanted of her. How was she to meet theemergency? In the name of Heaven, what was to be done? Could shelet the man who loved her--the man whom she loved--driftblindfold into marriage with such a woman as she had been? No! itwas her duty to warn him. How? Could she break his heart, couldshe lay his life waste by speaking the cruel words which mightpart them forever? "I can't tell him! I won't tell him!" sheburst out, passionately. "The disgrace of it would kill me!" Hervarying mood changed as the words escaped her. A recklessdefiance of her own better nature--that saddest of all the formsin which a woman's misery can express itself--filled her heartwith its poisoning bitterness. She sat down again on the sofawith eyes that glittered and cheeks suffused with an angry red."I am no worse than another woman!" she thought. "Another womanmight have married him for his money." The next moment themiserable insufficiency of her own excuse for deceiving himshowed its hollowness, self-exposed. She covered her face withher hands, and found refuge--where she had often found refugebefore--in the helpless resignation of despair. "Oh, that I haddied before I entered this house! Oh, that I could die and havedone with it at this moment!" So the struggle had ended with herhundreds of times already. So it ended now.

The door leading into the billiard-room opened softly. HoraceHolmcroft had waited to hear the result of Lady Janet'sinterference in his favor until he could wait no longer.

He looked in cautiously, ready to withdraw again unnoticed if thetwo were still talking together. The absence of Lady Janetsuggested that the interview had come to an end. Was hisbetrothed wife waiting alone to speak to him on his return to theroom? He advanced a few steps. She never moved; she sat heedless,absorbed in her thoughts. Were they thoughts of _him?_ Headvanced a little nearer, and called to her.

"Grace!"

She sprang to her feet, with a faint cry. "I wish you wouldn'tstartle me," she said, irritably, sinking back on the sofa. "Anysudden alarm sets my heart beating as if it would choke me."

Horace pleaded for pardon with a lover's humility. In her presentstate of nervous irritation she was not to be appeased. Shelooked away from him in silence. Entirely ignorant of theparoxysm of mental suffering through which she had just passed,he seated himself by her side, and asked her gently if she hadseen Lady Janet. She made an affirmative answer with anunreasonable impatience of tone and manner which would havewarned an older and more experienced man to give her time beforehe spoke again. Horace was young, and weary of the suspense thathe had endured in the other room. He unwisely pressed her withanother question.

"Has Lady Janet said anything to you--"

She turned on him angrily before he could finish the sentence."You have tried to make her hurry me into marrying you," sheburst out. "I see it in your face!"

Plain as the warning was this time, Horace still failed tointerpret it in the right way. "Don't be angry!" he said,good-humoredly. "Is it so very inexcusable to ask Lady Janet tointercede for me? I have tried to persuade you in vain. My motherand my sisters have pleaded for me, and you turn a deaf ear--"

She could endure it no longer. She stamped her foot on the doorwith hysterical vehemence. "I am weary of hearing of your motherand your sisters!" she broke in violently. "You talk of nothingelse."

It was just possible to make one more mistake in dealing withher--and Horace made it. He took offense, on his side, and rosefrom the sofa. His mother and sisters were high authorities inhis estimation; they variously represented his ideal ofperfection in women. He withdrew to the opposite extremity of theroom, and administered the severest reproof that he could thinkof on the spur of the moment.

"It would be well, Grace, if you followed the example set you bymy mother and my sisters," he said. "_They_ are not in the habitof speaking cruelly to those who love them."

To all appearance the rebuke failed to produce the slightesteffect. She seemed to be as indifferent to it as if it had notreached her ears. There was a spirit in her--a miserable spirit,born of her own bitter experience--which rose in revolt againstHorace's habitual glorification of the ladies of his family. "Itsickens me," she thought to herself, "to hear of the virtues ofwomen who have never been tempted! Where is the merit of livingreputably, when your life is one course of prosperity andenjoyment? Has his mother known starvation? Have his sisters beenleft forsaken in the street?" It hardened her heart--it almostreconciled her to deceiving him--when he set his relatives up aspatterns for her. Would he never understand that women detestedhaving other women exhibited as examples to them? She lookedround at him with a sense of impatient wonder. He was sitting atthe luncheon-table, with his back turned on her, and his headresting on his hand. If he had attempted to rejoin her, she wouldhave repelled him ; if he had spoken, she would have met him witha sharp reply. He sat apart from her, without uttering a word. Ina man's hands silence is the most terrible of all protests to thewoman who loves him. Violence she can endure. Words she is alwaysready to meet by words on her side. Silence conquers her. After amoment's hesitation, Mercy left the sofa and advancedsubmissively toward the table. She had offended him--and shealone was in fault. How should he know it, poor fellow, when heinnocently mortified her? Step by step she drew closer andcloser. He never looked round; he never moved. She laid her handtimidly on his shoulder. "Forgive me, Horace," she whispered inhis ear. "I am suffering this morning; I am not myself. I didn'tmean what I said. Pray forgive me." There was no resisting thecaressing tenderness of voice and manner which accompanied thosewords. He looked up; he took her hand. She bent over him, andtouched his forehead with her lips. "Am I forgiven?" she asked.

"Oh, my darling," he said, "if you only knew how I loved you!"

"I do know it," she answered, gently, twining his hair round herfinger, and arranging it over his forehead where his hand hadruffled it.

They were completely absorbed in each other, or they must, atthat moment, have heard the library door open at the other end ofthe room.

Lady Janet had written the necessary reply to her nephew, and hadreturned, faithful to her engagement, to plead the cause ofHorace. The first object that met her view was her clientpleading, with conspicuous success, for himself! "I am notwanted, evidently," thought the old lady. She noiselessly closedthe door again and left the lovers by themselves.

Horace returned, with unwise persistency, to the question of thedeferred marriage. At the first words that he spoke she drew backdirectly--sadly, not angrily.

"Don't press me to-day," she said; "I am not well to-day."

He rose and looked at her anxiously. "May l speak about itto-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow." She returned to the sofa, and changed thesubject. "What a time Lady Janet is away!" she said. "What can bekeeping her so long?"

Horace did his best to appear interested in the question of LadyJanet's prolonged absence. "What made her leave you?" he asked,standing at the back of the sofa and leaning over her.

"She went into the library to write a note to her nephew.By-the-by, who is her nephew?"

"Is it possible you don't know?"

"Indeed, I don't."

"You have heard of him, no doubt," said Horace. "Lady Janet'snephew is a celebrated man." He paused, and stooping nearer toher, lifted a love-lock that lay over her shoulder and pressed itto his lips. "Lady Janet's nephew," he resumed, "is Julian Gray."

She started off her seat, and looked round at him in blank,bewildered terror, as if she doubted the evidence of her ownsenses.

Horace was completely taken by surprise. "My dear Grace!" heexclaimed; "what have I said or done to startle you this time?"

She held up her hand for silence. "Lady Janet's nephew is JulianGray," she repeated; "and I only know it now!"

Horace's perplexity increased. "My darling, now you do know it,what is there to alarm you?" he asked.

(There was enough to alarm the boldest woman living--in such aposition, and with such a temperament as hers. To her mind thepersonation of Grace Roseberry had suddenly assumed a new aspect:the aspect of a fatality. It had led her blindfold to the housein which she and the preacher at the Refuge were to meet. He wascoming--the man who had reached her inmost heart, who hadinfluenced her whole life! Was the day of reckoning coming withhim?)

"Don't notice me," she said, faintly. "I have been ill all themorning. You saw it yourself when you came in here; even thesound of your voice alarmed me. I shall be better directly. I amafraid I startled you?"

"My dear Grace, it almost looked as if you were terrified at thesound of Julian's name! He is a public celebrity, I know; and Ihave seen ladies start and stare at him when he entered a room.But _you_ looked perfectly panic-stricken."

She rallied her courage by a desperate effort; she laughed--aharsh, uneasy laugh--and stopped him by putting her hand over hismouth. "Absurd!" she said, lightly. "As if Mr. Julian Gray hadanything to do with my looks! I am better already. See foryourself!" She looked round at him again with a ghastly gayety;and returned, with a desperate assumption of indifference, to thesubject of Lady Janet's nephew. "Of course I have heard of him,"she said. "Do you know that he is expected here to-day? Don'tstand there behind me--it's so hard to talk to you. Come and sitdown."

He obeyed--but she had not quite satisfied him yet. His face hadnot lost its expression of anxiety and surprise. She persisted inplaying her part, determined to set at rest in him any possiblesuspicion that she had reasons of her own for being afraid ofJulian Gray. "Tell me about this famous man of yours," she said,putting her arm familiarly through his arm. "What is he like?"

The caressing action and the easy tone had their effect onHorace. His face began to clear; he answered her lightly on hisside.

"Prepare yourself to meet the most unclerical of clergymen," hesaid. "Julian is a lost sheep among the parsons, and a thorn inthe side of his bishop. Preaches, if they ask him, in Dissenters'chapels. Declines to set up any pretensions to priestly authorityand priestly power. Goes about doing good on a plan of his own.Is quite resigned never to rise to the high places in hisprofession. Says it's rising high enough for _him_ to be theArchdeacon of the afflicted, the Dean of the hungry, and theBishop of the poor. With all his oddities, as good a fellow asever lived. Immensely popular with the women. They all go to himfor advice. I wish you would go, too."

Mercy changed color. "What do you mean?" she asked, sharply.

"Julian is famous for his powers of persuasion," said Horace,smiling. "If _he_ spoke to you, Grace, he would prevail on you tofix the day. Suppose I ask Julian to plead for me?"

He made the proposal in jest. Mercy's unquiet mind accepted it asaddressed to her in earnest. "He will do it," she thought, with asense of indescribable terror, "if I don't stop him!" There isbut one chance for her. The only certain way to prevent Horacefrom appealing to his friend was to grant what Horace wished forbefore his friend entered the house. She laid her hand on hisshoulder; she hid the terrible anxieties that were devouring herunder an assumption of coquetry painful and pitiable to see.

"Don't talk nonsense!" she said, gayly. "What were we saying justnow--before we began to speak of Mr. Julian Gray?"

"We were wondering what had become of Lady Janet," Horacereplied.

She tapped him impatiently on the shoulder. "No! no! It wassomething you said before that."

Her eyes completed what her words had left unsaid. Horace's armstole round her waist.

"I was saying that I loved you," he answered, in a whisper.

"Only that?"

"Are you tired of hearing it?"

She smiled charmingly . "Are you so very much in earnestabout--about--" She stopped, and looked away from him.

"About our marriage?"

"Yes."

"It is the one dearest wish of my life."

"Really?"

"Really."

There was a pause. Mercy's fingers toyed nervously with thetrinkets at her watch-chain. "When would you like it to be?" shesaid, very softly, with her whole attention fixed on thewatch-chain.

She had never spoken, she had never looked, as she spoke andlooked now. Horace was afraid to believe in his own good fortune."Oh, Grace!" he exclaimed, "you are not trifling with me?"

"What makes you think I am trifling with you?"

Horace was innocent enough to answer her seriously. "You wouldnot even let me speak of our marriage just now, "he said.

"Never mind what I did just now," she retorted, petulantly. "Theysay women are changeable. It is one of the defects of the sex."

"Heaven be praised for the defects of the sex!" cried Horace,with devout sincerity. "Do you really leave me to decide?"

"If you insist on it."

Horace considered for a moment--the subject being the law ofmarriage. "We may be married by license in a fortnight," he said."I fix this day fortnight."

She held up her hands in protest.

"Why not? My lawyer is ready. There are no preparations to make.You said when you accepted me that it was to be a privatemarriage."

Mercy was obliged to own that she had certainly said that.

"We might be married at once--if the law would only let us. Thisday fortnight! Say--Yes!" He drew her closer to him. There was apause. The mask of coquetry--badly worn from the first--droppedfrom her. Her sad gray eyes rested compassionately on his eagerface. "Don't look so serious!" he said. "Only one little word,Grace! Only Yes."

She sighed, and said it. He kissed her passionately. It was onlyby a resolute effort that she released herself.

"Leave me!" she said, faintly. "Pray leave me by myself!"

She was in earnest--strangely in earnest. She was trembling fromhead to foot. Horace rose to leave her. "I will find Lady Janet,"he said; "I long to show the dear old lady that I have recoveredmy spirits, and to tell her why." He turned round at the librarydoor. "You won't go away? You will let me see you again when youare more composed?"

"I will wait here," said Mercy.

Satisfied with that reply, he left the room.

Her hands dropped on her lap; her head sank back wearily on thecushions at the head of the sofa. There was a dazed sensation inher: her mind felt stunned. She wondered vacantly whether she wasawake or dreaming. Had she really said the word which pledged herto marry Horace Holmcroft in a fortnight? A fortnight! Somethingmight happen in that time to prevent it: she might find her wayin a fortnight out of the terrible position in which she stood.Anyway, come what might of it, she had chosen the preferablealternative to a private interview with Julian Gray. She raisedherself from her recumbent position with a start, as the idea ofthe interview--dismissed for the last few minutes--possesseditself again of her mind. Her excited imagination figured JulianGray as present in the room at that moment, speaking to her asHorace had proposed. She saw him seated close at her side--thisman who had shaken her to the soul when he was in the pulpit, andwhen she was listening to him (unseen) at the other end of thechapel--she saw him close by her, looking her searchingly in theface; seeing her shameful secret in her eyes; hearing it in hervoice; feeling it in her trembling hands; forcing it out of herword by word, till she fell prostrate at his feet with theconfession of the fraud. Her head dropped again on the cushions;she hid her face in horror of the scene which her excited fancyhad conjured up. Even now, when she had made that dreadedinterview needless, could she feel sure (meeting him only on themost distant terms) of not betraying herself? She could _not_feel sure. Something in her shuddered and shrank at the bare ideaof finding herself in the same room with him. She felt it, sheknew it: her guilty conscience owned and feared its master inJulian Gray!

The minutes passed. The violence of her agitation began to tellphysically on her weakened frame.

She found herself crying silently without knowing why. A weightwas on her head, a weariness was in all her limbs. She sank loweron the cushions--her eyes closed--the monotonous ticking of theclock on the mantelpiece grew drowsily fainter and fainter on herear. Little by little she dropped into slumber--slumber so lightthat she started when a morsel of coal fell into the grate, orwhen the birds chirped and twittered in their aviary in thewinter-garden.

Lady Janet and Horace came in. She was faintly conscious ofpersons in the room. After an interval she opened her eyes, andhalf rose to speak to them. The room was empty again. They hadstolen out softly and left her to repose. Her eyes closed oncemore. She dropped back into slumber, and from slumber, in thefavoring warmth and quiet of the place, into deep and dreamlesssleep.