HAVING warmed his feet to his own entire satisfaction, Horaceturned round from the fireplace, and discovered that he and LadyJanet were alone.

"Can I see Grace?" he asked.

The easy tone in which he put the question--a tone, as it were,of proprietorship in "Grace"--jarred on Lady Janet at the moment.For the first time in her life she found herself comparing Horacewith Julian--to Horace's disadvantage. He was rich; he was agentleman of ancient lineage; he bore an unblemished character.But who had the strong brain? who had the great heart? Which wasthe Man of the two?

"Nobody can see her," answered Lady Janet. "Not even you!"

The tone of the reply was sharp, with a dash of irony in it. Butwhere is the modern young man, possessed of health and anindepend ent income, who is capable of understanding that ironycan be presumptuous enough to address itself to _him?_ Horace(with perfect politeness) declined to consider himself answered.

"Does your ladyship mean that Miss Roseberry is in bed?" heasked.

"I mean that Miss Roseberry is in her room. I mean that I havetwice tried to persuade Miss Roseberry to dress and comedownstairs, and tried in vain. I mean that what Miss Roseberryrefuses to do for Me, she is not likely to do for You--"

How many more meanings of her own Lady Janet might have gone onenumerating, it is not easy to calculate. At her third sentence asound in the library caught her ear through the incompletelyclosed door and suspended the next words on her lips. Horaceheard it also. It was the rustling sound (traveling nearer andnearer over the library carpet) of a silken dress.

(In the interval while a coming event remains in a state ofuncertainty, what is it the inevitable tendency of everyEnglishman under thirty to do? His inevitable tendency is to asksomebody to bet on the event. He can no more resist it than hecan resist lifting his stick or his umbrella, in the absence of agun, and pretending to shoot if a bird flies by him while he isout for a walk.)

"What will your ladyship bet that this is not Grace?" criedHorace.

Her ladyship took no notice of the proposal; her attentionremained fixed on the library door. The rustling sound stoppedfor a moment. The door was softly pushed open. The false GraceRoseberry entered the room.

Horace advanced to meet her, opened his lips to speak, andstopped--struck dumb by the change in his affianced wife since hehad seen her last. Some terrible oppression seemed to havecrushed her. It was as if she had actually shrunk in height aswell as in substance. She walked more slowly than usual; shespoke more rarely than usual, and in a lower tone. To those whohad seen her before the fatal visit of the stranger fromMannheim, it was the wreck of the woman that now appeared insteadof the woman herself. And yet there was the old charm stillsurviving through it all; the grandeur of the head and eyes, thedelicate symmetry of the features, the unsought grace of everymovement--in a word, the unconquerable beauty which sufferingcannot destroy, and which time itself is powerless to wear out.Lady Janet advanced, and took her with hearty kindness by bothhands.

"My dear child, welcome among us again! You have come down stairsto please me?"

She bent her head in silent acknowledgment that it was so. LadyJanet pointed to Horace: "Here is somebody who has been longingto see you, Grace."

She never looked up; she stood submissive, her eyes fixed on alittle basket of colored wools which hung on her arm. "Thank you,Lady Janet," she said, faintly. "Thank you, Horace."

Horace placed her arm in his, and led her to the sofa. Sheshivered as she took her seat, and looked round her. It was thefirst time she had seen the dining-room since the day when shehad found herself face to face with the dead-alive.

"Why do you come here, my love?" asked Lady Janet. "Thedrawing-room would have been a warmer and a pleasanter place foryou."

"I saw a carriage at the front door. I was afraid of meeting withvisitors in the drawing-room."

As she made that reply, the servant came in, and announced thevisitors' names. Lady Janet sighed wearily. "I must go and getrid of them," she said, resigning herself to circumstances. "Whatwill _you_ do, Grace?"

"I will stay here, if you please."

"I will keep her company," added Horace.

Lady Janet hesitated. She had promised to see her nephew in thedining-room on his return to the house--and to see him alone.Would there be time enough to get rid of the visitors and toestablish her adopted daughter in the empty drawing-room beforeJulian appeared? It was ten minutes' walk to the lodge, and hehad to make the gate-keeper understand his instructions. LadyJanet decided that she had time enough at her disposal. Shenodded kindly to Mercy, and left her alone with her lover.

Horace seated himself in the vacant place on the sofa. So far asit was in his nature to devote himself to any one he was devotedto Mercy. "I am grieved to see how you have suffered," he said,with honest distress in his face as he looked at her. "Try toforget what has happened."

"I am trying to forget. Do _you_ think of it much?"

"My darling, it is too contemptible to be thought of."

She placed her work-basket on her lap. Her wasted fingers beganabsently sorting the wools inside.

"Have you seen Mr. Julian Gray?" she asked, suddenly.

"Yes."

"What does _he_ say about it?" She looked at Horace for the firsttime, steadily scrutinizing his face. Horace took refuge inprevarication.

"I really haven't asked for Julian's opinion," he said.

She looked down again, with a sigh, at the basket on herlap--considered a little--and tried him once more.

"Why has Mr. Julian Gray not been here for a whole week?" shewent on. "The servants say he has been abroad. Is that true?"

It was useless to deny it. Horace admitted that the servants wereright.

Her fingers, suddenly stopped at their restless work among thewools; her breath quickened perceptibly. What had Julian Graybeen doing abroad? Had he been making inquiries? Did he alone, ofall the people who saw that terrible meeting, suspect her? Yes!His was the finer intelligence; his was a clergyman's (a Londonclergyman's) experience of frauds and deceptions, and of thewomen who were guilty of them. Not a doubt of it now! Juliansuspected her.

"When does he come back?" she asked, in tones so low that Horacecould barely hear her.

"He has come back already. He returned last night."

A faint shade of color stole slowly over the pallor of her face.She suddenly put her basket away, and clasped her hands togetherto quiet the trembling of them, before she asked her nextquestion.

"Where is--" She paused to steady her voice. "Where is theperson," she resumed, "who came here and frightened me?"

Horace hastened to re-assure her. "The person will not comeagain," he said. "Don't talk of her! Don't think of her!"

She shook her head. "There is something I want to know," shepersisted. "How did Mr. Julian Gray become acquainted with her?"

This was easily answered. Horace mentioned the consul atMannheim, and the letter of introduction. She listened eagerly,and said her next words in a louder, firmer tone.

"She was quite a stranger, then, to Mr. Julian Gray--beforethat?"

"Quite a stranger," Horace replied. "No more questions--notanother word about her, Grace! I forbid the subject. Come, my ownlove!" he said, taking her hand and bending over her tenderly,"rally your spirits! We are young--we love each other--now is ourtime to be happy!"

Her hand turned suddenly cold, and trembled in his. Her head sankwith a helpless weariness on her breast. Horace rose in alarm.

"You are cold--you are faint, "he said. "Let me get you a glassof wine!--let me mend the fire!"

The decanters were still on the luncheon-table. Horace insistedon her drinking some port-wine. She barely took half the contentsof the wine-glass. Even that little told on her sensitiveorganization; 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 ofthe room. Her eyes followed him slowly with a hard and tearlessdespair. "Rally your spirits," she repeated to herself in awhisper. "My spirits! O God!" She looked round her at the luxuryand beauty of the room, as those look who take their leave offamiliar scenes. The moment after, her eyes sank, and rested onthe rich dress that she wore a gift from Lady Janet. She thoughtof the past; she thought of the future. Was the time near whenshe would be back again in the Refuge, or back again in thestreets?--she who had been Lady Janet's adopted daughter, andHorace Holmcroft's betrothed wife! A sudden frenzy ofrecklessness seized on her as she thought of the coming end.Horace was right! Why not rally her spirits? Why not make themost of her time? The l ast hours of her life in that house wereat hand. Why not enjoy her stolen position while she could?"Adventuress!" whispered the mocking spirit within her, "be trueto your character. Away with your remorse! Remorse is the luxuryof an honest woman." She caught up her basket of wools, inspiredby a new idea. "Ring the bell!" she cried out to Horace at thefire-place.

He looked round in wonder. The sound of her voice was socompletely altered that he almost fancied there must have beenanother woman in the room.

"Ring the bell!" she repeated. "I have left my work upstairs. Ifyou want me to be in good spirits, I must have my work."

Still looking at her, Horace put his hand mechanically to thebell and rang. One of the men-servants came in.

"Go upstairs and ask my maid for my work," she said, sharply.Even the man was taken by surprise: it was her habit to speak tothe servants with a gentleness and consideration which had longsince won all their hearts. "Do you hear me?" she asked,impatiently. The servant bowed, and went out on his errand. Sheturned to Horace with flashing eyes and fevered cheeks.

"What a comfort it is," she said, "to belong to the upperclasses! A poor woman has no maid to dress her, and no footman tosend upstairs. Is life worth having, Horace, on less than fivethousand a year?"

The servant returned with a strip of embroidery. She took it withan insolent grace, and told him to bring her a footstool. The manobeyed. She tossed the embroidery away from her on the sofa. "Onsecond thoughts, I don't care about my work," she said. "Take itupstairs again." The perfectly trained servant, marvelingprivately, obeyed once more. Horace, in silent astonishment,advanced to the sofa to observe her more nearly. "How grave youlook!" she exclaimed, with an air of flippant unconcern. "Youdon't approve of my sitting idle, perhaps? Anything to pleaseyou! _I_ haven't got to go up and downstairs. Ring the bellagain."

"My dear Grace," Horace remonstrated, gravely, "you are quitemistaken. I never even thought of your work."

"Never mind; it's inconsistent to send for my work, and then sendit away again. Ring the bell."

Horace looked at her without moving. "Grace," he said, "what hascome to you?"

"How should I know?" she retorted, carelessly. "Didn't you tellme to rally my spirits? Will you ring the bell, or must I?"

Horace submitted. He frowned as he walked back to the bell. Hewas one of the many people who instinctively resent anything thatis new to them. This strange outbreak was quite new to him. Forthe first time in his life he felt sympathy for a servant, whenthe much-enduring man appeared once more.

"Bring my work back; I have changed my mind." With that briefexplanation she reclined luxuriously on the soft sofa-cushions,swinging one of her balls of wool to and fro above her head, andlooking at it lazily as she lay back. "I have a remark to make,Horace," she went on, when the door had closed on her messenger."It is only people in our rank of life who get good servants. Didyou notice? Nothing upsets that man's temper. A servant in a poorfamily should have been impudent; a maid-of-all-work would havewondered when I was going to know my own mind." The man returnedwith the embroidery. This time she received him graciously; shedismissed him with her thanks. "Have you seen your mother lately,Horace?" she asked, suddenly sitting up and busying herself withher work.

"I saw her yesterday," Horace answered.

"She understands, I hope, that I am not well enough to call onher? She is not offended with me?"

Horace recovered his serenity. The deference to his motherimplied in Mercy's questions gently flattered his self-esteem. Heresumed his place on the sofa.

"Offended with you!" he answered, smiling." My dear Grace, shesends you her love. And, more than that, she has a weddingpresent for you."

Mercy became absorbed in her work; she stooped close over theembroidery--so close that Horace could not see her face. "Do youknow what the present is?" she asked, in lowered tones, speakingabsently.

"No. I only know it is waiting for you. Shall I go and get itto-day?"

She neither accepted nor refused the proposal--she went on withher work more industriously than ever.

"There is plenty of time," Horace persisted. "I can go beforedinner."

Still she took no notice: still she never looked up. "Your motheris very kind to me," she said, abruptly. "I was afraid, at onetime, that she would think me hardly good enough to be yourwife."

Horace laughed indulgently: his self-esteem was more gentlyflattered than ever.

"Absurd!" he exclaimed. "My darling, you are connected with LadyJanet Roy. Your family is almost as good as ours."

"Almost?" she repeated. "Only almost?"

The momentary levity of expression vanished from Horace's face.The family question was far too serious a question to be lightlytreated A becoming shadow of solemnity stole over his manner. Helooked as if it was Sunday, and he was just stepping into church.

"In OUR family," he said, "we trace back--by my father, to theSaxons; by my mother, to the Normans. Lady Janet's family is anold family--on her side only."

Mercy dropped her embroidery, and looked Horace full in the face.She, too, attached no common importance to what she had next tosay.

"If I had not been connected with Lady Janet," she began, "wouldyou ever have thought of marrying me?"

"My love! what is the use of asking? You _are_ connected withLady Janet."

She refused to let him escape answering her in that way.

"Suppose I had not been connected with Lady Janet?" shepersisted. "Suppose I had only been a good girl, with nothing butmy own merits to speak for me. What would your mother have saidthen?"

Horace still parried the question--only to find the point of itpressed home on him once more.

"Why do you ask?" he said.

"I ask to be answered," she rejoined. "Would your mother haveliked you to marry a poor girl, of no family--with nothing buther own virtues to speak for her?"

Horace was fairly pressed back to the wall.

"If you must know," he replied, "my mother would have refused tosanction such a marriage as that."

"No matter how good the girl might have been?"

There was something defiant--almost threatening--in her tone.Horace was annoyed--and he showed it when he spoke.

"My mother would have respected the girl, without ceasing torespect herself," he said. "My mother would have remembered whatwas due to the family name."

"And she would have said, No?"

"She would have said, No."

"Ah!"

There was an undertone of angry contempt in the exclamation whichmade Horace start. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered, and took up her embroidery again. Therehe sat at her side, anxiously looking at her--his hope in thefuture centered in his marriage! In a week more, if she chose,she might enter that ancient family of which he had spoken soproudly, as his wife. "Oh!" she thought, "if I didn't love him!if I had only his merciless mother to think of!"

Uneasily conscious of some estrangement between them, Horacespoke again. "Surely I have not offended you?" he said.

She turned toward him once more. The work dropped unheeded on herlap. Her grand eyes softened into tenderness. A smile trembledsadly on her delicate lips. She laid one hand caressingly on hisshoulder. All the beauty of her voice lent its charm to the nextwords that she said to him. The woman's heart hungered in itsmisery for the comfort that could only come from his lips.

"_You_ would have loved me, Horace--without stopping to think ofthe family name?"

The family name again! How strangely she persisted in coming backto that! Horace looked at her without answering, trying vainly tofathom what was passing in her mind.

She took his hand, and wrung it hard--as if she would wring theanswer out of him in that way.

"_You_ would have loved me?" she repeated.

The double spell of her voice and her touch was on him. Heanswered, warmly, "Under any circumstances! under any name!"

She put one arm round his neck, and fixed her eyes on his. "Isthat true?" she asked.

"True as t he heaven above us!"

She drank in those few commonplace words with a greedy delight.She forced him to repeat them in a new form.

"No matter who I might have been? For myself alone?"

"For yourself alone."

She threw both arms round him, and laid her head passionately onhis breast. "I love you! I love you!! I love you!!!" Her voicerose with hysterical vehemence at each repetition of thewords--then suddenly sank to a low hoarse cry of rage anddespair. The sense of her true position toward him revealeditself in all its horror as the confession of her love escapedher lips. Her arms dropped from him; she flung herself back onthe sofa-cushions, hiding her face in her hands. "Oh, leave me!"she moaned, faintly. "Go! go!"

Horace tried to wind his arm round her, and raise her. Shestarted to her feet, and waved him back from her with a wildaction of her hands, as if she was frightened of him. "Thewedding present!" she cried, seizing the first pretext thatoccurred to her. "You offered to bring me your mother's present.I am dying to see what it is. Go and get it!"

Horace tried to compose her. He might as well have tried tocompose the winds and the sea.

"Go!" she repeated, pressing one clinched hand on her bosom. "Iam not well. Talking excites me--I am hysterical; I shall bebetter alone. Get me the present. Go!"

"Shall I send Lady Janet? Shall I ring for your maid?"

"Send for nobody! ring for nobody! If you love me--leave me hereby myself! leave me instantly!"

"I shall see you when I come back?"

"Yes! yes!"

There was no alternative but to obey her. Unwillingly andforebodingly, Horace left the room.

She drew a deep breath of relief, and dropped into the nearestchair. If Horace had stayed a moment longer--she felt it, sheknew it--her head would have given way; she would have burst outbefore him with the terrible truth. "Oh!" she thought, pressingher cold hands on her burning eyes, "if I could only cry, nowthere is nobody to see me!"

The room was empty: she had every reason for concluding that shewas alone. And yet at that very moment there were ears thatlistened--there were eyes waiting to see her.

Little by little the door behind her which faced the library andled into the billiard-room was opened noiselessly from without,by an inch at a time. As the opening was enlarged a hand in ablack glove, an arm in a black sleeve, appeared, guiding themovement of the door. An interval of a moment passed, and theworn white face of Grace Roseberry showed itself stealthily,looking into the dining-room.

Her eyes brightened with vindictive pleasure as they discoveredMercy sitting alone at the further end of the room. Inch by inchshe opened the door more widely, took one step forward, andchecked herself. A sound, just audible at the far end of theconservatory, had caught her ear.

She listened--satisfied herself that she was not mistaken--anddrawing back with a frown of displeasure, softly closed the dooragain, so as to hide herself from view. The sound that haddisturbed her was the distant murmur of men's voices (apparentlytwo in number) talking together in lowered tones, at the gardenentrance to the conservatory.

Who were the men? and what would they do next? They might do oneof two things: they might enter the drawing-room, or they mightwithdraw again by way of the garden. Kneeling behind the door,with her ear at the key-hole, Grace Roseberry waited the event.