THERE was a pause.

The moments passed--and not one of the three moved. The momentspassed--and not one of the three spoke. Insensibly the words ofsupplication died away on Julian's lips. Even his energy failedto sustain him, tried as it now was by the crushing oppression ofsuspense. The first trifling movement which suggested the idea ofchange, and which so brought with it the first vague sense ofrelief, came from Mercy. Incapable of sustaining the prolongedeffort of standing, she drew back a little and took a chair. Nooutward manifestation of emotion escaped her. There she sat--withthe death-like torpor of resignation in her face--waiting hersentence in silence from the man at whom she had hurled the wholeterrible confession of the truth in one sentence!

Julian lifted his head as she moved. He looked at Horace. andadvancing a few steps, looked again. There was fear in his face,as he suddenly turned it toward Mercy.

"Speak to him!" he said, in a whisper. "Rouse him, before it'stoo late!"

She moved mechanically in her chair; she looked mechanically atJulian.

"What more have I to say to him?" she asked, in faint, wearytones. "Did I not tell him everything when I told him my name?"

The natural sound of her voice might have failed to affectHorace. The altered sound of it roused him. He approached Mercy'schair, with a dull surprise in his face, and put his hand, in aweak, wavering way, on her shoulder. In that position he stoodfor a while, looking down at her in silence.

The one idea in him that found its way outward to expression wasthe idea of Julian. Without moving his hand, without looking upfrom Mercy, he spoke for the first time since the shock hadfallen on him.

"Where is Julian?" he asked, very quietly.

"I am here, Horace--close by you."

"Will you do me a service?"

"Certainly. How can I help you?"

He considered a little before he replied. His hand left Mercy'sshoulder, and went up to his head--then dropped at his side. Hisnext words were spoken in a sadly helpless, bewildered way.

"I have an idea, Julian, that I have been somehow to blame. Isaid some hard words to you. It was a little while since. I don'tclearly remember what it was all about. My temper has been a gooddeal tried in this house; I have never been used to the sort ofthing that goes on here--secrets and mysteries, and hatefullow-lived quarrels. We have no secrets and mysteries at home. Andas for quarrels-- ridiculous! My mother and my sisters are highlybred women (you know them); gentlewomen, in the best sense of theword. When I am with _them_ I have no anxieties. I am notharassed at home by doubts of who people are, and confusion aboutnames, and so on. I suspect the contrast weighs a little on mymind and upsets it. They make me over-suspicious among them here,and it ends in my feeling doubts and fears that I can't get over:doubts about you and fears about myself. I have got a fear aboutmyself now. I want you to help me. Shall I make an apologyfirst?"

"Don't say a word. Tell me what I can do."

He turned his face toward Julian for the first time.

"Just look at me," he said. "Does it strike you that I am at allwrong in my mind? Tell me the truth, old fellow."

"Your nerves are a little shaken, Horace. Nothing more."

He considered again after that reply, his eyes remaininganxiously fixed on Julian's face.

"My nerves are a little shaken," he repeated. "That is true; Ifeel they are shaken. I should like, if you don't mind, to makesure that it's no worse. Will you help me to try if my memory isall right?"

"I will do anything you like."

"Ah! you are a good fellow, Julian--and a clear-headed fellowtoo, which is very important just now. Look here! I say it'sabout a week since the troubles began in this house. Do you sayso too?"

"Yes."

"The troubles came in with the coming of a woman from Germany, astranger to us, who behaved very violently in the dining-roomthere. Am I right, so far?"

"Quite right."

"The woman carried matters with a high hand. She claimed ColonelRoseberry--I wish to be strictly accurate--she claimed _the late_Colonel Roseberry as her father. She told a tiresome story abouther having been robbed of her papers and her name by an impostorwho had personated her. She said the name of the impostor wasMercy Merrick. And she afterward put the climax to it all: shepointed to the lady who is engaged to be my wife, and declaredthat _she_ was Mercy Merrick. Tell me again, is that right orwrong?"

Julian answered him as before. He went on, speaking moreconfidently and more excitedly than he had spoken yet.

"Now attend to this, Julian. I am going to pass from my memory ofwhat happened a week ago to my memory of what happened fiveminutes since. You were present; I want to know if you heard ittoo." He paused, and, without taking his eyes off Julian, pointedbackward to Mercy. "There is the lady who is engaged to marryme," he resumed. "Did I, or did I not, hear her say that she hadcome 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 wasMercy Merrick? Answer me, Julian. My good friend, answer me, forthe sake of old times."

His voice faltered as he spoke those imploring words. Under thedull blank of his face there appeared the first signs of emotionslowly forcing its way outward. The stunned mind was revivingfaintly. Julian saw his opportunity of aiding the recovery, andseized it. He took Horace gently by the arm, and pointed toMercy.

"There is your answer!" he said. "Look!-- and pity her."

She had not once interrupted them while they had been speaking:she had changed her position again, and that was all. There was awriting-table at the side of her chair; her outstretched armsrested on it. Her head had dropped on her arms, and her face washidden. Julian's judgment had not misled him; the utterself-abandonment of her attitude answered Horace as no humanlanguage could have answered him. He looked at her. A quick spasmof pain passed across his face. He turned once more to thefaithful friend who had forgiven him. His head fell on Julian'sshoulder, and he burst into tears.

Mercy started wildly to her feet, and looked at the two men.

"O God" she cried, "what have I done!"

Julian quieted her by a motion of his hand.

"You have helped me to save him,'' he said. "Let his tears havetheir way. Wait."

He put one arm round Horace to support him. The manly tendernessof the action, the complete and noble pardon of past injurieswhich it implied, touched Mercy to the heart. She went back toher chair. Again shame and sorrow overpowered her, and again shehid her face from view.

Julian led Horace to a seat, and silently waited by him until hehad recovered his self-control. He gratefully took the kind handthat had sustained him: he said, simply, almost boyishly, "Thankyou, Julian. I am better now."

"Are you composed enough to listen to what is said to you?"Julian asked.

"Yes. Do _you_ wish to speak to me?"

Julian left him without immediately replying, and returned toMercy.

"The time has come," he said. "Tell him all--truly, unreservedly,as you would tell it to me."

She shuddered as he spoke. "Have I not told him enough?" sheasked. "Do you want me to break his heart? Look at him! Look whatI have done already!"

Horace shrank from the ordeal as Mercy shrank from it.

"No, no! I can't listen to it! I daren't listen to it!" he cried,and rose to leave the room.

Julian had taken the good work in hand: he never faltered over itfor an instant. Horace had loved her--how dearly Julian now knewfor the first time. The bare possibility that she might earn herpardon if she was allowed to plead her own cause was apossibility still left. To let her win on Horace to forgive her,was death to the love that still filled his heart in secret. Buthe never hesitated. With a resolution which the weaker man waspowerless to resist, he took him by the arm and led him back tohis place.

"For her sake, and for your sake, you shall not condemn herunheard," he said to Horace, firmly. "One temptation to deceiveyou after another has tried her, and she has resisted them all.With no discovery to fear, with a letter from the benefactresswho loves her commanding her to be silent, with everything that awoman values in this world to lose, if she owns what she hasdone--_this_ woman, for the truth's sake, has spoken the truth.Does she deserve nothing at your hands in return for that?Respect her, Horace--and hear her."

Horace yielded. Julian turned to Mercy.

"You have allowed me to guide you so far," he said. "Will youallow me to guide you still?"

Her eyes sank before his; her bosom rose and fell rapidly. Hisinfluence over her maintained its sway. She bowed her head inspeechless submission.

"Tell him,'' Julian proceeded, in accents of entreaty, not ofcommand--"tell him what your life has been. Tell him how you weretried and tempted, with no friend near to speak the words whichmight have saved you. And then," he added, raising her from thechair, "let him judge you--if he can!"

He attempted to lead her across the room to the place whichHorace occupied. But her submission had its limits. Half-way tothe place she stopped, and refused to go further. Julian offeredher a chair. She declined to take it. Standing with one hand onthe back of the chair, she waited for the word from Horace whichwould permit her to speak. She was resigned to the ordeal. Herface was calm; her mind was clear. The hardest of allhumiliations to endure--the humiliation of acknowledging hername--she had passed through. Nothing remained but to show hergratitude to Julian by acceding to his wishes, and to ask pardonof Horace before they parted forever. In a little while theMatron would arrive at the house-- and then it would be over.

Unwillingly Horace looked at her. Their eyes met. He broke outsuddenly with something of his former violence.

"I can't realize it even now!" he cried. "_Is_ it true that youare not Grace Roseberry? Don't look at me! Say in one word--Yesor No!"

She answered him, humbly and sadly, "Yes."

"You have done what that woman accused you of doing? Am I tobelieve that?"

"You are to believe it, sir."

All the weakness of Horace's character disclosed itself when shemade that reply.

"Infamous!" he exclaimed. "What excuse can you make for the crueldeception you have practiced on me? Too bad! too bad! There canbe no excuse for you!"

She accepted his reproaches with unshaken resignation. "I havedeserved it!" was all she said to herself, "I have deserved it!"

Julian interposed once more in Mercy's defense.

"Wait till you are sure there is no excuse for her, Horace," hesaid, quietly. "Grant her justice, if you can grant no more. Ileave you together."

He advanced toward the door of the dining-room. Horace's weaknessdisclosed itself once more.

"Don't leave me alone with her!" he burst out. "The misery of itis more than I can bear!"

Julian looked at Mercy. Her face brightened faintly. Thatmomentary expression of relief told him how truly he would bebefriending her if he consented to remain in the room. A positionof retirement was offered to him by a recess formed by thecentral bay-window of the library. If he occupied this place,they could see or not see that he was present, as their owninclinations might decide them.

"I will stay with you, Horace, as long as you wish me to behere." Having answered in those terms, he stopped as he passedMercy, on his way to the window. His quick and kindly insighttold him that he might still be of some service to her. A hintfrom hi m might show her the shortest and the easiest way ofmaking her confession. Delicately and briefly he gave her thehint. "The first time I met you," he said, "I saw that your lifehad had its troubles. Let us hear how those troubles began."

He withdrew to his place in the recess. For the first time, sincethe fatal evening when she and Grace Roseberry had met in theFrench cottage, Mercy Merrick looked back into the purgatory onearth of her past life, and told her sad story simply and trulyin these words.