IT was done. The last tones of her voice died away in silence.

Her eyes still rested on Horace. After hearing what he had heardcould he resist that gentle, pleading look? Would he forgive her?A while since Julian had seen tears on his cheeks, and hadbelieved that he felt for her. Why was he now silent? Was itpossible that he only felt for himself?

For the last time--at the crisis of her life--Julian spoke forher. He had never loved her as he loved her at that moment; ittried even his generous nature to plead her cause with Horaceagainst himself. But he had promised her, without reserve, allthe help that her truest friend could offer. Faithfully andmanfully he redeemed his promise.

"Horace!" he said.

Horace slowly looked up. Julian rose and approached him.

"She has told you to thank _me_, if her conscience has spoken.Thank the noble nature which answered when I called upon it! Ownthe priceless value of a woman who can speak the truth. Herheartfelt repentance is a joy in heaven. Shall it not plead forher on earth? Honor her, if you are a Christian! Feel for her, ifyou are a man!"

He waited. Horace never answered him.

Mercy's eyes turned tearfully on Julian. _His_ heart was theheart that felt for her! _His_ words were the words whichcomforted and pardoned her! When she looked back again at Horace,it was with an effort. His last hold on her was lost. In herinmost mind a thought rose unbidden--a thought which was not tobe repressed. "Can I ever have loved this man?"

She advanced a step toward him ; it was not possible, even yet,to completely forgot the past. She held out her hand.

He rose on his side--without looking at her.

"Before we part forever," she said to him, "will you take my handas a token that you forgive me?"

He hesitated. He half lifted his hand. The next moment thegenerous impulse died away in him. In its place came the meanfear of what might happen if he trusted himself to the dangerousfascination of her touch. His hand dropped again at his side; heturned away quickly.

"I can't forgive her!" he said.

With that horrible confession--without even a last look ather--he left the room.

At the moment when he opened the door Julian's contempt for himburst its way through all restraints.

"Horace," he said, "I pity you!"

As the words escaped him he looked back at Mercy. She had turnedaside from both of them--she had retired to a distant part of thelibrary The first bitter foretaste of what was in store for herwhen she faced the world again had come to her from Horace! Theenergy which had sustained her thus far quailed before thedreadful prospect--doubly dreadful to a woman--of obloquy andcontempt. She sank on her knees before a little couch in thedarkest corner of the room. "O Christ, have mercy on me!" Thatwas her prayer--no more.

Julian followed her. He waited a little. Then his kind handtouched her; his friendly voice fell consolingly on her ear.

"Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God's angelsrejoice over you! Take your place among the noblest of God'screatures!"

He raised her as he spoke. All her heart went out to him. Shecaught his hand--she pressed it to her bosom; she pressed it toher lips-- then dropped it suddenly, and stood before himtrembling like a frightened child.

"Forgive me!" was all she could say. "I was so lost andlonely--and you are so good to me!"

She tried to leave him. It was useless--her strength was gone;she caught at the head of the couch to support herself. He lookedat her. The confession of his love was just rising to hislips--he looked again, and checked it. No, not at that moment;not when she was helpless and ashamed; not when her weaknessmight make her yield, only to regret it at a later time. Thegreat heart which had spared her and felt for her from the firstspared her and felt for her now.

He, too, left her--but not without a word at parting.

"Don't think of your future life just yet," he said, gently. "Ihave something to propose when rest and quiet have restored you."He opened the nearest door--the door of the dining-room--and wentout.

The servants engaged in completing the decoration of thedinner-table noticed, when "Mr. Julian" entered the room, thathis eyes were "brighter than ever." He looked (they remarked)like a man who "expected good news." They were inclined tosuspect--though he was certainly rather young for it--that herladyship's nephew was in a fair way of preferment in the Church.

Mercy seated herself on the couch.

There are limits, in the physical organization of man, to theaction of pain. When suffering has reached a given point ofintensity the nervous sensibility becomes incapable of feelingmore. The rule of Nature, in this respect, applies not only tosufferers in the body, but to sufferers in the mind as well.Grief, rage, terror, have also their appointed limits. The moralsensibility, like the nervous sensibility, reaches its period ofabsolute exhaustion, and feels no more.

The capacity for suffering in Mercy had attained its term. Alonein the library, she could feel the physical relief of repose; shecould vaguely recall Julian's parting words to her, and sadlywonder what they meant--she could do no more.

An interval passed; a brief interval of perfect rest.

She recovered herself sufficiently to be able to look at herwatch and to estimate the lapse of time that might yet passbefore Julian returned to her as he had promised. While her mindwas still languidly following this train of thought she wasdisturbed by the ringing of a bell in the hall, used to summonthe servant whose duties were connected with that part of thehouse. In leaving the library, Horace had gone out by the doorwhich led into the hall, and had failed to close it. She plainlyheard the bell--and a moment later (more plainly still) she heardLady Janet's voice!

She started to her feet. Lady Janet's letter was still in thepocket of her apron--the letter which imperatively commanded herto abstain from making the very confession that had just passedher lips! It was near the dinner hour, and the library was thefavorite place in which the mistress of the house and her guestsassembled at that time. It was no matter of doubt; it was anabsolute certainty that Lady Janet had only stopped in the hallon her way into the room.

The alternative for Mercy lay between instantly leaving thelibrary by the dining-room door--or remaining where she was, atthe risk of being sooner or later compelled to own that she haddeliberately disobeyed her benefactress. Exhausted by what shehad already suffered, she stood trembling and irresolute,incapable of deciding which alternative she should choose.

Lady Janet's voice, clear and resolute, penetrated into the room.She was reprimanding the servant who had answered the bell.

"Is it your duty in my house to look after the lamps?"

"Yes, my lady."

"And is it my duty to pay you your wages?""

"If you please, my lady."

"Why do I find the light in the hall dim, and the wick of thatlamp smoking? I have not failed in my duty to You. Don't let mefind you failing again in your duty to Me."

(Never had Lady Janet's voice sounded so sternly in Mercy's earas it sounded now. If she spoke with that tone of severity to aservant who had neglected a lamp, what had her adopted daughterto expect when she discovered that her entreaties and hercommands had been alike set at defiance?)

Having administered her reprimand, Lady Janet had not done withthe servant yet. She had a question to put to him next.

"Where is Miss Roseberry?"

"In the library, my lady."

Mercy returned to the couch. She could stand no longer; she hadnot even resolution enough left to lift her eyes to the door.

Lady Janet came in more rapidly than usual. She advanced to thecouch, and tapped Mercy playfully on the cheek with two of herfingers.

"You lazy child! Not dressed for dinner? Oh, fie, fie!"

Her tone was as playfully affectionate as the action which hadaccompanied her words. In speechless astonishment Mercy looked upat her.

Always remarkable for the taste and splendor of her dress, LadyJanet had on this occasion surpassed herself. There she stoodrevealed in her grandest velvet, her richest jewelry, her finestlace--with no one to entertain at the dinner-table but theordinary members of the circle at Mablethorpe House. Noticingthis as strange to begin with, Mercy further observed, for thefirst time in her experience, that Lady Janet's eyes avoidedmeeting hers. The old lady took her place companionably on thecouch; she ridiculed her "lazy child's" plain dress, without anornament of any sort on it, with her best grace; sheaffectionately put her arm round Mercy's waist, and rearrangedwith her own hand the disordered locks of Mercy's hair--but theinstant Mercy herself looked at her, Lady Janet's eyes discoveredsomething supremely interesting in the familiar objects thatsurrounded her on the library walls.

How were these changes to be interpreted? To what possibleconclusion did they point?

Julian's profounder knowledge of human nature, if Julian had beenpresent, might have found a clew to the mystery. _He_ might havesurmised (incredible as it was) that Mercy's timidity before LadyJanet was fully reciprocated by Lady Janet's timidity beforeMercy. It was even so. The woman whose immovable composure hadconquered Grace Roseberry's utmost insolence in the hour of hertriumph--the woman who, without once flinching, had faced everyother consequence of her resolution to ignore Mercy's trueposition in the house--quailed for the first time when she foundherself face to face with the very person for who m she hadsuffered and sacrificed so much. She had shrunk from the meetingwith Mercy, as Mercy had shrunk from the meeting with _her_. Thesplendor of her dress meant simply that, when other excuses fordelaying the meeting downstairs had all been exhausted, theexcuse of a long, and elaborate toilet had been tried next. Eventhe moments occupied in reprimanding the servant had been momentsseized on as the pretext for another delay. The hasty entranceinto the room, the nervous assumption of playfulness in languageand manner, the evasive and wandering eyes, were all referable tothe same cause. In the presence of others, Lady Janet hadsuccessfully silenced the protest of her own inbred delicacy andinbred sense of honor. In the presence of Mercy, whom she lovedwith a mother's love--in the presence of Mercy, for whom she hadstooped to deliberate concealment of the truth--all that was highand noble in the woman's nature rose in her and rebuked her. Whatwill the daughter of my adoption, the child of my first and lastexperience of maternal love, think of me, now that I have mademyself an accomplice in the fraud of which she is ashamed? Howcan I look her in the face, when I have not hesitated, out ofselfish consideration for my own tranquillity, to forbid thatfrank avowal of the truth which her finer sense of duty hadspontaneously bound her to make? Those were the torturingquestions in Lady Janet's mind, while her arm was woundaffectionately round Mercy's waist, while her fingers werebusying themselves familiarly with the arrangement of Mercy'shair. Thence, and thence only, sprang the impulse which set hertalking, with an uneasy affectation of frivolity, of any topicwithin the range of conversation, so long as it related to thefuture, and completely ignored the present and the past.

"The winter here is unendurable," Lady Janet began. "I have beenthinking, Grace, about what we had better do next."

Mercy started. Lady Janet had called her "Grace." Lady Janet wasstill deliberately assuming to be innocent of the faintestsuspicion of the truth.

" No," resumed her ladyship, affecting to misunderstand Mercy'smovement, "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, mydear. You have reached the perfection of shabbiness. Ah! Iremember when I had my whims and fancies too, and when I lookedwell in anything I wore, just as you do. No more of that. As Iwas saying, I have been thinking and planning what we are to do.We really can't stay here. Cold one day, and hot the next--what aclimate! As for society, what do we lose if we go away? There isno such thing as society now. Assemblies of well-dressed mobsmeet at each other's houses, tear each other's clothes, tread oneach other's toes. If you are particularly lucky, you sit on thestaircase, you get a tepid ice, and you hear vapid talk in slangphrases all round you. There is modern society. If we had a goodopera, it would be something to stay in London for. Look at theprogramme for the season on that table--promising as much aspossible on paper, and performing as little as possible on thestage. The same works, sung by the same singers year after year,to the same stupid people--in short the dullest musical eveningsin Europe. No! the more I think of it, the more plainly Iperceive that there is but one sensible choice before us: we mustgo abroad. Set that pretty head to work; choose north or south,east or west; it's all the same to me. Where shall we go?"

Mercy looked at her quickly as she put the question.

Lady Janet, more quickly yet, looked away at the programme of theopera-house. Still the same melancholy false pretenses! still thesame useless and cruel delay! Incapable of enduring the positionnow forced upon her, Mercy put her hand into the pocket of herapron, and drew from it Lady Janet's letter.

"Will your ladyship forgive me," she began, in faint, falteringtones, "if I venture on a painful subject? I hardly dareacknowledge--" In spite of her resolution to speak out plainly,the memory of past love and past kindness prevailed with her; thenext words died away on her lips. She could only hold up theletter.

Lady Janet declined to see the letter. Lady Janet suddenly becameabsorbed in the arrangement of her bracelets.

"I know what you daren't acknowledge, you foolish child!" sheexclaimed. "You daren't acknowledge that you are tired of thisdull house. My dear! I am entirely of your opinion--I am weary ofmy own magnificence; I long to be living in one snug little room,with one servant to wait on me. I'll tell you what we will do. Wewill go to Paris, in the first place. My excellent Migliore,prince of couriers, shall be the only person in attendance. Heshall take a lodging for us in one of the unfashionable quartersof Paris. We will rough it, Grace (to use the slang phrase),merely for a change. We will lead what they call a 'Bohemianlife.' I know plenty of writers and painters and actors inParis--the liveliest society in the world, my dear, until onegets tired of them. We will dine at the restaurant, and go to theplay, and drive about in shabby little hired carriages. And whenit begins to get monotonous (which it is only too sure to do!) wewill spread our wings and fly to Italy, and cheat the winter inthat way. There is a plan for you! Migliore is in town. I willsend to him this evening, and we will start to-morrow."

Mercy made another effort.

"I entreat your ladyship to pardon me," she resumed. "I havesomething serious to say. I am afraid--"

"I understand. You are afraid of crossing the Channel, and youdon't like to acknowledge it. Pooh! The passage barely lasts twohours; we will shut ourselves up in a private cabin. I will sendat once--the courier may be engaged. Ring the bell."

"Lady Janet, I must submit to my hard lot. I cannot hope toassociate myself again with any future plans of yours--"

"What! you are afraid of our 'Bohemian life' in Paris? Observethis, Grace! If there is one thing I hate more than another, itis 'an old head on young shoulders.' I say no more. Ring thebell."

"This cannot go on, Lady Janet! No words can say how unworthy Ifeel of your kindness, how ashamed I am--"

"Upon my honor, my dear, I agree with you. You _ought_ to beashamed, at your age, of making me get up to ring the bell."

Her obstinacy was immovable; she attempted to rise from thecouch. But one choice was left to Mercy. She anticipated LadyJanet, and rang the bell.

The man-servant came in. He had his little letter-tray in hishand, with a card on it, and a sheet of paper beside the card,which looked like an open letter.

"You know where my courier lives when he is in London?' askedLady Janet.

"Yes, my lady."

"Send one of the grooms to him on horseback; I am in a hurry. Thecourier is to come here without fail to-morrow morning--in timefor the tidal train to Paris. You understand?"

"Yes, my lady."

"What have you got there? Anything for me?"

"For Miss Roseberry, my lady."

As he answered, the man handed the card and the open letter toMercy.

"The lady is waiting in the morning-room, miss. She wished me tosay she has time to spare, and she will wait for you if you arenot ready yet."

Having delivered his message in those terms, he withdrew.

Mercy read the name on the card. The matron had arrived! Shelooked at the letter next. It appeared to be a printed circular,with some lines in pencil added on the empty page. Printed linesand written lines swam before her eyes. She felt, rather thansaw, Lady Janet's attention steadily and suspiciously fixed onher. With the matron's arrival the foredoomed end of the flimsyfalse pretenses and the cruel delays had come.

"A friend of yours, my dear?"

"Yes, Lady Janet."

"Am I acquainted with her?"

"I think not, Lady Janet."

"You appear to be agitated. Does your visitor bring bad news? Isthere anything that I can do for you?"

"You can add--immeasurably add, madam-- to all your pastkindness, if you will only bear with me and forgive me."

"Bear with you and forgive you? I don't understand."

"I will try to explain . Whatever else you may think of me, LadyJanet, for God's sake don't think me ungrateful!"

Lady Janet held up her hand for silence.

"I dislike explanations," she said, sharply. "Nobody ought toknow that better than you. Perhaps the lady's letter will explainfor you. Why have you not looked at it yet?"

"I am in great trouble, madam, as you noticed just now--"

"Have you any objection to my knowing who your visitor is?"

"No, Lady Janet."

"Let me look at her card, then."

Mercy gave the matron's card to Lady Janet, as she had given thematron's telegram to Horace.

Lady Janet read the name on the card--considered--decided that itwas a name quite unknown to her--and looked next at the address:"Western District Refuge, Milburn Road."

"A lady connected with a Refuge?" she said, speaking to herself;"and calling here by appointment--if I remember the servant'smessage? A strange time to choose, if she has come for asubscription!"

She paused. Her brow contracted; her face hardened. A word fromher would now have brought the interview to its inevitable end,and she refused to speak the word. To the last moment shepersisted in ignoring the truth! Placing the card on the couch ather side, she pointed with her long yellow-white forefinger tothe printed letter lying side by side with her own letter onMercy's lap.

"Do you mean to read it, or not?" she asked.

Mercy lifted her eyes, fast filling with tears, to Lady Janet'sface.

"May I beg that your ladyship will read it for me?" she said--andplaced the matron's letter in Lady Janet's hand.

It was a printed circular announcing a new development in thecharitable work of the Refuge. Subscribers were informed that ithad been decided to extend the shelter and the training of theinstitution (thus far devoted to fallen women alone) so as toinclude destitute and helpless children found wandering in thestreets. The question of the number of children to be thusrescued and protected was left dependent, as a matter of course,on the bounty of the friends of the Refuge, the cost of themaintenance of each child being stated at the lowest possiblerate. A list of influential persons who had increased theirsubscriptions so as to cover the cost, and a brief statement ofthe progress already made with the new work, completed theappeal, and brought the circular to its end.

The lines traced in pencil (in the matron's handwriting) followedon the blank page.

"Your letter tells me, my dear, that you would like--rememberingyour own childhood--to be employed when you return among us insaving other poor children left helpless on the world. Ourcircular will inform you that I am able to meet your wishes. Myfirst errand this evening in your neighborhood was to take chargeof a poor child--a little girl--who stands sadly in need of ourcare. I have ventured to bring her with me, thinking she mighthelp to reconcile you to the coming change in your life. You willfind us both waiting to go back with you to the old home. I writethis instead of saying it, hearing from the servant that you arenot alone, and being unwilling to intrude myself, as a stranger,on the lady of the house."

Lady Janet read the penciled lines, as she had read the printedsentences, aloud. Without a word of comment she laid the letterwhere she had laid the card; and, rising from her seat, stood fora moment in stern silence, looking at Mercy. The sudden change inher which the letter had produced--quietly as it had takenplace--was terrible to see. On the frowning brow, in the flashingeyes, on the hardened lips, outraged love and outraged pridelooked down on the lost woman, and said, as if in words, You haveroused us at last.

"If that letter means anything,'' she said, "it means you areabout to leave my house. There can be but one reason for yourtaking such a step as that."

"It is the only atonement I can make, madam"

"I see another letter on your lap. Is it my letter?"

"Yes."

"Have you read it?"

"I have read it."

"Have you seen Horace Holmcroft?"

"Yes."

"Have you told Horace Holmcroft--"

"Oh, Lady Janet--"

"Don't interrupt me. Have you told Horace Holmcroft what myletter positively forbade you to communicate, either to him or toany living creature? I want no protestations and excuses. Answerme instantly, and answer in one word--Yes, or No."

Not even that haughty language, not even those pitiless tones,could extinguish in Mercy's heart the sacred memories of pastkindness and past love. She fell on her knees--her outstretchedhands touched Lady Janet's dress. Lady Janet sharply drew herdress away, and sternly repeated her last words.

"Yes? or No?"

"Yes."

She had owned it at last! To this end Lady Janet had submitted toGrace Roseberry; had offended Horace Holmcroft; had stooped, forthe first time in her life, to concealments and compromises thatdegraded her. After all that she had sacrificed and suffered,there Mercy knelt at her feet, self-convicted of violating hercommands, trampling on her feelings, deserting her house! And whowas the woman who had done this? The same woman who hadperpetrated the fraud, and who had persisted in the fraud untilher benefactress had descended to become her accomplice. Then,and then only, she had suddenly discovered that it was her sacredduty to tell the truth!

In proud silence the great lady met the blow that had fallen onher. In proud silence she turned her back on her adopted daughterand walked to the door.

Mercy made her last appeal to the kind friend whom she hadoffended--to the second mother whom she had loved.

"Lady Janet! Lady Janet! Don't leave me without a word. Oh,madam, try to feel for me a little! I am returning to a life ofhumiliation--the shadow of my old disgrace is falling on me oncemore. We shall never meet again. Even though I have not deservedit, let my repentance plead with you! Say you forgive me!"

Lady Janet turned round on the threshold of the door.

"I never forgive ingratitude," she said. "Go back to the Refuge."

The door opened and closed on her. Mercy was alone again in theroom.

Unforgiven by Horace, unforgiven by Lady Janet! She put her handsto her burning head and tried to think. Oh, for the cool air ofthe night! Oh, for the friendly shelter of the Refuge! She couldfeel those sad longings in her: it was impossible to think.

She rang the bell--and shrank back the instant she had done it.Had _she_ any right to take that liberty? She ought to havethought of it before she rang. Habit--all habit. How manyhundreds of times she had rung the bell at Mablethorpe House!

The servant came in. She amazed the man-- she spoke to him sotimidly: she even apologized for troubling him!

"I am sorry to disturb you. Will you be so kind as to say to thelady that I am ready for her?"

"Wait to give that message," said a voice behind them, "until youhear the bell rung again."

Mercy looked round in amazement. Julian had returned to thelibrary by the dining-room door.