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.
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 _he_ would
be the sufferer, for _he_ had a character--a clergyman's character--to
lose. No. For his sake, out of gratitude to _him_, the farewell to
Mablethorpe House must be also the farewell to Julian Gray.
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.
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--to point her way mockingly to the bridges over
the black river--to lure her to the top of the parapet, and the dreadful
leap into God's arms, or into annihilation--who knew which?
She turned, shuddering, from the window. "Will it end in that way," she
asked herself, "if the matron says No?"
She began her letter.
"DEAR MADAM--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.
"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--now, when I repent with my whole heart--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.
"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?