The New Magdalen

To hesitate was, in this case, literally to be lost. Mercy's sense

of justice told her that Horace had claimed no more than his due. She

answered instantly: "I will follow you to the library, Horace, in five minutes."

Her prompt and frank compliance with his wishes surprised and touched

him. He took her hand.

She had endured all that his angry sense of injury could say. His

gratitude wounded her to the quick. The bitterest moment she had felt

yet was the moment in which he raised her hand to his lips, and murmured

tenderly, "My own true Grace!" She could only sign to him to leave her,

and hurry back into her own room.

Her first feeling, when she found herself alone again, was

wonder--wonder that it should never have occurred to her, until he had

himself suggested it, that her betrothed husband had the foremost right

to her confession. Her horror at owning to either of them that she had

cheated them out of their love had hitherto placed Horace and Lady Janet

on the same level. She now saw for the first time that there was no

comparison between the claims which they respectively had on her. She

owned an allegiance to Horace to which Lady Janet could assert no right.

Cost her what it might to avow the truth to him with her own lips, the

cruel sacrifice must be made.

Without a moment's hesitation she put away her writing materials. It

amazed her that she should ever have thought of using Julian Gray as

an interpreter between the man to whom she was betrothed and herself.

Julian's sympathy (she thought) must have made a strong impression on

her indeed to blind her to a duty which was beyond all compromise, which

admitted of no dispute!

She had asked for five minutes of delay before she followed Horace. It

was too long a time.

Her one chance of finding courage to crush him with the dreadful

revelation of who she really was, of what she had really done, was

to plunge headlong into the disclosure without giving herself time to

think. The shame of it would overpower her if she gave herself time to

think.

She turned to the door to follow him at once.

Even at that terrible moment the most ineradicable of all a woman's

instincts--the instinct of personal self-respect--brought her to a

pause. She had passed through more than one terrible trial since she had

dressed to go downstairs. Remembering this, she stopped mechanically,

retraced her steps, and looked at herself in the glass.

There was no motive of vanity in what she now did. The action was as

unconscious as if she had buttoned an unfastened glove, or shaken out a

crumpled dress. Not the faintest idea crossed her mind of looking to see

if her beauty might still plead for her, and of trying to set it off at

its best.