"Don't judge her harshly," he said. "She is wrong, miserably wrong. She
has recklessly degraded herself; she has recklessly tempted you. Still,
is it generous--is it even just--to hold her responsible for deliberate
sin? She is at the close of her days; she can feel no new affection; she
can never replace you. View her position in that light, and you will see
(as I see) that it is no base motive which has led her astray. Think of
her wounded heart and her wasted life--and say to yourself forgivingly,
She loves me!"
Mercy's eyes filled with tears.
"I do say it!" she answered. "Not forgivingly--it is _I_ who have need
of forgiveness. I say it gratefully when I think of her--I say it with
shame and sorrow when I think of myself."
He took her hand for the first time. He looked, guiltlessly looked, at
her downcast face. He spoke as he had spoken at the memorable interview
between them which had made a new woman of her.
"I can imagine no crueler trial," he said, "than the trial that is now
before you. The benefactress to whom you owe everything asks nothing
from you but your silence. The person whom you have wronged is no longer
present to stimulate your resolution to speak. Horace himself (unless I
am entirely mistaken) will not hold you to the explanation that you have
promised. The temptation to keep your false position in this house is, I
do not scruple to say, all but irresistible. Sister and friend! can you
still justify my faith in you? Will you still own the truth, without
the base fear of discovery to drive you to it?"
She lifted her head, with the steady light of resolution shining again
in her grand, gray eyes. Her low, sweet voice answered him, without a
faltering note in it, "I will!"
"You will do justice to the woman whom you have wronged--unworthy as she
is; powerless as she is to expose you?"
"I will!"
"You will sacrifice everything you have gained by the fraud to the
sacred duty of atonement? You will suffer anything--even though you
offend the second mother who has loved you and sinned for you--rather
than suffer the degradation of yourself?"
Her hand closed firmly on his. Again, and for the last time, she
answered, "I will!"
His voice had not trembled yet. It failed him now. His next words were
spoken in faint whispering tones--to himself; not to her.
"Thank God for this day!" he said. "I have been of some service to one
of the noblest of God's creatures!"
Some subtle influence, as he spoke, passed from his hand to hers. It
trembled through her nerves; it entwined itself mysteriously with the
finest sensibilities in her nature; it softly opened her heart to a
first vague surmising of the devotion that she had inspired in him. A
faint glow of color, lovely in its faintness, stole over her face and
neck. Her breathing quickened tremblingly. She drew her hand away from
him, and sighed when she had released it.