THERE was a pause.

The moments passed--and not one of the three moved. The moments

passed--and not one of the three spoke. Insensibly the words of

supplication died away on Julian's lips. Even his energy failed to

sustain him, tried as it now was by the crushing oppression of suspense.

The first trifling movement which suggested the idea of change, and

which so brought with it the first vague sense of relief, came from

Mercy. Incapable of sustaining the prolonged effort of standing, she

drew back a little and took a chair. No outward manifestation of emotion

escaped her. There she sat--with the death-like torpor of resignation in

her face--waiting her sentence in silence from the man at whom she had

hurled the whole terrible confession of the truth in one sentence!

Julian lifted his head as she moved. He looked at Horace, and advancing

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's too

late!"

She moved mechanically in her chair; she looked mechanically at Julian.

"What more have I to say to him?" she asked, in faint, weary tones. "Did

I not tell him everything when I told him my name?"

The natural sound of her voice might have failed to affect Horace. The

altered sound of it roused him. He approached Mercy's chair, with a dull

surprise in his face, and put his hand, in a weak, wavering way, on her

shoulder. In that position he stood for a while, looking down at her in

silence.

The one idea in him that found its way outward to expression was the

idea of Julian. Without moving his hand, without looking up from Mercy,

he spoke for the first time since the shock had fallen 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's

shoulder, and went up to his head--then dropped at his side. His next

words were spoken in a sadly helpless, bewildered way.

"I have an idea, Julian, that I have been somehow to blame. I said some

hard words to you. It was a little while since. I don't clearly remember

what it was all about. My temper has been a good deal tried in this

house; I have never been used to the sort of thing that goes on

here--secrets and mysteries, and hateful low-lived quarrels. We have

no secrets and mysteries at home. And as for quarrels--ridiculous!

My mother and my sisters are highly bred women (you know them);

gentlewomen, in the best sense of the word. When I am with _them_ I have

no anxieties. I am not harassed at home by doubts of who people are, and

confusion about names, and so on. I suspect the contrast weighs a little

on my mind 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 about myself now. I

want you to help me. Shall I make an apology first?"




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