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?"