IT was done. The last tones of her voice died away in silence.
Her eyes still rested on Horace. After hearing what he had heard could
he resist that gentle, pleading look? Would he forgive her? A while
since Julian had seen tears on his cheeks, and had believed that he felt
for her. Why was he now silent? Was it possible that he only felt for
himself?
For the last time--at the crisis of her life--Julian spoke for her. He
had never loved her as he loved her at that moment; it tried even his
generous nature to plead her cause with Horace against himself. But he
had promised her, without reserve, all the help that her truest friend
could offer. Faithfully and manfully he redeemed his promise.
"Horace!" he said.
Horace slowly looked up. Julian rose and approached him.
"She has told you to thank _me_, if her conscience has spoken. Thank
the noble nature which answered when I called upon it! Own the priceless
value of a woman who can speak the truth. Her heartfelt repentance is
a joy in heaven. Shall it not plead for her on earth? Honor her, if you
are a Christian! Feel for her, if you are a man!"
He waited. Horace never answered him.
Mercy's eyes turned tearfully on Julian. _His_ heart was the heart that
felt for her! _His_ words were the words which comforted and pardoned
her! When she looked back again at Horace, it was with an effort. His
last hold on her was lost. In her inmost mind a thought rose unbidden--a
thought which was not to be repressed. "Can I ever have loved this man?"
She advanced a step toward him; it was not possible, even yet, to
completely forgot the past. She held out her hand.
He rose on his side--without looking at her.
"Before we part forever," she said to him, "will you take my hand as a
token that you forgive me?"
He hesitated. He half lifted his hand. The next moment the generous
impulse died away in him. In its place came the mean fear of what might
happen if he trusted himself to the dangerous fascination of her touch.
His hand dropped again at his side; he turned away quickly.
"I can't forgive her!" he said.
With that horrible confession--without even a last look at her--he left
the room.
At the moment when he opened the door Julian's contempt for him burst
its way through all restraints.
"Horace," he said, "I pity you!"
As the words escaped him he looked back at Mercy. She had turned aside
from both of them--she had retired to a distant part of the library The
first bitter foretaste of what was in store for her when she faced the
world again had come to her from Horace! The energy which had sustained
her thus far quailed before the dreadful prospect--doubly dreadful to
a woman--of obloquy and contempt. She sank on her knees before a little
couch in the darkest corner of the room. "O Christ, have mercy on me!"
That was her prayer--no more.