The New Magdalen

Julian followed her. He waited a little. Then his kind hand touched her;

his friendly voice fell consolingly on her ear.

"Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God's angels

rejoice over you! Take your place among the noblest of God's creatures!"

He raised her as he spoke. All her heart went out to him. She caught

his hand--she pressed it to her bosom; she pressed it to her lips--then

dropped it suddenly, and stood before him trembling like a frightened

child.

"Forgive me!" was all she could say. "I was so lost and lonely--and you

are so good to me!"

She tried to leave him. It was useless--her strength was gone; she

caught at the head of the couch to support herself. He looked at her.

The confession of his love was just rising to his lips--he looked again,

and checked it. No, not at that moment; not when she was helpless and

ashamed; not when her weakness might make her yield, only to regret it

at a later time. The great heart which had spared her and felt for her

from the first spared her and felt for her now.

He, too, left her--but not without a word at parting.

"Don't think of your future life just yet," he said, gently. "I have

something to propose when rest and quiet have restored you." He opened

the nearest door--the door of the dining-room--and went out.

The servants engaged in completing the decoration of the dinner-table

noticed, when "Mr. Julian" entered the room, that his eyes were

"brighter than ever." He looked (they remarked) like a man who "expected

good news." They were inclined to suspect--though he was certainly

rather young for it--that her ladyship's nephew was in a fair way of

preferment in the Church.

Mercy seated herself on the couch.

There are limits, in the physical organization of man, to the action of

pain. When suffering has reached a given point of intensity the nervous

sensibility becomes incapable of feeling more. The rule of Nature,

in this respect, applies not only to sufferers in the body, but to

sufferers in the mind as well. Grief, rage, terror, have also their

appointed limits. The moral sensibility, like the nervous sensibility,

reaches its period of absolute exhaustion, and feels no more.

The capacity for suffering in Mercy had attained its term. Alone in the

library, she could feel the physical relief of repose; she could

vaguely recall Julian's parting words to her, and sadly wonder what they

meant--she could do no more.

An interval passed; a brief interval of perfect rest.

She recovered herself sufficiently to be able to look at her watch and

to estimate the lapse of time that might yet pass before Julian returned

to her as he had promised. While her mind was still languidly following

this train of thought she was disturbed by the ringing of a bell in the

hall, used to summon the servant whose duties were connected with that

part of the house. In leaving the library, Horace had gone out by the

door which led into the hall, and had failed to close it. She plainly

heard the bell--and a moment later (more plainly still) she heard Lady

Janet's voice!