The New Magdalen

Her voice failed her; sobs choked her utterance. He sprang to her and

took her in his arms. She was incapable of resisting him; but there

was no yielding in her. Her head lay on his bosom, passive--horribly

passive, like the head of a corpse.

"Mercy! My darling! We will go away--we will leave England--we will take

refuge among new people in a new world--I will change my name--I will

break with relatives, friends, everybody. Anything, anything, rather

than lose you!"

She lifted her head slowly and looked at him.

He suddenly released her; he reeled back like a man staggered by a

blow, and dropped into a chair. Before she had uttered a word he saw

the terrible resolution in her face--Death, rather than yield to her own

weakness and disgrace him.

She stood with her hands lightly clasped in front of her. Her grand head

was raised; her soft gray eyes shone again undimmed by tears. The storm

of emotion had swept over her and had passed away A sad tranquillity was

in her face; a gentle resignation was in her voice. The calm of a martyr

was the calm that confronted him as she spoke her last words.

"A woman who has lived my life, a woman who has suffered what I have

suffered, may love you--as _I_ love you--but she must not be your wife.

_That_ place is too high above her. Any other place is too far below her

and below you." She paused, and advancing to the bell, gave the signal

for her departure. That done, she slowly retraced her steps until she

stood at Julian's side.

Tenderly she lifted his head and laid it for a moment on her bosom.

Silently she stooped and touched his forehead with her lips. All the

gratitude that filled her heart and all the sacrifice that rent it were

in those two actions--so modestly, so tenderly performed! As the last

lingering pressure of her fingers left him, Julian burst into tears.

The servant answered the bell. At the moment he opened the door a

woman's voice was audible in the hall speaking to him.

"Let the child go in," the voice said. "I will wait here."

The child appeared--the same forlorn little creature who had reminded

Mercy of her own early years on the day when she and Horace Holmcroft

had been out for their walk.

There was no beauty in this child; no halo of romance brightened the

commonplace horror of her story. She came cringing into the room,

staring stupidly at the magnificence all round her--the daughter of the

London streets! the pet creation of the laws of political economy! the

savage and terrible product of a worn-out system of government and of a

civilization rotten to its core! Cleaned for the first time in her life,

fed sufficiently for the first time in her life, dressed in clothes

instead of rags for the first time in her life, Mercy's sister in

adversity crept fearfully over the beautiful carpet, and stopped

wonder-struck before the marbles of an inlaid table--a blot of mud on

the splendor of the room.