The New Magdalen

It was useless to deny it. Horace admitted that the servants were right.

Her fingers, suddenly stopped at their restless work among the wools;

her breath quickened perceptibly. What had Julian Gray been doing

abroad? Had he been making inquiries? Did he alone, of all the people

who saw that terrible meeting, suspect her? Yes! His was the finer

intelligence; his was a clergyman's (a London clergyman's) experience of

frauds and deceptions, and of the women who were guilty of them. Not a

doubt of it now! Julian suspected her.

"When does he come back?" she asked, in tones so low that Horace could

barely hear her.

"He has come back already. He returned last night."

A faint shade of color stole slowly over the pallor of her face. She

suddenly put her basket away, and clasped her hands together to quiet

the trembling of them, before she asked her next question.

"Where is--" She paused to steady her voice. "Where is the person," she

resumed, "who came here and frightened me?"

Horace hastened to re-assure her. "The person will not come again," he

said. "Don't talk of her! Don't think of her!"

She shook her head. "There is something I want to know," she persisted.

"How did Mr. Julian Gray become acquainted with her?"

This was easily answered. Horace mentioned the consul at Mannheim, and

the letter of introduction. She listened eagerly, and said her next

words in a louder, firmer tone.

"She was quite a stranger, then, to Mr. Julian Gray--before that?"

"Quite a stranger," Horace replied. "No more questions--not another word

about her, Grace! I forbid the subject. Come, my own love!" he said,

taking her hand and bending over her tenderly, "rally your spirits! We

are young--we love each other--now is our time to be happy!"

Her hand turned suddenly cold, and trembled in his. Her head sank with a

helpless weariness on her breast. Horace rose in alarm.

"You are cold--you are faint," he said. "Let me get you a glass of

wine!--let me mend the fire!"

The decanters were still on the luncheon-table. Horace insisted on

her drinking some port-wine. She barely took half the contents of the

wine-glass. Even that little told on her sensitive organization;

it roused her sinking energies of body and mind. After watching her

anxiously, without attracting her notice, Horace left her again to

attend to the fire at the other end of the room. Her eyes followed

him slowly with a hard and tearless despair. "Rally your spirits," she

repeated to herself in a whisper. "My spirits! O God!" She looked round

her at the luxury and beauty of the room, as those look who take their

leave of familiar scenes. The moment after, her eyes sank, and rested on

the rich dress that she wore a gift from Lady Janet. She thought of the

past; she thought of the future. Was the time near when she would be

back again in the Refuge, or back again in the streets?--she who had

been Lady Janet's adopted daughter, and Horace Holmcroft's betrothed

wife! A sudden frenzy of recklessness seized on her as she thought of

the coming end. Horace was right! Why not rally her spirits? Why not

make the most of her time? The last hours of her life in that house

were at hand. Why not enjoy her stolen position while she could?

"Adventuress!" whispered the mocking spirit within her, "be true to your

character. Away with your remorse! Remorse is the luxury of an honest

woman." She caught up her basket of wools, inspired by a new idea. "Ring

the bell!" she cried out to Horace at the fire-place.