MERCY was alone.

She had secured one half hour of retirement in her own room,designing to devote that interval to the writing of herconfession, in the form of a letter addressed to Julian Gray.

No recent change in her position had, as yet, mitigated herhorror of acknowledging to Horace and to Lady Janet that she hadwon her way to their hearts in disguise. Through Julian onlycould she say the words which were to establish Grace Roseberryin her right position in the house.

How was her confession to be addressed to him? In writing? or byword of mouth?

After all that had happened, from the time when Lady Janet'sappearance had interrupted them, she would have felt reliefrather than embarrassment in personally opening her heart to theman who had so delicately understood her, who had so faithfullybefriended her in her sorest need. But the repeated betrayals ofHorace's jealous suspicion of Julian warned her that she wouldonly be surrounding herself with new difficulties, and be placingJulian in a position of painful embarrassment, if she admittedhim to a private interview while Horace was in the house.

The one course left to take was the course that she had adopted.Determining to address the narrative of the Fraud to Julian inthe form of a letter, she arranged to add, at the close, certaininstructions, pointing out to him the line of conduct which shewished him to pursue,

These instructions contemplated the communication of her letterto Lady Janet and to Horace in the library, whileMercy--self-confessed as the missing woman whom she had pledgedherself to produce--awaited in the adjoining room whateversentence it pleased them to pronounce on her. Her resolution notto screen herself behind Julian from any consequences which mightfollow the confession had taken root in her mind from the momentwhen Horace had harshly asked her (and when Lady Janet had joinedhim in asking) why she delayed her explanation, and what she waskeeping them waiting for. Out of the very pain which thosequestions inflicted, the idea of waiting her sentence in her ownperson in one room, while her letter to Julian was speaking forher in another, had sprung to life. "Let them break my heart ifthey like," she had thought to herself, in the self-abasement ofthat bitter moment; "it will be no more than I have deserved."

She locked her door and opened her writing-desk. Knowing what shehad to do, she tried to collect herself and do it.

The effort was in vain. Those persons who study writing as an artare probably the only persons who can measure the vast distancewhich separates a conception as it exists in the mind from thereduction of that conception to form and shape in words. Theheavy stress of agitation that had beenlaid on Mercy for hours together had utterly unfitted her forthe delicate and difficult process of arranging the events of anarrative in their due sequence and their due proportion towardeach other. Again and again she tried to begin her letter, andagain and again she was baffled by the same hopeless confusion ofideas. She gave up the struggle in despair.

A sense of sinking at her heart, a weight of hystericaloppression on her bosom, warned her not to leave herselfunoccupied, a prey to morbid self-investigation and imaginaryalarms.

She turned instinctively, for a temporary employment of somekind, to the consideration of her own future. Here there were nointricacies or entanglements. The prospect began and ended withher return to the Refuge, if the matron would receive her. Shedid no injustice to Julian Gray; that great heart would feel forher, that kind hand would be held out to her, she knew. But whatwould happen if she thoughtlessly accepted all that his sympathymight offer? Scandal would point to her beauty and to his youth,and would place its own vile interpretation on the purestfriendship that could exist between them. And _he_ would be thesufferer, for _he_ had a character--a clergyman's character--tolose. No. For his sake, out of gratitude to _him_, the farewellto Mablethorpe House must be also the farewell to Julian Gray.

The precious minutes were passing. She resolved to write to thematron and ask if she might hope to be forgiven and employed atthe Refuge again. Occupation over the letter that was easy towrite might have its fortifying effect on her mind, and mightpave the way for resuming the letter that was hard to write. Shewaited a moment at the window, thinking of the past life to whichshe was soon to return, before she took up the pen again.

Her window looked eastward. The dusky glare of lighted London mether as her eyes rested on the sky. It seemed to beckon her backto the horror of the cruel streets--to point her way mockingly tothe bridges over the black river--to lure her to the top of theparapet, and the dreadful leap into God's arms, or intoannihilation--who knew which?

She turned, shuddering, from the window. "Will it end in thatway," she asked herself, "if the matron says No?"

She began her letter.

"DEAR MADAM--So long a time has passed since you heard from methat I almost shrink from writing to you. I am afraid you havealready given me up in your own mind as a hard-hearted,ungrateful woman.

"I have been leading a false life; I have not been fit to writeto you before to-day. Now, when I am doing what I can to atone tothose whom I have injured--now, when I repent with my wholeheart--may I ask leave to return to the friend who has borne withme and helped me through many miserable years? Oh, madam, do notcast me off! I have no one to turn to but you.

"Will you let me own everything to you? Will you forgive me whenyou know what I have done? Will you take me back into the Refuge,if you have any employment for me by which I may earn my shelterand my bread?

"Before the night comes I must leave the house from which I amnow writing. I have nowhere to go to. The little money, the fewvaluable possessions I have, must be left behind me: they havebeen obtained under false pretenses; they are not mine. No moreforlorn creature than I am lives at this moment. You are aChristian woman. Not for my sake--for Christ's sake--pity me andtake me back.

"I am a good nurse, as you know, and I am a quick worker with myneedle. In one way or the other can you not find occupation forme?

"I could also teach, in a very unpretending way. But that isuseless. Who would trust their children to a woman without acharacter? There is no hope for me in this direction. And yet Iam so fond of children! I think I could be, not happy again,perhaps, but content with my lot, if I could be associated withthem in some way. Are there not charitable societies which aretrying to help and protect destitute children wandering about thestreets? I think of my own wretched childhood--and oh! I shouldso like to be employed in saving other children from ending as Ihave ended. I could work, for such an object as that, frommorning to night, and never feel weary. All my heart would be init; and I should have this advantage over happy and prosperouswomen--I should have nothing else to think of. Surely they mighttrust me with the poor little starving wanderers of thestreets--if you said a word for me? If I am asking too much,please forgive me. I am so wretched, madam--so lonely and soweary of my life.

"There is only one thing more. My time here is very short. Willyou please reply to this letter (to say yes or no) by telegram?

"The name by which you know me is not the name by which I havebeen known here. I must beg you to address the telegram to 'TheReverend Julian Gray, Mablethorpe House, Kensington.' He is here,and he will show it to me. No words of mine can describe what Iowe to him. He has never despaired of me --he has saved me frommyself. God bless and reward the kindest, truest, best man I haveever known!

"I have no more to say, except to ask you to excuse this longletter, and to believe me your grateful servant, ----."

She signed and inclosed the letter, and wrote the address. Then,for the first time, an obstacle which she ought to have seenbefore showed itself, standing straight in her way.

There was no time to forward her letter in the ordinary manner bypost. It must be taken to its destination by a private messenger.Lady Janet's servants had hitherto been, one and all, at herdisposal. Could she presume to employ them on her own affairs,when she might be dismissed from the house, a disgraced woman, inhalf an hour's time? Of the two alternatives it seemed better totake her chance, and present herself at the Refuge without askingleave first.

While she was still considering the question she was startled bya knock at her door. On opening it she admitted Lady Janet'smaid, with a morsel of folded note-paper in her hand.

"From my lady, miss," said the woman, giving her the note. "Thereis no answer."

Mercy stopped her as she was about to leave the room. Theappearance of the maid suggested an inquiry to her. She asked ifany of the servants were likely to be going into town thatafternoon.

"Yes, miss. One of the grooms is going on horseback, with amessage to her ladyship's coach-maker."

The Refuge was close by the coach-maker's place of business.Under the circumstances, Mercy was emboldened to make use of theman. It was a pardonable liberty to employ his services now.

"Will you kindly give the groom that letter for me?" she said."It will not take him out of his way. He has only to deliverit--nothing more."

The woman willingly complied with the request. Left once more byherself, Mercy looked at the little note which had been placed inher hands.

It was the first time that her benefactress had employed thisformal method of communicating with her when they were both inthe house. What did such a departure from established habitsmean? Had she received her notice of dismissal? Had Lady Janet'squick intelligence found its way already to a suspicion of thetruth? Mercy's nerves were unstrung. She trembled pitiably as sheopened the folded note.

It began without a form of address, and it ended without asignature. Thus it ran:

"I must request you to delay for a little while the explanationwhich you have promised me. At my age, painful surprises are verytrying things. I must have time to compose myself, before I canhear what you have to say. You shall not be kept waiting longerthan I can help. In the meanwhile everything will go on as usual.My nephew Julian, and Horace Holmcroft, and the lady whom I foundin the dining-room, will, by my desire, remain in the house untilI am able to meet them, and to meet you, again."

There the note ended. To what conclusion did it point?

Had Lady Janet really guessed the truth? or had she only surmisedthat her adopted daughter was connected in some discreditablemanner with the mystery of "Mercy Merrick"? The line in which shereferred to the intruder in the dining-room as "the lady" showedvery remarkably that her opinions had undergone a change in thatquarter. But was the phrase enough of itself to justify theinference that she had actually anticipated the nature of Mercy'sconfession? It was not easy to decide that doubt at themoment--and it proved to be equally difficult to throw any lighton it at an aftertime. To the end of her life Lady Janetresolutely refused to communicate to any one the conclusionswhich she might have privately formed, the griefs which she mighthave secretly stifled, on that memorable day.

Amid much, however, which was beset with uncertainty, one thingat least was clear. The time at Mercy's disposal in her own roomhad been indefinitely prolonged by Mercy's benefactress. Hoursmight pass before the disclosure to which she stood committedwould be expected from her. In those hours she might surelycompose her mind sufficiently to be able to write her letter ofconfession to Julian Gray.

Once more she placed the sheet of paper before her. Resting herhead on her hand as she sat at the table, she tried to trace herway through the labyrinth of the past, beginning with the daywhen she had met Grace Roseberry in the French cottage, andending with the day which had brought them face to face, for thesecond time, in the dining-room at Mablethorpe House.

The chain of events began to unroll itself in her mind clearly,link by link.

She remarked, as she pursued the retrospect, how strangelyChance, or Fate, had paved the way for the act of personation, inthe first place.

If they had met under ordinary circumstances, neither Mercy norGrace would have trusted each other with the confidences whichhad been exchanged between them. As the event had happened, theyhad come together, under those extraordinary circumstances ofcommon trial and common peril, in a strange country, which wouldespecially predispose two women of the same nation to open theirhearts to each other. In no other way could Mercy have obtainedat a first interview that fatal knowledge of Grace's position andGrace's affairs which had placed temptation before her as thenecessary consequence that followed the bursting of the Germanshell.

Advancing from this point through the succeeding series of eventswhich had so naturally and yet so strangely favored theperpetration of the fraud, Mercy reached the later period whenGrace had followed her to England. Here again she remarked, inthe second place, how Chance, or Fate, had once more paved theway for that second meeting which had confronted them with oneanother at Mablethorpe House.

She had, as she well remembered, attended at a certain assembly(convened by a charitable society) in the character of LadyJanet's representative, at Lady Janet's own request. For thatreason she had been absent from the house when Grace had enteredit. If her return had been delayed by a few minutes only, Julianwould have had time to take Grace out of the room, and theterrible meeting which had stretched Mercy senseless on the floorwould never have taken place. As the event had happened, theperiod of her absence had been fatally shortened by what appearedat the time to be, the commonest possible occurrence. The,persons assembled at the society's rooms had disagreed soseriously on the business which had brought them together as torender it necessary to take the ordinary course of adjourning theproceedings to a future day. And Chance, or Fate, had so timedthat adjournment as to bring Mercy back into the dining-roomexactly at the moment when Grace Roseberry insisted on beingconfronted with the woman who had taken her place.

She had never yet seen the circumstances in this sinister light.She was alone in her room, at a crisis in her life. She was wornand weakened by emotions which had shaken her to the soul.

Little by little she felt the enervating influences let loose onher, in her lonely position, by her new train of thought. Littleby little her heart began to sink under the stealthy chill ofsuperstitious dread. Vaguely horrible presentiments throbbed inher with her pulses, flowed through her with her blood. Mysticoppressions of hidden disaster hovered over her in the atmosphereof the room. The cheerful candle-light turned traitor to her andgrew dim. Supernatural murmurs trembled round the house in themoaning of the winter wind. She was afraid to look behind her. Ona sudden she felt her own cold hands covering her face, withoutknowing when she had lifted them to it, or why.

Still helpless, under the horror that held her, she suddenlyheard footsteps--a man's footsteps--in the corridor outside. Atother times the sound would have startled her: now it broke thespell. The footsteps suggested life, companionship, humaninterposition--no matter of what sort. She mechanically took upher pen; she found herself beginning to remember her letter toJulian Gray.

At the same moment the footsteps stopped outside her door. Theman knocked.

She still felt shaken. She was hardly mistress of herself yet. Afaint cry of alarm escaped her at the sound of the knock. Beforeit could be repeated she had rallied her courage, and had openedthe door.

The man in the corridor was Horace Holmcroft.

His ruddy complexion had turned pale. His hair (of which he wasespecially careful at other times) was in disorder. Thesuperficial polish of his manner was gone; the undisguised man,sullen, distrustful, irritated to the last degree of endurance,showed through. He looked at her with a watchfully suspiciouseye; he spoke to her, without preface or apology, in a coldlyangry voice.

"Are you aware," he asked, "of what is going on downstairs?"

"I have not left my room," she answered. "I know that Lady Janethas deferred the explanation which I had promised to give her,and I know no more."

"Has nobody told you what Lady Janet did after you left us? Hasnobody told you that she politely placed her own boudoir at thedisposal of the very woman whom she had ordered half an hourbefore to leave the house? Do you really not know that Mr. JulianGray has himself conducted this suddenly-honored guest to herplace of retirement? and that I am left alone in the midst ofthese changes, contradictions, and mysteries--the only person whois kept out in the dark?"

"It is surely needless to ask me these questions," said Mercy,gently. "Who could possibly have told me what was going on belowstairs before you knocked at my door?"

He looked at her with an ironical affectation of surprise.

"You are strangely forgetful to-day," he said. "Surely yourfriend Mr. Julian Gray might have told you? I am astonished tohear that he has not had his private interview yet."

"I don't understand you, Horace."

"I don't want you to understand me," he retorted, irritably. "Theproper person to understand me is Julian Gray. I look to _him_ toaccount to me for the confidential relations which seem to havebeen established between you behind my back. He has avoided methus far, but I shall find my way to him yet."

His manner threatened more than his words expressed. In Mercy'snervous condition at the moment, it suggested to her that hemight attempt to fasten a quarrel on Julian Gray.

"You are entirely mistaken," she said, warmly. "You areungratefully doubting your best and truest friend. I say nothingof myself. You will soon discover why I patiently submit tosuspicions which other women would resent as an insult."

"Let me discover it at once. Now! Without wasting a moment more!"

There had hitherto been some little distance between them. Mercyhad listened, waiting on the threshold of her door; Horace hadspoken, standing against the opposite wall of the corridor. Whenhe said his last words he suddenly stepped forward, and (withsomething imperative in the gesture) laid his hand on her arm.The strong grasp of it almost hurt her. She struggled to releaseherself.

"Let me go!" she said. "What do you mean?"

He dropped her arm as suddenly as he had taken it.

"You shall know what I mean," he replied. "A woman who hasgrossly outraged and insulted you--whose only excuse is that sheis mad--is detained in the house at your desire, I might almostsay at your command, when the police officer is waiting to takeher away. I have a right to know what this means. I am engaged tomarry you. If you won't trust other people, you are bound toexplain yourself to Me. I refuse to wait for Lady Janet'sconvenience. I insist (if you force me to say so)--I insist onknowing the real nature of your connection with this affair. Youhave obliged me to follow you here; it is my only opportunity ofspeaking to you. You avoid me; you shut yourself up from me inyour own room. I am not your husband yet--I have no right tofollow you in. But there are other rooms open to us. The libraryis at our disposal, and I will take care that we are notinterrupted. I am now going there, and I have a last question toask. You are to be my wife in a week's time: will you take meinto your confidence or not?"

To hesitate was, in this case, literally to be lost. Mercy'ssense of justice told her that Horace had claimed no more thanhis due. She answered instantly:

"I will follow you to the library, Horace, in five minutes."

Her prompt and frank compliance with his wishes surprised andtouched him. He took her hand.

She had endured all that his angry sense of injury could say. Hisgratitude wounded her to the quick. The bitterest moment she hadfelt yet was the moment in which he raised her hand to his lips,and murmured tenderly, "My own true Grace!" She could only signto him to leave her, and hurry back into her own room.

Her first feeling, when she found herself alone again, waswonder--wonder that it should never have occurred to her, untilhe had himself suggested it, that her betrothed husband had theforemost right to her confession. Her horror at owning to eitherof them that she had cheated them out of their love had hithertoplaced Horace and Lady Janet on the same level. She now saw forthe first time that there was no comparison between the claimswhich they respectively had on her. She owned an allegiance toHorace to which Lady Janet could assert no right. Cost her whatit might to avow the truth to him with her own lips, the cruelsacrifice must be made.

Without a moment's hesitation she put away her writing materials.It amazed her that she should ever have thought of using JulianGray as an interpreter between the man to whom she was betrothedand herself. Julian's sympathy (she thought) must have made astrong impression on her indeed to blind her to a duty which wasbeyond all compromise, which admitted of no dispute!

She had asked for five minutes of delay before she followedHorace. It was too long a time.

Her one chance of finding courage to crush him with the dreadfulrevelation of who she really was, of what she had really done,was to plunge headlong into the disclosure without giving herselftime to think. The shame of it would overpower her if she gaveherself time to think.

She turned to the door to follow him at once.

Even at that terrible moment the most ineradicable of all awoman's instincts--the instinct of personal self-respect--broughther to a pause. She had passed through more than one terribletrial since she had dressed to go downstairs. Remembering this,she stopped mechanically, retraced her steps, and looked atherself in the glass.

There was no motive of vanity in what she now did. The action wasas unconscious as if she had buttoned an unfastened glove, orshaken out a crumpled dress. Not the faintest idea crossed hermind of looking to see if her beauty might still plead for her,and of trying to set it off at its best.

A momentary smile, the most weary, the most hopeless, that eversaddened a woman's face, appeared in the reflection which hermirror gave her back. "Haggard, ghastly, old before my time!" shesaid to herself. "Well! better so. He will feel it less--he willnot regret me."

With that thought she went downstairs to meet him in the library.