I may say they were both angry—Mr. Holmcroft and my lady." (She turned to Julian.)
"And just before her ladyship came out, sir, I heard your name, as if it was you they were having words about.
I can't say exactly what it was; I hadn't time to hear.
And I didn't listen, miss; the door was ajar; and the voices were so loud nobody could help hearing them."
It was useless to detain the woman any longer.
Having given her leave to withdraw, Mercy turned to Julian.
"Why were they quarreling about you?" she asked.
Julian pointed to the unopened letter in her hand.
"The answer to your question may be there," he said. "Read the letter while you have the chance.
And if I can advise you, say so at once."
With a strange reluctance she opened the envelope.
With a sinking heart she read the lines in which Lady Janet, as "mother and friend," commanded her absolutely to suppress the confession which she had pledged herself to make in the sacred interests of justice and truth.
A low cry of despair escaped her, as the cruel complication in her position revealed itself in all its unmerited hardship.
"Oh, Lady Janet, Lady Janet!" she thought, "there was but one trial more left in my hard lot—and it comes to me from you!"
She handed the letter to Julian.
He took it from her in silence.
His pale complexion turned paler still as he read it.
His eyes rested on her compassionately as he handed it back.
"To my mind," he said, "Lady Janet herself sets all further doubt at rest.
Her letter tells me what she wanted when she sent for Horace, and why my name was mentioned between them."
"Tell me!" cried Mercy, eagerly.
He did not immediately answer her.
He sat down again in the chair by her side, and pointed to the letter.
"Has Lady Janet shaken your resolution?" he asked.
"She has strengthened my resolution," Mercy answered.
"She has added a new bitterness to my remorse."
She did not mean it harshly, but the reply sounded harshly in Julian's ears.
It stirred the generous impulses, which were the strongest impulses in his nature.
He who had once pleaded with Mercy for compassionate consideration for herself now pleaded with her for compassionate consideration for Lady Janet.
With persuasive gentleness he drew a little nearer, and laid his hand on her arm.
"Don't judge her harshly," he said. "She is wrong, miserably wrong.
She has recklessly degraded herself; she has recklessly tempted you.
Still, is it generous—is it even just—to hold her responsible for deliberate sin?
She is at the close of her days; she can feel no new affection; she can never replace you.
View her position in that light, and you will see (as I see) that it is no base motive which has led her astray.
Think of her wounded heart and her wasted life—and say to yourself forgivingly, She loves me!"
Mercy's eyes filled with tears.
"I do say it!" she answered.
"Not forgivingly—it is I who have need of forgiveness.
I say it gratefully when I think of her—I say it with shame and sorrow when I think of myself."
He took her hand for the first time.
He looked, guiltlessly looked, at her downcast face.
He spoke as he had spoken at the memorable interview between them which had made a new woman of her.
"I can imagine no crueler trial," he said, "than the trial that is now before you.
The benefactress to whom you owe everything asks nothing from you but your silence.
The person whom you have wronged is no longer present to stimulate your resolution to speak.
Horace himself (unless I am entirely mistaken) will not hold you to the explanation that you have promised.
The temptation to keep your false position in this house is, I do not scruple to say, all but irresistible.
Sister and friend! can you still justify my faith in you?
Will you still own the truth, without the base fear of discovery to drive you to it?"