"I am here, Horace—close by you."
"Will you do me a service?"
"Certainly.
How can I help you?"
He considered a little before he replied. His hand left Mercy's shoulder, and went up to his head—then dropped at his side.
His next words were spoken in a sadly helpless, bewildered way.
"I have an idea, Julian, that I have been somehow to blame.
I said some hard words to you.
It was a little while since.
I don't clearly remember what it was all about.
My temper has been a good deal tried in this house; I have never been used to the sort of thing that goes on here—secrets and mysteries, and hateful low-lived quarrels.
We have no secrets and mysteries at home. And as for quarrels—ridiculous!
My mother and my sisters are highly bred women (you know them); gentlewomen, in the best sense of the word.
When I am with them I have no anxieties.
I am not harassed at home by doubts of who people are, and confusion about names, and so on.
I suspect the contrast weighs a little on my mind and upsets it.
They make me over-suspicious among them here, and it ends in my feeling doubts and fears that I can't get over: doubts about you and fears about myself.
I have got a fear about myself now.
I want you to help me.
Shall I make an apology first?"
"Don't say a word.
Tell me what I can do."
He turned his face toward Julian for the first time.
"Just look at me," he said. "Does it strike you that I am at all wrong in my mind?
Tell me the truth, old fellow."
"Your nerves are a little shaken, Horace.
Nothing more."
He considered again after that reply, his eyes remaining anxiously fixed on Julian's face.
"My nerves are a little shaken," he repeated.
"That is true; I feel they are shaken.
I should like, if you don't mind, to make sure that it's no worse.
Will you help me to try if my memory is all right?"
"I will do anything you like."
"Ah! you are a good fellow, Julian—and a clear-headed fellow too, which is very important just now.
Look here!
I say it's about a week since the troubles began in this house.
Do you say so too?"
"Yes."
"The troubles came in with the coming of a woman from Germany, a stranger to us, who behaved very violently in the dining-room there.
Am I right, so far?"
"Quite right."
"The woman carried matters with a high hand.
She claimed Colonel Roseberry—I wish to be strictly accurate—she claimed the late Colonel Roseberry as her father.
She told a tiresome story about her having been robbed of her papers and her name by an impostor who had personated her.
She said the name of the impostor was Mercy Merrick.
And she afterward put the climax to it all: she pointed to the lady who is engaged to be my wife, and declared that she was Mercy Merrick.
Tell me again, is that right or wrong?"
Julian answered him as before.
He went on, speaking more confidently and more excitedly than he had spoken yet.
"Now attend to this, Julian.