How many more meanings of her own Lady Janet might have gone on enumerating, it is not easy to calculate.
At her third sentence a sound in the library caught her ear through the incompletely closed door and suspended the next words on her lips.
Horace heard it also.
It was the rustling sound (traveling nearer and nearer over the library carpet) of a silken dress.
(In the interval while a coming event remains in a state of uncertainty, what is it the inevitable tendency of every Englishman under thirty to do?
His inevitable tendency is to ask somebody to bet on the event.
He can no more resist it than he can resist lifting his stick or his umbrella, in the absence of a gun, and pretending to shoot if a bird flies by him while he is out for a walk.)
"What will your ladyship bet that this is not Grace?" cried Horace.
Her ladyship took no notice of the proposal; her attention remained fixed on the library door.
The rustling sound stopped for a moment.
The door was softly pushed open.
The false Grace Roseberry entered the room.
Horace advanced to meet her, opened his lips to speak, and stopped—struck dumb by the change in his affianced wife since he had seen her last.
Some terrible oppression seemed to have crushed her.
It was as if she had actually shrunk in height as well as in substance.
She walked more slowly than usual; she spoke more rarely than usual, and in a lower tone.
To those who had seen her before the fatal visit of the stranger from Mannheim, it was the wreck of the woman that now appeared instead of the woman herself.
And yet there was the old charm still surviving through it all; the grandeur of the head and eyes, the delicate symmetry of the features, the unsought grace of every movement—in a word, the unconquerable beauty which suffering cannot destroy, and which time itself is powerless to wear out.
Lady Janet advanced, and took her with hearty kindness by both hands.
"My dear child, welcome among us again!
You have come down stairs to please me?"
She bent her head in silent acknowledgment that it was so.
Lady Janet pointed to Horace:
"Here is somebody who has been longing to see you, Grace."
She never looked up; she stood submissive, her eyes fixed on a little basket of colored wools which hung on her arm.
"Thank you, Lady Janet," she said, faintly.
"Thank you, Horace."
Horace placed her arm in his, and led her to the sofa.
She shivered as she took her seat, and looked round her.
It was the first time she had seen the dining-room since the day when she had found herself face to face with the dead-alive.
"Why do you come here, my love?" asked Lady Janet.
"The drawing-room would have been a warmer and a pleasanter place for you."
"I saw a carriage at the front door.
I was afraid of meeting with visitors in the drawing-room."
As she made that reply, the servant came in, and announced the visitors' names.
Lady Janet sighed wearily.
"I must go and get rid of them," she said, resigning herself to circumstances.
"What will you do, Grace?"
"I will stay here, if you please."
"I will keep her company," added Horace.
Lady Janet hesitated.
She had promised to see her nephew in the dining-room on his return to the house—and to see him alone.
Would there be time enough to get rid of the visitors and to establish her adopted daughter in the empty drawing-room before Julian appeared?
It was ten minutes' walk to the lodge, and he had to make the gate-keeper understand his instructions.
Lady Janet decided that she had time enough at her disposal.
She nodded kindly to Mercy, and left her alone with her lover.
Horace seated himself in the vacant place on the sofa.
So far as it was in his nature to devote himself to any one he was devoted to Mercy.
"I am grieved to see how you have suffered," he said, with honest distress in his face as he looked at her.
"Try to forget what has happened."