Julian followed her. He waited a little. Then his kind hand touched her;
his friendly voice fell consolingly on her ear.
"Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God's angels
rejoice over you! Take your place among the noblest of God's creatures!"
He raised her as he spoke. All her heart went out to him. She caught
his hand--she pressed it to her bosom; she pressed it to her lips--then
dropped it suddenly, and stood before him trembling like a frightened
child.
"Forgive me!" was all she could say. "I was so lost and lonely--and you
are so good to me!"
She tried to leave him. It was useless--her strength was gone; she
caught at the head of the couch to support herself. He looked at her.
The confession of his love was just rising to his lips--he looked again,
and checked it. No, not at that moment; not when she was helpless and
ashamed; not when her weakness might make her yield, only to regret it
at a later time. The great heart which had spared her and felt for her
from the first spared her and felt for her now.
He, too, left her--but not without a word at parting.
"Don't think of your future life just yet," he said, gently. "I have
something to propose when rest and quiet have restored you." He opened
the nearest door--the door of the dining-room--and went out.
The servants engaged in completing the decoration of the dinner-table
noticed, when "Mr. Julian" entered the room, that his eyes were
"brighter than ever." He looked (they remarked) like a man who "expected
good news." They were inclined to suspect--though he was certainly
rather young for it--that her ladyship's nephew was in a fair way of
preferment in the Church.
Mercy seated herself on the couch.
There are limits, in the physical organization of man, to the action of
pain. When suffering has reached a given point of intensity the nervous
sensibility becomes incapable of feeling more. The rule of Nature,
in this respect, applies not only to sufferers in the body, but to
sufferers in the mind as well. Grief, rage, terror, have also their
appointed limits. The moral sensibility, like the nervous sensibility,
reaches its period of absolute exhaustion, and feels no more.
The capacity for suffering in Mercy had attained its term. Alone in the
library, she could feel the physical relief of repose; she could
vaguely recall Julian's parting words to her, and sadly wonder what they
meant--she could do no more.
An interval passed; a brief interval of perfect rest.
She recovered herself sufficiently to be able to look at her watch and
to estimate the lapse of time that might yet pass before Julian returned
to her as he had promised. While her mind was still languidly following
this train of thought she was disturbed by the ringing of a bell in the
hall, used to summon the servant whose duties were connected with that
part of the house. In leaving the library, Horace had gone out by the
door which led into the hall, and had failed to close it. She plainly
heard the bell--and a moment later (more plainly still) she heard Lady
Janet's voice!