"You don't like her?" cried Lady Janet, with a sudden burst of angry
surprise.
Julian broke out, on his side: "If I see any more of her," he answered,
the rare color mounting passionately in his cheeks, "I shall be the
unhappiest man living. If I see any more of her, I shall be false to my
old friend, who is to marry her. Keep us apart. If you have any regard
for my peace of mind, keep us apart."
Unutterable amazement expressed itself in his aunt's lifted hands.
Ungovernable curiosity uttered itself in his aunt's next words.
"You don't mean to tell me you are in love with Grace?"
Julian sprung restlessly to his feet, and disturbed the cat at the
fireplace. (The cat left the room.) "I don't know what to tell you," he said; "I can't realize it to myself.
No other woman has ever roused the feeling in me which this woman seems
to have called to life in an instant. In the hope of forgetting her I
broke my engagement here; I purposely seized the opportunity of making
those inquiries abroad. Quite useless. I think of her, morning, noon,
and night. I see her and hear her, at this moment, as plainly as I
see and hear you. She has made _her_self a part of _my_self. I don't
understand my life without her. My power of will seems to be gone. I
said to myself this morning, 'I will write to my aunt; I won't go back
to Mablethorpe House.' Here I am in Mablethorpe House, with a mean
subterfuge to justify me to my own conscience. 'I owe it to my aunt to
call on my aunt.' That is what I said to myself on the way here; and I
was secretly hoping every step of the way that she would come into the
room when I got here. I am hoping it now. And she is engaged to Horace
Holmcroft--to my oldest friend, to my best friend! Am I an infernal
rascal? or am I a weak fool? God knows--I don't. Keep my secret, aunt.
I am heartily ashamed of myself; I used to think I was made of better
stuff than this. Don't say a word to Horace. I must, and will, conquer
it. Let me go."
He snatched up his hat. Lady Janet, rising with the activity of a young
woman, pursued him across the room, and stopped him at the door.
"No," answered the resolute old lady, "I won't let you go. Come back
with me."
As she said those words she noticed with a certain fond pride the
brilliant color mounting in his cheeks--the flashing brightness which
lent an added luster to his eyes. He had never, to her mind, looked so
handsome before. She took his arm, and led him to the chairs which they
had just left. It was shocking, it was wrong (she mentally admitted) to
look on Mercy, under the circumstances, with any other eye than the
eye of a brother or a friend. In a clergyman (perhaps) doubly shocking,
doubly wrong. But, with all her respect for the vested interests
of Horace, Lady Janet could not blame Julian. Worse still, she was
privately conscious that he had, somehow or other, risen, rather than
fallen, in her estimation within the last minute or two. Who could deny
that her adopted daughter was a charming creature? Who could wonder if a
man of refined tastes admired her? Upon the whole, her ladyship humanely
decided that her nephew was rather to be pitied than blamed. What
daughter of Eve (no matter whether she was seventeen or seventy) could
have honestly arrived at any other conclusion? Do what a man may--let
him commit anything he likes, from an error to a crime--so long as there
is a woman at the bottom of it, there is an inexhaustible fund of pardon
for him in every other woman's heart. "Sit down," said Lady Janet,
smiling in spite of herself; "and don't talk in that horrible way again.
A man, Julian--especially a famous man like you--ought to know how to
control himself."