MERCY was alone.
She had secured one half hour of retirement in her own room, designing to devote that interval to the writing of her confession, in the form of a letter addressed to Julian Gray.
No recent change in her position had, as yet, mitigated her horror of acknowledging to Horace and to Lady Janet that she had won her way to their hearts in disguise. Through Julian only could she say the words which were to establish Grace Roseberry in her right position in the house.
How was her confession to be addressed to him? In writing? or by word of mouth?
After all that had happened, from the time when Lady Janet’s appearance had interrupted them, she would have felt relief rather than embarrassment in personally opening her heart to the man who had so delicately understood her, who had so faithfully befriended her in her sorest need. But the repeated betrayals of Horace’s jealous suspicion of Julian warned her that she would only be surrounding herself with new difficulties, and be placing Julian in a position of painful embarrassment, if she admitted him to a private interview while Horace was in the house.
The one course left to take was the course that she had adopted. Determining to address the narrative of the Fraud to Julian in the form of a letter, she arranged to add, at the close, certain instructions, pointing out to him the line of conduct which she wished him to pursue.
These instructions contemplated the communication of her letter to Lady Janet and to Horace in the library, while Mercy — self-confessed as the missing woman whom she had pledged herself to produce — awaited in the adjoining room whatever sentence it pleased them to pronounce on her. Her resolution not to screen herself behind Julian from any consequences which might follow the confession had taken root in her mind from the moment when Horace had harshly asked her (and when Lady Janet had joined him in asking) why she delayed her explanation, and what she was keeping them waiting for. Out of the very pain which those questions inflicted, the idea of waiting her sentence in her own person in one room, while her letter to Julian was speaking for her in another, had sprung to life. “Let them break my heart if they like,” she had thought to herself, in the self-abasement of that bitter moment; “it will be no more than I have deserved.”
She locked her door and opened her writing-desk. Knowing what she had to do, she tried to collect herself and do it.
The effort was in vain. Those persons who study writing as an art are probably the only persons who can measure the vast distance which separates a conception as it exists in the mind from the reduction of that conception to form and shape in words. The heavy stress of agitation that had been laid on Mercy for hours together had utterly unfitted her for the delicate and difficult process of arranging the events of a narrative in their due sequence and their due proportion toward each other. Again and again she tried to begin her letter, and again and again she was baffled by the same hopeless confusion of ideas. She gave up the struggle in despair.
A sense of sinking at her heart, a weight of hysterical oppression on her bosom, warned her not to leave herself unoccupied, a prey to morbid self-investigation and imaginary alarms.
She turned instinctively, for a temporary employment of some kind, to the consideration of her own future. Here there were no intricacies or entanglements. The prospect began and ended with her return to the Refuge, if the matron would receive her. She did no injustice to Julian Gray; that great heart would feel for her, that kind hand would be held out to her, she knew. But what would happen if she thoughtlessly accepted all that his sympathy might offer? Scandal would point to her beauty and to his youth, and would place its own vile interpretation on the purest friendship that could exist between them. And he would be the sufferer, for he had a character — a clergyman’s character — to lose. No. For his sake, out of gratitude to him, the farewell to Mablethorpe House must be also the farewell to Julian Gray.
The precious minutes were passing. She resolved to write to the matron and ask if she might hope to be forgiven and employed at the Refuge again. Occupation over the letter that was easy to write might have its fortifying effect on her mind, and might pave the way for resuming the letter that was hard to write. She waited a moment at the window, thinking of the past life to which she was soon to return, before she took up the pen again.
Her window looked eastward. The dusky glare of lighted London met her as her eyes rested on the sky. It seemed to beckon her back to the horror of the cruel streets — to point her way mockingly to the bridges over the black river — to lure her to the top of the parapet, and the dreadful leap into God’s arms, or into annihilation — who knew which?
She turned, shuddering, from the window. “Will it end in that way,” she asked herself, “if the matron says No?”
She began her letter.
“DEAR MADAM— So long a time has passed since you heard from me that I almost shrink from writing to you. I am afraid you have already given me up in your own mind as a hard-hearted, ungrateful woman.
“I have been leading a false life; I have not been fit to write to you before to-day. Now, when I am doing what I can to atone to those whom I have injured — now, when I repent with my whole heart — may I ask leave to return to the friend who has borne with me and helped me through many miserable years? Oh, madam, do not cast me off! I have no one to turn to but you.
“Will you let me own everything to you? Will you forgive me when you know what I have done? Will you take me back into the Refuge, if you have any employment for me by which I may earn my shelter and my bread?
“Before the night comes I must leave the house from which I am now writing. I have nowhere to go to. The little money, the few valuable possessions I have, must be left behind me: they have been obtained under false pretenses; they are not mine. No more forlorn creature than I am lives at this moment. You are a Christian woman. Not for my sake — for Christ’s sake — pity me and take me back.
“I am a good nurse, as you know, and I am a quick worker with my needle. In one way or the other can you not find occupation for me?
“I could also teach, in a very unpretending way. But that is useless. Who would trust their children to a woman without a character? There is no hope for me in this direction. And yet I am so fond of children! I think I could be, not happy again, perhaps, but content with my lot, if I could be associated with them in some way. Are there not charitable societies which are trying to help and protect destitute children wandering about the streets? I think of my own wretched childhood — and oh! I should so like to be employed in saving other children from ending as I have ended. I could work, for such an object as that, from morning to night, and never feel weary. All my heart would be in it; and I should have this advantage over happy and prosperous women — I should have nothing else to think of. Surely they might trust me with the poor little starving wanderers of the streets — if you said a word for me? If I am asking too much, please forgive me. I am so wretched, madam — so lonely and so weary of my life.
“There is only one thing more. My time here is very short. Will you please reply to this letter (to say yes or no) by telegram?
“The name by which you know me is not the name by which I have been known here. I must beg you to address the telegram to ‘The Reverend Julian Gray, Mablethorpe House, Kensington.’ He is here, and he will show it to me. No words of mine can describe what I owe to him. He has never despaired of me — he has saved me from myself. God bless and reward the kindest, truest, best man I have ever known!
“I have no more to say, except to ask you to excuse this long letter, and to believe me your grateful servant, ——.”
She signed and inclosed the letter, and wrote the address. Then, for the first time, an obstacle which she ought to have seen before showed itself, standing straight in her way.
There was no time to forward her letter in the ordinary manner by post. It must be taken to its destination by a private messenger. Lady Janet’s servants had hitherto been, one and all, at her disposal. Could she presume to employ them on her own affairs, when she might be dismissed from the house, a disgraced woman, in half an hour’s time? Of the two alternatives it seemed better to take her chance, and present herself at the Refuge without asking leave first.
While she was still considering the question she was startled by a knock at her door. On opening it she admitted Lady Janet’s maid, with a morsel of folded note-paper in her hand.
“From my lady, miss,” said the woman, giving her the note. “There is no answer.”
Mercy stopped her as she was about to leave the room. The appearance of the maid suggested an inquiry to her. She asked if any of the servants were likely to be going into town that afternoon.
“Yes, miss. One of the grooms is going on horseback, with a message to her ladyship’s coach-maker.”
The Refuge was close by the coach-maker’s place of business. Under the circumstances, Mercy was emboldened to make use of the man. It was a pardonable liberty to employ his services now.
“Will you kindly give the groom that letter for me?” she said. “It will not take him out of his way. He has only to deliver it — nothing more.”
The woman willingly complied with the request. Left once more by herself, Mercy looked at the little note which had been placed in her hands.
It was the first time that her benefactress had employed this formal method of communicating with her when they were both in the house. What did such a departure from established habits mean? Had she received her notice of dismissal? Had Lady Janet’s quick intelligence found its way already to a suspicion of the truth? Mercy’s nerves were unstrung. She trembled pitiably as she opened the folded note.
It began without a form of address, and it ended without a signature. Thus it ran:
“I must request you to delay for a little while the explanation which you have promised me. At my age, painful surprises are very trying things. I must have time to compose myself, before I can hear what you have to say. You shall not be kept waiting longer than I can help. In the meanwhile everything will go on as usual. My nephew Julian, and Horace Holmcroft, and the lady whom I found in the dining-room, will, by my desire, remain in the house until I am able to meet them, and to meet you, again.”
There the note ended. To what conclusion did it point?
Had Lady Janet really guessed the truth? or had she only surmised that her adopted daughter was connected in some discreditable manner with the mystery of “Mercy Merrick”? The line in which she referred to the intruder in the dining-room as “the lady” showed very remarkably that her opinions had undergone a change in that quarter. But was the phrase enough of itself to justify the inference that she had actually anticipated the nature of Mercy’s confession? It was not easy to decide that doubt at the moment — and it proved to be equally difficult to throw any light on it at an aftertime. To the end of her life Lady Janet resolutely refused to communicate to any one the conclusions which she might have privately formed, the griefs which she might have secretly stifled, on that memorable day.
Amid much, however, which was beset with uncertainty, ............