Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (908 page)

“I will say nothing of what I felt — I will only tell you what happened.

“I was searched, and the handkerchief was discovered on me. The woman who had stood next to me, on finding herself threatened with discovery, had no doubt contrived to slip the stolen handkerchief into my pocket. Only an accomplished thief could have escaped detection in that way without my knowledge. It was useless, in the face of the facts, to declare my innocence. I had no character to appeal to. My friend tried to speak for me; but what was she? Only a lost woman like myself. My landlady’s evidence in favor of my honesty produced no effect; it was against her that she let lodgings to people in my position. I was prosecuted, and found guilty. The tale of my disgrace is now complete, Mr. Holmcroft. No matter whether I was innocent or not, the shame of it remains — I have been imprisoned for theft.

“The matron of the prison was the next person who took an interest in me. She reported favorably of my behavior to the authorities and when I had served my time (as the phrase was among us) she gave me a letter to the kind friend and guardian of my later years — to the lady who is coming here to take me back with her to the Refuge.

“From this time the story of my life is little more than the story of a woman’s vain efforts to recover her lost place in the world.

“The matron, on receiving me into the Refuge, frankly acknowledged that there were terrible obstacles in my way. But she saw that I was sincere, and she felt a good woman’s sympathy and compassion for me. On my side, I did not shrink from beginning the slow and weary journey back again to a reputable life from the humblest starting-point — from domestic service. After first earning my new character in the Refuge, I obtained a trial in a respectable house. I worked hard, and worked uncomplainingly; but my mother’s fatal legacy was against me from the first. My personal appearance excited remark; my manners and habits were not the manners and habits of the women among whom my lot was cast. I tried one place after another — always with the same results. Suspicion and jealousy I could endure; but I was defenseless when curiosity assailed me in its turn. Sooner or later inquiry led to discovery. Sometimes the servants threatened to give warning in a body — and I was obliged to go. Sometimes, where there was a young man in the family, scandal pointed at me and at him — and again I was obliged to go. If you care to know it, Miss Roseberry can tell you the story of those sad days. I confided it to her on the memorable night when we met in the French cottage; I have no heart repeat it now. After a while I wearied of the hopeless struggle. Despair laid its hold on me — I lost all hope in the mercy of God. More than once I walked to one or other of the bridges, and looked over the parapet at the river, and said to myself ‘Other women have done it: why shouldn’t I?’

“You saved me at that time, Mr. Gray — as you have saved me since. I was one of your congregation when you preached in the chapel of the Refuge You reconciled others besides me to our hard pilgrimage. In their name and in mine, sir, I thank you.

“I forget how long it was after the bright day when you comforted and sustained us that the war broke out between France and Germany. But I can never forget the evening when the matron sent for me into her own room and said, ‘My dear, your life here is a wasted life. If you have courage enough left to try it, I can give you another chance.’

“I passed through a month of probation in a London hospital. A week after that I wore the red cross of the Geneva Convention — I was appointed nurse in a French ambulance. When you first saw me, Mr. Holmcroft, I still had my nurse’s dress on, hidden from you and from everybody under a gray cloak.

“You know what the next event was; you know how I entered this house.

“I have not tried to make the worst of my trials and troubles in telling you what my life has been. I have honestly described it for what it was when I met with Miss Roseberry — a life without hope. May you never know the temptation that tried me when the shell struck its victim in the French cottage! There she lay — dead!
Her
name was untainted.
Her
future promised me the reward which had been denied to the honest efforts of a penitent woman. My lost place in the world was offered back to me on the one condition that I stooped to win it by a fraud. I had no prospect to look forward to; I had no friend near to advise me and to save me; the fairest years of my womanhood had been wasted in the vain struggle to recover my good name. Such was my position when the possibility of personating Miss Roseberry first forced itself on my mind. Impulsively, recklessly — wickedly, if you like — I seized the opportunity, and let you pass me through the German lines under Miss Roseberry’s name. Arrived in England, having had time to reflect, I made my first and last effort to draw back before it was too late. I went to the Refuge, and stopped on the opposite side of the street, looking at it. The old hopeless life of irretrievable disgrace confronted me as I fixed my eyes on the familiar door; the horror of returning to that life was more than I could force myself to endure. An empty cab passed me at the moment. The driver held up his hand. In sheer despair I stopped him, and when he said ‘Where to?’ in sheer despair again I answered, ‘Mablethorpe House.’

“Of what I have suffered in secret since my own successful deception established me under Lady Janet’s care I shall say nothing. Many things which must have surprised you in my conduct are made plain to you by this time. You must have noticed long since that I was not a happy woman. Now you know why.

“My confession is made; my conscience has spoken at last. You are released from your promise to me — you are free. Thank Mr. Julian Gray if I stand here self-accused of the offense, that I have committed, before the man whom I have wronged.”

CHAPTER XXVIII. SENTENCE IS PRONOUNCED ON HER.

IT was done. The last tones of her voice died away in silence.

Her eyes still rested on Horace. After hearing what he had heard could he resist that gentle, pleading look? Would he forgive her? A while since Julian had seen tears on his cheeks, and had believed that he felt for her. Why was he now silent? Was it possible that he only felt for himself?

For the last time — at the crisis of her life — Julian spoke for her. He had never loved her as he loved her at that moment; it tried even his generous nature to plead her cause with Horace against himself. But he had promised her, without reserve, all the help that her truest friend could offer. Faithfully and manfully he redeemed his promise.

“Horace!” he said.

Horace slowly looked up. Julian rose and approached him.

“She has told you to thank
me
, if her conscience has spoken. Thank the noble nature which answered when I called upon it! Own the priceless value of a woman who can speak the truth. Her heartfelt repentance is a joy in heaven. Shall it not plead for her on earth? Honour her, if you are a Christian! Feel for her, if you are a man!”

He waited. Horace never answered him.

Mercy’s eyes turned tearfully on Julian.
His
heart was the heart that felt for her!
His
words were the words which comforted and pardoned her! When she looked back again at Horace, it was with an effort. His last hold on her was lost. In her inmost mind a thought rose unbidden — a thought which was not to be repressed. “Can I ever have loved this man?”

She advanced a step toward him; it was not possible, even yet, to completely forgot the past. She held out her hand.

He rose on his side — without looking at her.

“Before we part forever,” she said to him, “will you take my hand as a token that you forgive me?”

He hesitated. He half lifted his hand. The next moment the generous impulse died away in him. In its place came the mean fear of what might happen if he trusted himself to the dangerous fascination of her touch. His hand dropped again at his side; he turned away quickly.

“I can’t forgive her!” he said.

With that horrible confession — without even a last look at her — he left the room.

At the moment when he opened the door Julian’s contempt for him burst its way through all restraints.

“Horace,” he said, “I pity you!”

As the words escaped him he looked back at Mercy. She had turned aside from both of them — she had retired to a distant part of the library The first bitter foretaste of what was in store for her when she faced the world again had come to her from Horace! The energy which had sustained her thus far quailed before the dreadful prospect — doubly dreadful to a woman — of obloquy and contempt. She sank on her knees before a little couch in the darkest corner of the room. “O Christ, have mercy on me!” That was her prayer — no more.

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 organisation 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!

She started to her feet. Lady Janet’s letter was still in the pocket of her apron — the letter which imperatively commanded her to abstain from making the very confession that had just passed her lips! It was near the dinner hour, and the library was the favorite place in which the mistress of the house and her guests assembled at that time. It was no matter of doubt; it was an absolute certainty that Lady Janet had only stopped in the hall on her way into the room.

The alternative for Mercy lay between instantly leaving the library by the dining-room door — or remaining where she was, at the risk of being sooner or later compelled to own that she had deliberately disobeyed her benefactress. Exhausted by what she had already suffered, she stood trembling and irresolute, incapable of deciding which alternative she should choose.