Between perplexity and distress Julian was, for the moment, at a loss how to answer her. The love for Mercy which he dared not acknowledge was as vital a feeling in him as the faith in her which he had been free to avow. To refuse anything that she asked of him in her sore need—and, more even than that, to refuse to hear the confession which it had been her first impulse to make to him—these were cruel sacrifices to his sense of what was due to Horace and of what was due to himself. But shrink as he might, even from the appearance of deserting her, it was impossible for him (except under a reserve which was almost equivalent to a denial) to grant her request.
“All that I can do I will do,” he said. “The doors shall be left unclosed, and I will remain in the next room, on this condition, that Horace knows of it as well as you. I should be unworthy of your confidence in me if I consented to be a listener on any other terms. You understand that, I am sure, as well as I do.”
She had never thought of her proposal to him in this light. Woman-like, she had thought of nothing but the comfort of having him near her. She understood him now. A faint flush of shame rose on her pale cheeks as she thanked him. He delicately relieved her from her embarrassment by putting a question which naturally occurred under the circumstances.
“Where is Horace all this time?” he asked. “Why is he not here?”
“He has been called away,” she answered, “by a message from Lady Janet.”
The reply more than astonished Julian; it seemed almost to alarm him. He returned to Mercy’s chair; he said to her, eagerly, “Are you sure?”
“Horace himself told me that Lady Janet had insisted on seeing him.”
“When?”
“Not long ago. He asked me to wait for him here while he went upstairs.”
Julian’s face darkened ominously.