The natural sound of her voice might have failed to affect Horace. The altered sound of it roused him. He approached Mercy’s chair, with a dull surprise in his face, and put his hand, in a weak, wavering way, on her shoulder. In that position he stood for a while, looking down at her in silence.
The one idea in him that found its way outward to expression was the idea of Julian. Without moving his hand, without looking up from Mercy, he spoke for the first time since the shock had fallen on him.
“Where is Julian?” he asked, very quietly.
“I am here, Horace—close by you.”
“Will you do me a service?”
“Certainly. How can I help you?”
He considered a little before he replied. His hand left Mercy’s shoulder, and went up to his head—then dropped at his side. His next words were spoken in a sadly helpless, bewildered way.
“I have an idea, Julian, that I have been somehow to blame. I said some hard words to you. It was a little while since. I don’t clearly remember what it was all about. My temper has been a good deal tried in this house; I have never been used to the sort of thing that goes on here—secrets and mysteries, and hateful low-lived quarrels. We have no secrets and mysteries at home. And as for quarrels—ridiculous! My mother and my sisters are highly bred women (you know them); gentlewomen, in the best sense of the word. When I am with them I have no anxieties. I am not harassed at home by doubts of who people are, and confusion about names, and so on. I suspect the contrast weighs a little on my mind and upsets it. They make me over-suspicious among them here, and it ends in my feeling doubts and fears that I can’t get over: doubts about you and fears about myself. I have got a fear about myself now. I want you to help me. Shall I make an apology first?”
“Don’t say a word. Tell me what I can do.”
He turned his face toward Julian for the first time.