Horace yielded. Julian turned to Mercy.
“You have allowed me to guide you so far,” he said. “Will you allow me to guide you still?”
Her eyes sank before his; her bosom rose and fell rapidly. His influence over her maintained its sway. She bowed her head in speechless submission.
“Tell him,” Julian proceeded, in accents of entreaty, not of command—“tell him what your life has been. Tell him how you were tried and tempted, with no friend near to speak the words which might have saved you. And then,” he added, raising her from the chair, “let him judge you—if he can!”
He attempted to lead her across the room to the place which Horace occupied. But her submission had its limits. Half-way to the place she stopped, and refused to go further. Julian offered her a chair. She declined to take it. Standing with one hand on the back of the chair, she waited for the word from Horace which would permit her to speak. She was resigned to the ordeal. Her face was calm; her mind was clear. The hardest of all humiliations to endure—the humiliation of acknowledging her name—she had passed through. Nothing remained but to show her gratitude to Julian by acceding to his wishes, and to ask pardon of Horace before they parted forever. In a little while the Matron would arrive at the house—and then it would be over.
Unwillingly Horace looked at her. Their eyes met. He broke out suddenly with something of his former violence.
“I can’t realize it even now!” he cried. “Is it true that you are not Grace Roseberry? Don’t look at me! Say in one word—Yes or No!”
She answered him, humbly and sadly, “Yes.”
“You have done what that woman accused you of doing? Am I to believe that?”
“You are to believe it, sir.”