All the weakness of Horace’s character disclosed itself when she made that reply.
“Infamous!” he exclaimed. “What excuse can you make for the cruel deception you have practiced on me? Too bad! too bad! There can be no excuse for you!”
She accepted his reproaches with unshaken resignation. “I have deserved it!” was all she said to herself, “I have deserved it!”
Julian interposed once more in Mercy’s defense.
“Wait till you are sure there is no excuse for her, Horace,” he said, quietly. “Grant her justice, if you can grant no more. I leave you together.”
He advanced toward the door of the dining-room. Horace’s weakness disclosed itself once more.
“Don’t leave me alone with her!” he burst out. “The misery of it is more than I can bear!”
Julian looked at Mercy. Her face brightened faintly. That momentary expression of relief told him how truly he would be befriending her if he consented to remain in the room. A position of retirement was offered to him by a recess formed by the central bay-window of the library. If he occupied this place, they could see or not see that he was present, as their own inclinations might decide them.
“I will stay with you, Horace, as long as you wish me to be here.” Having answered in those terms, he stopped as he passed Mercy, on his way to the window. His quick and kindly insight told him that he might still be of some service to her. A hint from him might show her the shortest and the easiest way of making her confession. Delicately and briefly he gave her the hint. “The first time I met you,” he said, “I saw that your life had had its troubles. Let us hear how those troubles began.”
He withdrew to his place in the recess. For the first time, since the fatal evening when she and Grace Roseberry had met in the French cottage, Mercy Merrick looked back into the purgatory on earth of her past life, and told her sad story simply and truly in these words.