The New Magdalen

Julian intimated by a gesture that his aunt's last question was absurd. (The much-injured cat elevated his back, waved his tail slowly, walked to the fireplace, and honored the rug by taking a seat on it.)

Lady Janet persisted. 'Is it Grace Roseberry?' she asked next.

Even Julian's patience began to show signs of yielding. His manner assumed a sudden decision, his voice rose a tone louder.

'You insist on knowing?' he said. 'It is Miss Roseberry.'

'You don't like her?' cried Lady Janet, with a sudden burst of angry surprise.

Julian broke out, on his side: 'If I see any more of her,' he answered, the rare color mounting passionately in his cheeks, 'I shall be the unhappiest man living. If I see any more of her, I shall be false to my old friend, who is to marry her. Keep us apart. If you have any regard for my peace of mind, keep us apart.'

Unutterable amazement expressed itself in his aunt's lifted hands. Ungovernable curiosity uttered itself in his aunt's next words.

'You don't mean to tell me you are in love with Grace?'

Julian sprung restlessly to his feet, and disturbed the cat at the fireplace. (The cat left the room.)

'I don't know what to tell you,' he said; 'I can't realize it to myself. No other woman has ever roused the feeling in me which this woman seems to have called to life in an instant. In the hope of forgetting her I broke my engagement here; I purposely seized the opportunity of making those inquiries abroad. Quite useless. I think of her, morning, noon, and night. I see her and hear her, at this moment, as plainly as I see and hear you. She has made herself a part of myself. I don't understand my life without her. My power of will seems to be gone. I said to myself this morning, 'I will write to my aunt; I won't go back to Mablethorpe House.' Here I am in Mablethorpe House, with a mean subterfuge to justify me to my own conscience. 'I owe it to my aunt to call on my aunt.' That is what I said to myself on the way here; and I was secretly hoping every step of the way that she would come into the room when I got here. I am hoping it now. And she is engaged to Horace Holmcroft—to my oldest friend, to my best friend! Am I an infernal rascal? or am I a weak fool? God knows—I don't. Keep my secret, aunt. I am heartily ashamed of myself; I used to think I was made of better stuff than this. Don't say a word to Horace. I must, and will, conquer it. Let me go.'

He snatched up his hat. Lady Janet, rising with the activity of a young woman, pursued him across the room, and stopped him at the door.

'No,' answered the resolute old lady, 'I won't let you go. Come back with me.'

As she said those words she noticed with a certain fond pride the brilliant color mounting in his cheeks—the flashing brightness which lent an added luster to his eyes. He had never, to her mind, looked so handsome before. She took his arm, and led him to the chairs which they had just left. It was shocking, it was wrong (she mentally admitted) to look on Mercy, under the circumstances, with any other eye than the eye of a brother or a friend. In a clergyman (perhaps) doubly shocking, doubly wrong. But, with all her respect for the vested interests of Horace, Lady Janet could not blame Julian. Worse still, she was privately conscious that he had, somehow or other, risen, rather than fallen, in her estimation within the last minute or two. Who could deny that her adopted daughter was a charming creature? Who could wonder if a man of refined tastes admired her? Upon the whole, her ladyship humanely decided that her nephew was rather to be pitied than blamed. What daughter of Eve (no matter whether she was seventeen or seventy) could have honestly arrived at any other conclusion? Do what a man may—let him commit anything he likes, from an error to a crime—so long as there is a woman at the bottom of it, there is an inexhaustible fund of pardon for him in every other woman's heart. 'Sit down,' said Lady Janet, smiling in spite of herself; 'and don't talk in that horrible way again. A man, Julian—especially a famous man like you—ought to know how to control himself.'

Julian burst out laughing bitterly.

'Send upstairs for my self-control,' he said. 'It's in her possession—not in mine. Good morning, aunt.'

He rose from his chair. Lady Janet instantly pushed him back into it.

'I insist on your staying here,' she said, 'if it is only for a few minutes longer. I have something to say to you.'

'Does it refer to Miss Roseberry?'

'It refers to the hateful woman who frightened Miss Roseberry. Now are you satisfied?'

Julian bowed, and settled himself in his chair.

'I don't much like to acknowledge it,' his aunt went on. 'But I want you to understand that I have something really serious to speak about, for once in a way. Julian! that wretch not only frightens Grace—she actually frightens me.'

'Frightens you? She is quite harmless, poor thing.'

''Poor thing'!' repeated Lady Janet. 'Did you say 'poor thing'?'

'Yes.'

'Is it possible that you pity her?'

'From the bottom of my heart.'

The old lady's temper gave way again at that reply. 'I hate a man who can't hate anybody!' she burst out. 'If you had been an ancient Roman, Julian, I believe you would have pitied Nero himself.'

Julian cordially agreed with her. 'I believe I should,' he said, quietly. 'All sinners, my dear aunt, are more or less miserable sinners. Nero must have been one of the wretchedest of mankind.'

'Wretched!' exclaimed Lady Janet. 'Nero wretched! A man who committed robbery, arson and murder to his own violin accompaniment—only wretched! What next, I wonder? When modern philanthropy begins to apologize for Nero, modern philanthropy has arrived at a pretty pass indeed! We shall hear next that Bloody Queen Mary was as playful as a kitten; and if poor dear Henry the Eighth carried anything to an extreme, it was the practice of the domestic virtues. Ah, how I hate cant! What were we talking about just now? You wander from the subject, Julian; you are what I call bird-witted. I protest I forget what I wanted to say to you.