The New Magdalen

'Are you going away, Julian?'

'I am only going to the lodge-keeper. I want to give him a word of warning in case of his seeing her again.'

'You will come back here?' (Lady Janet lowered her voice to a whisper.) 'There is really a reason, Julian, for your not leaving the house now.'

'I promise not to go away, aunt, until I have provided for your security. If you, or your adopted daughter, are alarmed by another intrusion, I give you my word of honor my card shall go to the police station, however painfully I may feel it myself.' (He, too, lowered his voice at the next words ) 'In the meantime, remember what I confessed to you while we were alone. For my sake, let me see as little of Miss Roseberry as possible. Shall I find you in this room when I come back?'

'Yes.'

'Alone?'

He laid a strong emphasis, of look as well as of tone, on that one word. Lady Janet understood what the emphasis meant.

'Are you really,' she whispered, 'as much in love with Grace as that?'

Julian laid one hand on his aunt's arm, and pointed with the other to Horace—standing with his back to them, warming his feet on the fender.

'Well?' said Lady Janet.

'Well,' said Julian, with a smile on his lip and a tear in his eye, 'I never envied any man as I envy him!'

With those words he left the room.

CHAPTER XV. A WOMAN'S REMORSE.

HAVING warmed his feet to his own entire satisfaction, Horace turned round from the fireplace, and discovered that he and Lady Janet were alone.

'Can I see Grace?' he asked.

The easy tone in which he put the question—a tone, as it were, of proprietorship in 'Grace'—jarred on Lady Janet at the moment. For the first time in her life she found herself comparing Horace with Julian—to Horace's disadvantage. He was rich; he was a gentleman of ancient lineage; he bore an unblemished character. But who had the strong brain? who had the great heart? Which was the Man of the two?

'Nobody can see her,' answered Lady Janet. 'Not even you!'

The tone of the reply was sharp, with a dash of irony in it. But where is the modern young man, possessed of health and an independent income, who is capable of understanding that irony can be presumptuous enough to address itself to him? Horace (with perfect politeness) declined to consider himself answered.

'Does your ladyship mean that Miss Roseberry is in bed?' he asked.

'I mean that Miss Roseberry is in her room. I mean that I have twice tried to persuade Miss Roseberry to dress and come downstairs, and tried in vain. I mean that what Miss Roseberry refuses to do for Me, she is not likely to do for You—'

How many more meanings of her own Lady Janet might have gone on enumerating, it is not easy to calculate. At her third sentence a sound in the library caught her ear through the incompletely closed door and suspended the next words on her lips. Horace heard it also. It was the rustling sound (traveling nearer and nearer over the library carpet) of a silken dress.

(In the interval while a coming event remains in a state of uncertainty, what is it the inevitable tendency of every Englishman under thirty to do? His inevitable tendency is to ask somebody to bet on the event. He can no more resist it than he can resist lifting his stick or his umbrella, in the absence of a gun, and pretending to shoot if a bird flies by him while he is out for a walk.)

'What will your ladyship bet that this is not Grace?' cried Horace.

Her ladyship took no notice of the proposal; her attention remained fixed on the library door. The rustling sound stopped for a moment. The door was softly pushed open. The false Grace Roseberry entered the room.

Horace advanced to meet her, opened his lips to speak, and stopped—struck dumb by the change in his affianced wife since he had seen her last. Some terrible oppression seemed to have crushed her. It was as if she had actually shrunk in height as well as in substance. She walked more slowly than usual; she spoke more rarely than usual, and in a lower tone. To those who had seen her before the fatal visit of the stranger from Mannheim, it was the wreck of the woman that now appeared instead of the woman herself. And yet there was the old charm still surviving through it all; the grandeur of the head and eyes, the delicate symmetry of the features, the unsought grace of every movement—in a word, the unconquerable beauty which suffering cannot destroy, and which time itself is powerless to wear out. Lady Janet advanced, and took her with hearty kindness by both hands.

'My dear child, welcome among us again! You have come down stairs to please me?'

She bent her head in silent acknowledgment that it was so. Lady Janet pointed to Horace: 'Here is somebody who has been longing to see you, Grace.'

She never looked up; she stood submissive, her eyes fixed on a little basket of colored wools which hung on her arm. 'Thank you, Lady Janet,' she said, faintly. 'Thank you, Horace.'

Horace placed her arm in his, and led her to the sofa. She shivered as she took her seat, and looked round her. It was the first time she had seen the dining-room since the day when she had found herself face to face with the dead-alive.

'Why do you come here, my love?' asked Lady Janet. 'The drawing-room would have been a warmer and a