Some letters, tied together with a ribbon, attracted Mercy’s attention
first. The ink in which the addresses were written had faded with
age. The letters, directed alternately to Colonel Roseberry and to the
Honorable Mrs. Roseberry, contained a correspondence between the husband
and wife at a time when the Colonel’s military duties had obliged him to
be absent from home. Mercy tied the letters up again, and passed on to
the papers that lay next in order under her hand.
These consisted of a few leaves pinned together, and headed (in a
woman’s handwriting) “My Journal at Rome.” A brief examination showed
that the journal had been written by Miss Roseberry, and that it was
mainly devoted to a record of the last days of her father’s life.
After replacing the journal and the correspondence in the case, the one
paper left on the table was a letter. The envelope, which was unclosed,
bore this address: “Lady Janet Roy, Mablethorpe House, Kensington,
London.” Mercy took the inclosure from the open envelope. The first
lines she read informed her that she had found the Colonel’s letter of
introduction, presenting his daughter to her protectress on her arrival
in England.
Mercy read the letter through. It was described by the writer as the
last efforts of a dying man. Colonel Roseberry wrote affectionately
of his daughter’s merits, and regretfully of her neglected
education--ascribing the latter to the pecuniary losses which had
forced him to emigrate to Canada in the character of a poor man. Fervent
expressions of gratitude followed, addressed to Lady Janet. “I owe it to
you,” the letter concluded, “that I am dying with my mind at ease about
the future of my darling girl. To your generous protection I commit the
one treasure I have left to me on earth. Through your long lifetime
you have nobly used your high rank and your great fortune as a means
of doing good. I believe it will not be counted among the least of your
virtues hereafter that you comforted the last hours of an old soldier by
opening your heart and your home to his friendless child.”
So the letter ended. Mercy laid it down with a heavy heart. What a
chance the poor girl had lost! A woman of rank and fortune waiting to
receive her--a woman so merciful and so generous that the father’s mind
had been easy about the daughter on his deathbed--and there the daughter
lay, beyond the reach of Lady Janet’s kindness, beyond the need of Lady
Janet’s help!
The French captain’s writing-materials were left on the table. Mercy
turned the letter over so that she might write the news of Miss
Roseberry’s death on the blank page at the end. She was still
considering what expressions she should use, when the sound of
complaining voices from the next room caught her ear. The wounded men
left behind were moaning for help--the deserted soldiers were losing
their fortitude at last.
She entered the kitchen. A cry of delight welcomed her appearance--the
mere sight of her composed the men. From one straw bed to another she
passed with comforting words that gave them hope, with skilled and
tender hands that soothed their pain. They kissed the hem of her black
dress, they called her their guardian angel, as the beautiful creature
moved among them, and bent over their hard pillows her gentle,
compassionate face. “I will be with you when the Germans come,” she
said, as she left them to return to her unwritten letter. “Courage, my
poor fellows! you are not deserted by your nurse.”
“Courage, madam!” the men replied; “and God bless you!”
If the firing had been resumed at that moment--if a shell had struck
her dead in the act of succoring the afflicted, what Christian judgment
would have hesitated to declare that there was a place for this woman
in heaven? But if the war ended and left her still living, where was the
place for her on earth? Where were her prospects? Where was her home?
She returned to the letter. Instead, however, of seating herself to
write, she stood by the table, absently looking down at the morsel of
paper.
A strange fancy had sprung to life in her mind on re-entering the room;
she herself smiled faintly at the extravagance of it. What if she were
to ask Lady Janet Roy to let her supply Miss Roseberry’s place? She had
met with Miss Roseberry under critical circumstances, and she had done
for her all that one woman could do to help another. There was in this
circumstance some little claim to notice, perhaps, if Lady Janet had no
other companion and reader in view. Suppose she ventured to plead her
own cause--what would the noble and merciful lady do? She would write
back, and say, “Send me references to your character, and I will
see what can be done.” Her character! Her references! Mercy laughed
bitterly, and sat down to write in the fewest words all that was needed
from her--a plain statement of the facts.
No! Not a line could she put on the paper. That fancy of hers was not
to be dismissed at will. Her mind was perversely busy now with an
imaginative picture of the beauty of Mablethorpe House and the comfort
and elegance of the life that was led there. Once more she thought of
the chance which Miss Roseberry had lost. Unhappy creature! what a home
would have been open to her if the shell had only fallen on the side of
the window, instead of on the side of the yard!
Mercy pushed the letter away from her, and walked impatiently to and fro
in the room.
The perversity in her thoughts was not to be mastered in that way. Her
mind only abandoned one useless train of reflection to occupy itself
with another. She was now looking by anticipation at her own future.
What were her prospects (if she lived through it) when the war was over?
The experience of the past delineated with pitiless fidelity the dreary
scene. Go where she might, do what she might, it would always end in the
same way. Curiosity and admiration excited by her beauty; inquiries made
about her; the story of the past discovered; Society charitably sorry
for her; Society generously subscribing for her; and still, through all
the years of her life, the same result in the end--the shadow of the old
disgrace surrounding her as with a pestilence, isolating her among other
women, branding her, even when she had earned her pardon in the sight of
God, with the mark of an indelible disgrace in the sight of man: there
was the prospect! And she was only five-and-twenty last birthday; she
was in the prime of her health and her strength; she might live, in the
course of nature, fifty years more!
She stopped again at the bedside; she looked again at the face of the
corpse.
To what end had the shell struck the woman who had some hope in her
life, and spared the woman who had none? The words she had herself
spoken to Grace Roseberry came back to her as she thought of it. “If I
only had your chance! If I only had your reputation and your prospects!”
And there was the chance wasted! there were the enviable prospects
thrown away! It was almost maddening to contemplate that result, feeling
her own position as she felt it. In the bitter mockery of despair she
bent over the lifeless figure, and spoke to it as if it had ears to hear
her. “Oh!” she said, longingly, “if you could be Mercy Merrick, and if I
could be Grace Roseberry, _now!_”
The instant the words passed her lips she started into an erect
position. She stood by the bed with her eyes staring wildly into empty
space; with her brain in a flame; with her heart beating as if it would
stifle her. “If you could be Mercy Merrick, and if I could be Grace
Roseberry, now!” In one breathless moment the thought assumed a new
development in her mind. In one breathless moment the conviction struck
her like an electric shock. _She might be Grace Roseberry if she dared!_
There was absolutely nothing to stop her from presenting herself to Lady
Janet Roy under Grace’s name and in Grace’s place!
What were the risks? Where was the weak point in the scheme?
Grace had said it herself in so many words--she and Lady Janet had never
seen each other. Her friends were in Canada; her relations in England
were dead. Mercy knew the place in which she had lived--the place called
Port Logan--as well as she had known it herself. Mercy had only to read
the manuscript journal to be able to answer any questions relating to
the visit to Rome and to Colonel Roseberry’s death. She had no
accomplished lady to personate: Grace had spoken herself--her father’s
letter spoke also in the plainest terms--of her neglected education.
Everything, literally everything, was in the lost woman’s favor. The
people with whom she had been connected in the ambulance had gone,
to return no more. Her own clothes were on Miss Roseberry at that
moment--marked with her own name. Miss Roseberry’s clothes, marked with
_her_ name, were drying, at Mercy’s disposal, in the next room. The way
of escape from the unendurable humiliation of her present life lay open
before her at last. What a prospect it was! A new identity, which she
might own anywhere! a new name, which was beyond reproach! a new past
life, into which all the world might search, and be welcome! Her color
rose, her eyes sparkled; she had never been so irresistibly beautiful as
she looked at the moment when the new future disclosed itself, radiant
with new hope.
She waited a minute, until she could look at her own daring project from
another point of view. Where was the harm of it? what did her conscience
say?
As to Grace, in the first place. What injury was she doing to a woman
who was dead? The question answered itself. No injury to the woman. No
injury to her relations. Her relations were dead also.
As to Lady Janet, in the second place. If she served her new mistress
faithfully, if she filled her new sphere honorably, if she was diligent
under instruction and grateful for kindness--if, in one word, she was
all that she might be and would be in the heavenly peace and security
of that new life--what injury was she doing to Lady Janet? Once more the
question answered itself. She might, and would, give Lady Janet cause to
bless the day when she first entered the house.
She snatched up Colonel Roseberry’s letter, and put it into the case
with the other papers. The opportunity was before her; the chances were
all in her favor; her conscience said nothing against trying the daring
scheme. She decided then and there--“I’ll do it!”
Something jarred on her finer sense, something offended her better
nature, as she put the case into the pocket of her dress. She had
decided, and yet she was not at ease; she was not quite sure of having
fairly questioned her conscience yet. What if she laid the letter-case
on the table again, and waited until her excitement had all cooled down,
and then put the contemplated project soberly on its trial before her
own sense of right and wrong?
She thought once--and hesitated. Before she could think twice, the
distant tramp of marching footsteps and the distant clatter of horses’
hoofs were wafted to her on the night air. The Germans were entering the
village! In a few minutes more they would appear in the cottage; they
would summon her to give an account of herself. There was no time for
waiting until she was composed again. Which should it be--the new life,
as Grace Roseberry? or the old life, as Mercy Merrick?
She looked for the last time at the bed. Grace’s course was run; Grace’s
future was at her disposal. Her resolute nature, forced to a choice
on the instant, held by the daring alternative. She persisted in the
determination to take Grace’s place.
The tramping footsteps of the Germans came nearer and nearer. The voices
of the officers were audible, giving the words of command.
She seated herself at the table, waiting steadily for what was to come.
The ineradicable instinct of the sex directed her eyes to her dress,
before the Germans appeared. Looking it over to see that it was in
perfect order, her eyes fell upon the red cross on her left shoulder. In
a moment it struck her that her nurse’s costume might involve her in a
needless risk. It associated her with a public position; it might lead
to inquiries at a later time, and those inquiries might betray her.
She looked round. The gray cloak which she had lent to Grace attracted
her attention. She took it up, and covered herself with it from head to
foot.
The cloak was just arranged round her when she heard the outer door
thrust open, and voices speaking in a strange tongue, and arms grounded
in the room behind her. Should she wait to be discovered? or should she
show herself of her own accord? It was less trying to such a nature as
hers to show herself than to wait. She advanced to enter the kitchen.
The canvas curtain, as she stretched out her hand to it, was suddenly
drawn back from the other side, and three men confronted her in the open
doorway.