His eyes, his voice, his manner, all told her that those words came from
the heart. She contrasted his generous confidence in her (the confidence
of which she was unworthy) with her ungracious distrust of him. Not only
had she wronged Grace Roseberry--she had wronged Julian Gray. Could she
deceive him as she had deceived the others? Could she meanly accept
that implicit trust, that devoted belief? Never had she felt the base
submissions which her own imposture condemned her to undergo with a
loathing of them so overwhelming as the loathing that she felt now. In
horror of herself, she turned her head aside in silence and shrank from
meeting his eye. He noticed the movement, placing his own interpretation
on it. Advancing closer, he asked anxiously if he had offended her.
"You don't know how your confidence touches me," she said, without
looking up. "You little think how keenly I feel your kindness."
She checked herself abruptly. Her fine tact warned her that she was
speaking too warmly--that the expression of her gratitude might strike
him as being strangely exaggerated. She handed him her work-basket
before he could speak again.
"Will you put it away for me?" she asked, in her quieter tones. "I don't
feel able to work just now."
His back was turned on her for a moment, while he placed the basket on a
side-table. In that moment her mind advanced at a bound from present to
future. Accident might one day put the true Grace in possession of the
proofs that she needed, and might reveal the false Grace to him in the
identity that was her own. What would he think of her then? Could she
make him tell her without betraying herself? She determined to try.
"Children are notoriously insatiable if you once answer their questions,
and women are nearly as bad," she said, when Julian returned to her.
"Will your patience hold out if I go back for the third time to the
person whom we have been speaking of?"
"Try me," he answered, with a smile.
"Suppose you had _not_ taken your merciful view of her?"
"Yes?"
"Suppose you believed that she was wickedly bent on deceiving others for
a purpose of her own--would you not shrink from such a woman in horror
and disgust?"
"God forbid that I should shrink from any human creature!" he answered,
earnestly. "Who among us has a right to do that?"
She hardly dared trust herself to believe him. "You would still pity
her?" she persisted, "and still feel for her?"
"With all my heart."
"Oh, how good you are!"
He held up his hand in warning. The tones of his voice deepened, the
luster of his eyes brightened. She had stirred in the depths of that
great heart the faith in which the man lived--the steady principle which
guided his modest and noble life.