IV.
That same sunset Lucy lay in her chamber. A knock
was heard at its door, and the responding Martha was met by
the now self-controlled and resolute face of Mrs. Glendinning.
“How is your young mistress, Martha? May I come in?”
But waiting for no answer, with the same breath she passed
the maid, and determinately entered the room.
She sat down by the bed, and met the open eye, but closed
and pallid mouth of Lucy. She gazed rivetedly and inquisitively
a moment; then turned a quick aghast look toward
Martha, as if seeking warrant for some shuddering thought.
“Miss Lucy”—said Martha—“it is your—it is Mrs. Glendinning.
Speak to her, Miss Lucy.”
As if left in the last helpless attitude of some spent contortion
of her grief, Lucy was not lying in the ordinary posture of
one in bed, but lay half crosswise upon it, with the pale pillows
propping her hueless form, and but a single sheet thrown
over her, as though she were so heart overladen, that her white
body could not bear one added feather. And as in any snowy,
marble statue, the drapery clings to the limbs; so as one found
drowned, the thin, defining sheet invested Lucy.
“It is Mrs. Glendinning. Will you speak to her, Miss Lucy?”
The thin lips moved and trembled for a moment, and then
were still again, and augmented pallor shrouded her.
Martha brought restoratives; and when all was as before,
she made a gesture for the lady to depart, and in a whisper,
said, “She will not speak to any; she does not speak to me.
The doctor has just left—he has been here five times since
morning—and says she must be kept entirely quiet.” Then
pointing to the stand, added, “You see what he has left—mere
restoratives. Quiet is her best medicine now, he says. Quiet,
quiet, quiet! Oh, sweet quiet, wilt thou now ever come?”
“Has Mrs. Tartan been written to?” whispered the lady.
Martha nodded.
So the lady moved to quit the room, saying that once every
two hours she would send to know how Lucy fared.
“But where, where is her aunt, Martha?” she exclaimed,
lowly, pausing at the door, and glancing in sudden astonishment
about the room; “surely, surely, Mrs. Lanyllyn—”
“Poor, poor old lady,” weepingly whispered Martha, “she
hath caught infection from sweet Lucy's woe; she hurried
hither, caught one glimpse of that bed, and fell like dead upon
the floor. The Doctor hath two patients now, lady”—glancing
at the bed, and tenderly feeling Lucy's bosom, to mark if yet
it heaved; “Alack! Alack! oh, reptile! reptile! that could
sting so sweet a breast! fire would be too cold for him—accursed!”
“Thy own tongue blister the roof of thy mouth!” cried Mrs.
Glendinning, in a half-stifled, whispering scream. “'Tis not
for thee, hired one, to rail at my son, though he were Lucifer,
simmering in Hell! Mend thy manners, minx!”
And she left the chamber, dilated with her unconquerable
pride, leaving Martha aghast at such venom in such beauty.
