University of Virginia Library

23. BOOK XXIII.
A LETTER FOR PIERRE. ISABEL. ARRIVAL OF LUCY'S
EASEL AND TRUNKS AT THE APOSTLES'.

I.

If a frontier man be seized by wild Indians, and carried far
and deep into the wilderness, and there held a captive, with no
slightest probability of eventual deliverance; then the wisest
thing for that man is to exclude from his memory by every
possible method, the least images of those beloved objects now
forever reft from him. For the more delicious they were to
him in the now departed possession, so much the more agonizing
shall they be in the present recalling. And though a
strong man may sometimes succeed in strangling such tormenting
memories; yet, if in the beginning permitted to encroach
upon him unchecked, the same man shall, in the end,
become as an idiot. With a continent and an ocean between
him and his wife—thus sundered from her, by whatever imperative
cause, for a term of long years;—the husband, if passionately
devoted to her, and by nature broodingly sensitive of soul,
is wise to forget her till he embrace her again;—is wise never
to remember her if he hear of her death. And though such
complete suicidal forgettings prove practically impossible, yet is
it the shallow and ostentatious affections alone which are bustling
in the offices of obituarian memories. The love deep as
death—what mean those five words, but that such love can not

live, and be continually remembering that the loved one is no
more? If it be thus then in cases where entire unremorsefulness
as regards the beloved absent objects is presumed, how
much more intolerable, when the knowledge of their hopeless
wretchedness occurs, attended by the visitations of before latent
upbraidings in the rememberer as having been any way—
even unwillingly—the producers of their sufferings. There
seems no other sane recourse for some moody organizations on
whom such things, under such circumstances intrude, but right
and left to flee them, whatever betide.

If little or nothing hitherto has been said of Lucy Tartan in
reference to the condition of Pierre after his departure from the
Meadows, it has only been because her image did not willingly
occupy his soul. He had striven his utmost to banish it thence;
and only once—on receiving the tidings of Glen's renewed attentions—did
he remit the intensity of those strivings, or rather
feel them, as impotent in him in that hour of his manifold
and overwhelming prostration.

Not that the pale form of Lucy, swooning on her snow-white
bed; not that the inexpressible anguish of the shriek—“My
heart! my heart!” would not now at times force themselves
upon him, and cause his whole being to thrill with a nameless
horror and terror. But the very thrillingness of the phantom
made him to shun it, with all remaining might of his spirit.

Nor were there wanting still other, and far more wonderful,
though but dimly conscious influences in the breast of Pierre,
to meet as repellants the imploring form. Not to speak of his
being devoured by the all-exacting theme of his book, there
were sinister preoccupations in him of a still subtler and more
fearful sort, of which some inklings have already been given.

It was while seated solitary in his room one morning; his
flagging faculties seeking a momentary respite; his head side-ways
turned toward the naked floor, following the seams in it,
which, as wires, led straight from where he sat to the connecting

door, and disappeared beneath it into the chamber of Isabel;
that he started at a tap at that very door, followed by the
wonted, low, sweet voice,—

“Pierre! a letter for thee—dost thou hear? a letter,—may
I come in?”

At once he felt a dart of surprise and apprehension; for he
was precisely in that general condition with respect to the outer
world, that he could not reasonably look for any tidings but
disastrous, or at least, unwelcome ones. He assented; and Isabel
entered, holding out the billet in her hand.

“'Tis from some lady, Pierre; who can it be?—not thy mother
though, of that I am certain;—the expression of her face, as
seen by me, not at all answering to the expression of this
handwriting here.”

“My mother? from my mother?” muttered Pierre, in wild
vacancy—“no! no! it can scarce be from her.—Oh, she writes
no more, even in her own private tablets now! Death hath
stolen the last leaf, and rubbed all out, to scribble his own ineffaceable
hic jacet there!”

“Pierre!” cried Isabel, in affright.

“Give it me!” he shouted, vehemently, extending his hand.
“Forgive me, sweet, sweet Isabel, I have wandered in my mind;
this book makes me mad. There; I have it now”—in a tone
of indifference—“now, leave me again. It is from some pretty
aunt, or cousin, I suppose,” carelessly balancing the letter in his
hand.

Isabel quitted the room; the moment the door closed upon
her, Pierre eagerly split open the letter, and read:—

II.

III.

When surrounded by the base and mercenary crew, man,
too long wonted to eye his race with a suspicious disdain, suddenly
is brushed by some angelical plume of humanity, and the
human accents of superhuman love, and the human eyes of
superhuman beauty and glory, suddenly burst on his being;
then how wonderful and fearful the shock! It is as if the sky-cope
were rent, and from the black valley of Jehoshaphat, he
caught upper glimpses of the seraphim in the visible act of
adoring.

He held the artless, angelical letter in his unrealizing hand;
he started, and gazed round his room, and out at the window,
commanding the bare, desolate, all-forbidding quadrangle, and
then asked himself whether this was the place that an angel
should choose for its visit to earth. Then he felt a vast, out-swelling
triumphantness, that the girl whose rare merits his intuitive
soul had once so clearly and passionately discerned,
should indeed, in this most tremendous of all trials, have acquitted
herself with such infinite majesty. Then again, he sunk
utterly down from her, as in a bottomless gulf, and ran shuddering
through hideous galleries of despair, in pursuit of some
vague, white shape, and lo! two unfathomable dark eyes met
his, and Isabel stood mutely and mournfully, yet all-ravishingly
before him.

He started up from his plank; cast off his manifold wrappings,
and crossed the floor to remove himself from the spot,

where such sweet, such sublime, such terrific revelations had
been made him.

Then a timid little rap was heard at the door.

“Pierre, Pierre; now that thou art risen, may I not come in
—just for a moment, Pierre.”

“Come in, Isabel.”

She was approaching him in her wonted most strange and
sweetly mournful manner, when he retreated a step from her,
and held out his arm, not seemingly to invite, but rather as if
to warn.

She looked fixedly in his face, and stood rooted.

“Isabel, another is coming to me. Thou dost not speak,
Isabel. She is coming to dwell with us so long as we live, Isabel.
Wilt thou not speak?”

The girl still stood rooted; the eyes, which she had first fixed
on him, still remained wide-openly riveted.

“Wilt thou not speak, Isabel?” said Pierre, terrified at her
frozen, immovable aspect, yet too terrified to manifest his own
terror to her; and still coming slowly near her. She slightly
raised one arm, as if to grasp some support; then turned her
head slowly sideways toward the door by which she had entered;
then her dry lips slowly parted—“My bed; lay me;
lay me!”

The verbal effort broke her stiffening enchantment of frost;
her thawed form sloped sidelong into the air; but Pierre caught
her, and bore her into her own chamber, and laid her there on
the bed.

“Fan me; fan me!”

He fanned the fainting flame of her life; by-and-by she
turned slowly toward him.

“Oh! that feminine word from thy mouth, dear Pierre:—
that she, that she!”

Pierre sat silent, fanning her.

“Oh, I want none in the world but thee, my brother—but

thee, but thee! and, oh God! am I not enough for thee?
Bare earth with my brother were all heaven for me; but all
my life, all my full soul, contents not my brother.”

Pierre spoke not; he but listened; a terrible, burning curiosity
was in him, that made him as heartless. But still all that
she had said thus far was ambiguous.

“Had I known—had I but known it before! Oh bitterly
cruel to reveal it now. That she! That she!”

She raised herself suddenly, and almost fiercely confronted
him.

“Either thou hast told thy secret, or she is not worthy the
commonest love of man! Speak Pierre,—which?”

“The secret is still a secret, Isabel.”

“Then is she worthless, Pierre, whoever she be—foolishly,
madly fond!—Doth not the world know me for thy wife?—
She shall not come! 'Twere a foul blot on thee and me. She
shall not come! One look from me shall murder her, Pierre!”

“This is madness, Isabel. Look: now reason with me. Did
I not before opening the letter, say to thee, that doubtless it
was from some pretty young aunt or cousin?”

“Speak quick!—a cousin?”

“A cousin, Isabel.”

“Yet, yet, that is not wholly out of the degree, I have heard.
Tell me more, and quicker! more! more!”

“A very strange cousin, Isabel; almost a nun in her notions.
Hearing of our mysterious exile, she, without knowing
the cause, hath yet as mysteriously vowed herself ours—not so
much mine, Isabel, as ours, ours—to serve us; and by some
sweet heavenly fancying, to guide us and guard us here.”

“Then, possibly, it may be all very well, Pierre, my brother
—my brother—I can say that now?”

“Any,—all words are thine, Isabel; words and worlds with
all their containings, shall be slaves to thee, Isabel.”

She looked eagerly and inquiringly at him; then dropped

her eyes, and touched his hand; then gazed again. “Speak
so more to me, Pierre! Thou art my brother; art thou not
my brother?—But tell me now more of—her; it is all newness,
and utter strangeness to me, Pierre.”

“I have said, my sweetest sister, that she has this wild, nun-like
notion in her. She is willful in it; in this letter she vows
she must and will come, and nothing on earth shall stay her.
Do not have any sisterly jealousy, then, my sister. Thou wilt
find her a most gentle, unobtrusive, ministering girl, Isabel.
She will never name the not-to-be-named things to thee; nor
hint of them; because she knows them not. Still, without
knowing the secret, she yet hath the vague, unspecializing sensation
of the secret—the mystical presentiment, somehow, of the
secret. And her divineness hath drowned all womanly curiosity
in her; so that she desires not, in any way, to verify the presentiment;
content with the vague presentiment only; for in
that, she thinks, the heavenly summons to come to us, lies;—
even there, in that, Isabel. Dost thou now comprehend me?”

“I comprehend nothing, Pierre; there is nothing these eyes
have ever looked upon, Pierre, that this soul comprehended.
Ever, as now, do I go all a-grope amid the wide mysteriousness
of things. Yes, she shall come; it is only one mystery the
more. Doth she talk in her sleep, Pierre? Would it be well,
if I slept with her, my brother?”

“On thy account; wishful for thy sake; to leave thee incommoded;
and—and—not knowing precisely how things
really are;—she probably anticipates and desires otherwise, my
sister.”

She gazed steadfastly at his outwardly firm, but not interiorly
unfaltering aspect; and then dropped her glance in silence.

“Yes, she shall come, my brother; she shall come. But it
weaves its thread into the general riddle, my brother.—Hath
she that which they call the memory, Pierre; the memory?
Hath she that?”

“We all have the memory, my sister.”

“Not all! not all!—poor Bell hath but very little. Pierre!
I have seen her in some dream. She is fair-haired—blue eyes
—she is not quite so tall as I, yet a very little slighter.”

Pierre started. “Thou hast seen Lucy Tartan, at Saddle
Meadows?”

“Is Lucy Tartan the name?—Perhaps, perhaps;—but also,
in the dream, Pierre; she came, with her blue eyes turned beseechingly
on me; she seemed as if persuading me from thee;
—methought she was then more than thy cousin;—methought
she was that good angel, which some say, hovers over every
human soul; and methought—oh, methought that I was thy
other,—thy other angel, Pierre. Look: see these eyes,—this
hair—nay, this cheek;—all dark, dark, dark,—and she—the
blue-eyed—the fair-haired—oh, once the red-cheeked!”

She tossed her ebon tresses over her; she fixed her ebon
eyes on him.

“Say, Pierre; doth not a funerealness invest me? Was
ever hearse so plumed?—Oh, God! that I had been born with
blue eyes, and fair hair! Those make the livery of heaven!
Heard ye ever yet of a good angel with dark eyes, Pierre?—
no, no, no—all blue, blue, blue—heaven's own blue—the clear,
vivid, unspeakable blue, which we see in June skies, when all
clouds are swept by.—But the good angel shall come to thee,
Pierre. Then both will be close by thee, my brother; and
thou mayest perhaps elect,—elect!—She shall come; she shall
come.—When is it to be, dear Pierre?”

“To-morrow, Isabel. So it is here written.”

She fixed her eye on the crumpled billet in his hand. “It
were vile to ask, but not wrong to suppose the asking.—Pierre,
—no, I need not say it,—wouldst thou?”

“No; I would not let thee read it, my sister; I would not;
because I have no right to—no right—no right;—that is it;
no: I have no right. I will burn it this instant, Isabel.”

He stepped from her into the adjoining room; threw the
billet into the stove, and watching its last ashes, returned to
Isabel.

She looked with endless intimations upon him.

“It is burnt, but not consumed; it is gone, but not lost.
Through stove, pipe, and flue, it hath mounted in flame, and
gone as a scroll to heaven! It shall appear again, my brother.
—Woe is me—woe, woe!—woe is me, oh, woe! Do not
speak to me, Pierre; leave me now. She shall come. The
Bad angel shall tend the Good; she shall dwell with us, Pierre.
Mistrust me not; her considerateness to me, shall be outdone
by mine to her.—Let me be alone now, my brother.”

IV.

Though by the unexpected petition to enter his privacy—a
petition he could scarce ever deny to Isabel, since she so religiously
abstained from preferring it, unless for some very
reasonable cause, Pierre, in the midst of those conflicting,
secondary emotions, immediately following the first wonderful
effect of Lucy's strange letter, had been forced to put on,
toward Isabel, some air of assurance and understanding concerning
its contents; yet at bottom, he was still a prey to all
manner of devouring mysteries.

Soon, now, as he left the chamber of Isabel, these mysteriousnesses
re-mastered him completely; and as he mechanically
sat down in the dining-room chair, gently offered him by
Delly—for the silent girl saw that some strangeness that sought
stillness was in him;—Pierre's mind was revolving how it was
possible, or any way conceivable, that Lucy should have been
inspired with such seemingly wonderful presentiments of something
assumed, or disguising, or non-substantial, somewhere

and somehow, in his present most singular apparent position in
the eye of world. The wild words of Isabel yet rang in his
ears. It were an outrage upon all womanhood to imagine that
Lucy, however yet devoted to him in her hidden heart, should
be willing to come to him, so long as she supposed, with the
rest of the world, that Pierre was an ordinarily married man.
But how—what possible reason—what possible intimation
could she have had to suspect the contrary, or to suspect any
thing unsound? For neither at this present time, nor at any
subsequent period, did Pierre, or could Pierre, possibly imagine
that in her marvelous presentiments of Love she had any
definite conceit of the precise nature of the secret which so
unrevealingly and enchantedly wrapt him. But a peculiar
thought passingly recurred to him here.

Within his social recollections there was a very remarkable
case of a youth, who, while all but affianced to a beautiful girl
—one returning his own throbbings with incipient passion—became
somehow casually and momentarily betrayed into an imprudent
manifested tenderness toward a second lady; or else,
that second lady's deeply-concerned friends caused it to be made
known to the poor youth, that such committal tenderness toward
her he had displayed, nor had it failed to exert its natural
effect upon her; certain it is, this second lady drooped and
drooped, and came nigh to dying, all the while raving of the
cruel infidelity of her supposed lover; so that those agonizing
appeals, from so really lovely a girl, that seemed dying of grief
for him, at last so moved the youth, that—morbidly disregardful
of the fact, that inasmuch as two ladies claimed him, the
prior lady had the best title to his hand—his conscience insanely
upbraided him concerning the second lady; he thought
that eternal woe would surely overtake him both here and hereafter
if he did not renounce his first love—terrible as the effort
would be both to him and her—and wed with the second lady;
which he accordingly did; while, through his whole subsequent

life, delicacy and honor toward his thus wedded wife, forbade
that by explaining to his first love how it was with him in this
matter, he should tranquilize her heart; and, therefore, in her
complete ignorance, she believed that he was willfully and
heartlessly false to her; and so came to a lunatic's death on his
account.

This strange story of real life, Pierre knew to be also familiar
to Lucy; for they had several times conversed upon it; and
the first love of the demented youth had been a school-mate of
Lucy's, and Lucy had counted upon standing up with her as
bridemaid. Now, the passing idea was self-suggested to Pierre,
whether into Lucy's mind some such conceit as this, concerning
himself and Isabel, might not possibly have stolen. But then
again such a supposition proved wholly untenable in the end;
for it did by no means suffice for a satisfactory solution of the
absolute motive of the extraordinary proposed step of Lucy;
nor indeed by any ordinary law of propriety, did it at all seem
to justify that step. Therefore, he know not what to think;
hardly what to dream. Wonders, nay, downright miracles and
no less were sung about Love; but here was the absolute miracle
itself—the out-acted miracle. For infallibly certain he inwardly
felt, that whatever her strange conceit; whatever her
enigmatical delusion; whatever her most secret and inexplicable
motive; still Lucy in her own virgin heart remained transparently
immaculate, without shadow of flaw or vein. Nevertheless,
what inconceivable conduct this was in her, which she
in her letter so passionately proposed! Altogether, it amazed
him; it confounded him.

Now, that vague, fearful feeling stole into him, that, rail as all
atheists will, there is a mysterious, inscrutable divineness in the
world—a God—a Being positively present everywhere;—nay,
He is now in this room; the air did part when I here sat down.
I displaced the Spirit then—condensed it a little off from this

spot. He looked apprehensively around him; he felt overjoyed
at the sight of the humanness of Delly.

While he was thus plunged into this mysteriousness, a knock
was heard at the door.

Delly hesitatingly rose—“Shall I let any one in, sir?—I
think it is Mr. Millthorpe's knock.”

“Go and see—go and see”—said Pierre, vacantly.

The moment the door was opened, Millthorpe—for it was he
—catching a glimpse of Pierre's seated form, brushed past
Delly, and loudly entered the room.

“Ha, ha! well, my boy, how comes on the Inferno? That
is it you are writing; one is apt to look black while writing Infernoes;
you always loved Dante. My lad! I have finished
ten metaphysical treatises; argued five cases before the court;
attended all our society's meetings; accompanied our great
Professor, Monsieur Volvoon, the lecturer, through his circuit in
the philosophical saloons, sharing all the honors of his illustrious
triumph; and by the way, let me tell you, Volvoon secretly
gives me even more credit than is my due; for 'pon my
soul, I did not help write more than one half, at most, of his
Lectures; edited—anonymously, though—a learned, scientific
work on `The Precise Cause of the Modifications in the Undulatory
Motion in Waves,' a posthumous work of a poor fellow—
fine lad he was, too—a friend of mine. Yes, here I have been
doing all this, while you still are hammering away at that
one poor plaguy Inferno! Oh, there's a secret in dispatching
these things; patience! patience! you will yet learn the secret.
Time! time! I can't teach it to you, my boy, but Time can:
I wish I could, but I can't.”

There was another knock at the door.

“Oh!” cried Millthorpe, suddenly turning round to it, “I
forgot, my boy. I came to tell you that there is a porter, with
some queer things, inquiring for you. I happened to meet him
down stairs in the corridors, and I told him to follow me up—I

would show him the road; here he is; let him in, let him in,
good Delly, my girl.”

Thus far, the rattlings of Millthorpe, if producing any effect
at all, had but stunned the averted Pierre. But now he started
to his feet. A man with his hat on, stood in the door, holding
an easel before him.

“Is this Mr. Glendinning's room, gentlemen?”

“Oh, come in, come in,” cried Millthorpe, “all right.”

“Oh! is that you, sir? well, well, then;” and the man set
down the easel.

“Well, my boy,” exclaimed Millthorpe to Pierre; “you are
in the Inferno dream yet. Look; that's what people call an
easel, my boy. An easel, an easel—not a weasel; you look at
it as though you thought it a weasel. Come; wake up, wake
up! You ordered it, I suppose, and here it is. Going to paint
and illustrate the Inferno, as you go along, I suppose. Well,
my friends tell me it is a great pity my own things aint illustrated.
But I can't afford it. There now is that Hymn to the
Niger, which I threw into a pigeon-hole, a year or two ago—
that would be fine for illustrations.”

“Is it for Mr. Glendinning you inquire?” said Pierre now, in
a slow, icy tone, to the porter.

“Mr. Glendinning, sir; all right, aint it?”

“Perfectly,” said Pierre mechanically, and casting another
strange, rapt, bewildered glance at the easel. “But something
seems strangely wanting here. Ay, now I see, I see it:—Villain!—the
vines! Thou hast torn the green heart-strings!
Thou hast but left the cold skeleton of the sweet arbor wherein
she once nestled! Thou besotted, heartless hind and fiend,
dost thou so much as dream in thy shriveled liver of the eternal
mischief thou hast done? Restore thou the green vines!
untrample them, thou accursed!—Oh my God, my God,
trampled vines pounded and crushed in all fibers, how can
they live over again, even though they be replanted! Curse

thee, thou!—Nay, nay,” he added moodily—“I was but wandering
to myself.” Then rapidly and mockingly—“Pardon,
pardon!—porter; I most humbly crave thy most haughty pardon.”
Then imperiously—“Come, stir thyself, man; thou hast
more below: bring all up.”

As the astounded porter turned, he whispered to Millthorpe—
“Is he safe?—shall I bring 'em?”

“Oh certainly,” smiled Millthorpe: “I'll look out for him;
he's never really dangerous when I'm present; there, go!”

Two trunks now followed, with “L. T.” blurredly marked
upon the ends.

“Is that all, my man?” said Pierre, as the trunks were being
put down before him; “well, how much?”—that moment his
eyes first caught the blurred letters.

“Prepaid, sir; but no objection to more.”

Pierre stood mute and unmindful, still fixedly eying the
blurred letters; his body contorted, and one side drooping, as
though that moment half-way down-stricken with a paralysis,
and yet unconscious of the stroke.

His two companions momentarily stood motionless in those
respective attitudes, in which they had first caught sight of the
remarkable change that had come over him. But, as if ashamed
of having been thus affected, Millthorpe summoning a loud,
merry voice, advanced toward Pierre, and, tapping his shoulder,
cried, “Wake up, wake up, my boy!—He says he is prepaid,
but no objection to more.”

“Prepaid;—what's that? Go, go, and jabber to apes!”

“A curious young gentleman, is he not?” said Millthorpe
lightly to the porter;—“Look you, my boy, I'll repeat:—He
says he's prepaid, but no objection to more.”

“Ah?—take that then,” said Pierre, vacantly putting something
into the porter's hand.

“And what shall I do with this, sir?” said the porter, staring.

“Drink a health; but not mine; that were mockery!”

“With a key, sir? This is a key you gave me.”

“Ah!—well, you at least shall not have the thing that unlocks
me. Give me the key, and take this.”

“Ay, ay!—here's the chink! Thank 'ee sir, thank 'ee.
This'll drink. I aint called a porter for nothing; Stout's the
word; 2151 is my number; any jobs, call on me.”

“Do you ever cart a coffin, my man?” said Pierre.

“'Pon my soul!” cried Millthorpe, gayly laughing, “if you
aint writing an Inferno, then—but never mind. Porter! this
gentleman is under medical treatment at present. You had
better—ab'—you understand—'squatulate, porter! There, my
boy, he is gone; I understand how to manage these fellows;
there's a trick in it, my boy—an off-handed sort of what d'ye
call it?—you understand—the trick! the trick!—the whole
world's a trick. Know the trick of it, all's right; don't know,
all's wrong. Ha! ha!”

“The porter is gone then?” said Pierre, calmly. “Well,
Mr. Millthorpe, you will have the goodness to follow him.”

“Rare joke! admirable!—Good morning, sir. Ha, ha!”

And with his unruffleable hilariousness, Millthorpe quitted
the room.

But hardly had the door closed upon him, nor had he yet
removed his hand from its outer knob, when suddenly it swung
half open again, and thrusting his fair curly head within, Millthorpe
cried: “By the way, my boy, I have a word for you.
You know that greasy fellow who has been dunning you so of
late. Well, be at rest there; he's paid. I was suddenly made
flush yesterday:—regular flood-tide. You can return it any day,
you know—no hurry; that's all.—But, by the way,—as you
look as though you were going to have company here—just
send for me in case you want to use me—any bedstead to put
up, or heavy things to be lifted about. Don't you and the
women do it, now, mind! That's all again. Addios, my boy.
Take care of yourself!”

“Stay!” cried Pierre, reaching forth one hand, but moving
neither foot—“Stay!”—in the midst of all his prior emotions
struck by these singular traits in Millthorpe. But the door
was abruptly closed; and singing Fa, la, la: Millthorpe in his
seedy coat went tripping down the corridor.

“Plus heart, minus head,” muttered Pierre, his eyes fixed on
the door. “Now, by heaven! the god that made Millthorpe
was both a better and a greater than the god that made Napoleon
or Byron.—Plus head, minus heart—Pah! the brains
grow maggoty without a heart; but the heart's the preserving
salt itself, and can keep sweet without the head.—Delly!”

“Sir?”

“My cousin Miss Tartan is coming here to live with us,
Delly. That easel,—those trunks are hers.”

“Good heavens!—coming here?—your cousin?—Miss Tartan?”

“Yes, I thought you must have heard of her and me;—but
it was broken off, Delly.”

“Sir? Sir?”

“I have no explanation, Delly; and from you, I must have
no amazement. My cousin,—mind, my cousin, Miss Tartan, is
coming to live with us. The next room to this, on the other
side there, is unoccupied. That room shall be hers. You
must wait upon her, too, Delly.”

“Certainly sir, certainly; I will do any thing;” said Delly
trembling; “but,—but—does Mrs. Glendin-din—does my mistress
know this?”

“My wife knows all”—said Pierre sternly. “I will go down
and get the key of the room; and you must sweep it out.”

“What is to be put into it, sir?” said Delly. “Miss Tartan
—why, she is used to all sorts of fine things,—rich carpets—
wardrobes—mirrors—curtains;—why, why, why!”

“Look,” said Pierre, touching an old rug with his foot;—
“here is a bit of carpet; drag that into her room; here is a

chair, put that in; and for a bed,—ay, ay,” he muttered to
himself; “I have made it for her, and she ignorantly lies on it
now!—as made—so lie. Oh God!”

“Hark! my mistress is calling”—cried Delly, moving toward
the opposite room.

“Stay!”—cried Pierre, grasping her shoulder; “if both
called at one time from these opposite chambers, and both were
swooning, which door would you first fly to?”

The girl gazed at him uncomprehendingly and affrighted a
moment; and then said,—“This one, sir”—out of mere confusion
perhaps, putting her hand on Isabel's latch.

“It is well. Now go.”

He stood in an intent unchanged attitude till Delly returned.

“How is my wife, now?”

Again startled by the peculiar emphasis placed on the magical
word wife, Delly, who had long before this, been occasionally
struck with the infrequency of his using that term; she
looked at him perplexedly, and said half-unconsciously—

“Your wife, sir?”

“Ay, is she not?”

“God grant that she be—Oh, 'tis most cruel to ask that of
poor, poor Delly, sir!”

“Tut for thy tears! Never deny it again then!—I swear to
heaven, she is!”

With these wild words, Pierre seized his hat, and departed
the room, muttering something about bringing the key of the
additional chamber.

As the door closed on him, Delly dropped on her knees.
She lifted her head toward the ceiling, but dropped it again,
as if tyrannically awed downward, and bent it low over, till her
whole form tremulously cringed to the floor.

“God that made me, and that wast not so hard to me as
wicked Delly deserved,—God that made me, I pray to thee!
ward it off from me, if it be coming to me. Be not deaf to me;

these stony walls—Thou canst hear through them. Pity!
pity!—mercy, my God!—If they are not married; if I, penitentially
seeking to be pure, am now but the servant to a
greater sin, than I myself committed: then, pity! pity! pity!
pity! pity! Oh God that made me,—See me, see me here—
what can Delly do? If I go hence, none will take me in but
villains. If I stay, then—for stay I must—and they be not
married,—then pity, pity, pity, pity, pity!”