 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
VI.
Sadly smiling, Pierre broke the pause.
“My sister, thou art so rich, that thou must do me alms;
I am very hungry; I have forgotten to eat since breakfast;—
and now thou shalt bring me bread and a cup of water, Isabel,
ere I go forth from thee. Last night I went rummaging in a
pantry, like a bake-house burglar; but to-night thou and I must
sup together, Isabel; for as we may henceforth live together, let
us begin forthwith to eat in company.”
Isabel looked up at him, with sudden and deep emotion, then
all acquiescing sweetness, and silently left the room.
As she returned, Pierre, casting his eyes toward the ceiling,
said—“She is quiet now, the pacing hath entirely ceased.”
“Not the beating, tho'; her foot hath paused, not her unceasing
heart. My brother, she is not quiet now; quiet for her
hath gone; so that the pivoted stillness of this night is yet a
noisy madness to her.”
“Give me pen or pencil, and some paper, Isabel.”
She laid down her loaf, and plate, and knife, and brought
him pen, and ink, and paper.
Pierre took the pen.
“Was this the one, dear Isabel?”
“It is the one, my brother; none other is in this poor cot.”
He gazed at it intensely. Then turning to the table, steadily
wrote the following note:
“For Delly Ulver: with the deep and true regard and sympathy
of Pierre Glendinning.
“Thy sad story—partly known before—hath now more fully
come to me, from one who sincerely feels for thee, and who hath
imparted her own sincerity to me. Thou desirest to quit this
neighborhood, and be somewhere at peace, and find some secluded
employ fitted to thy sex and age. With this, I now willingly
charge myself, and insure it to thee, so far as my utmost
ability can go. Therefore—if consolation be not wholly spurned
by thy great grief, which too often happens, though it be but
grief's great folly so to feel—therefore, two true friends of thine
do here beseech thee to take some little heart to thee, and bethink
thee, that all thy life is not yet lived; that Time hath
surest healing in his continuous balm. Be patient yet a little
while, till thy future lot be disposed for thee, through our best
help; and so, know me and Isabel thy earnest friends and true-hearted
lovers.”
He handed the note to Isabel. She read it silently, and put
it down, and spread her two hands over him, and with one
motion lifted her eyes toward Delly and toward God.
“Thou think'st it will not pain her to receive the note, Isabel?
Thou know'st best. I thought, that ere our help do really
reach her, some promise of it now might prove slight comfort.
But keep it, and do as thou think'st best.”
“Then straightway will I give it her, my brother,” said Isabel
quitting him.
An infixing stillness, now thrust a long rivet through the
night, and fast nailed it to that side of the world. And alone
again in such an hour, Pierre could not but listen. He heard
then he heard a gentle knock, and thought he heard a rustling,
as of paper slid over a threshold underneath a door. Then
another advancing and opposite step tremblingly met Isabel's;
and then both steps stepped from each other, and soon Isabel
came back to him.
“Thou did'st knock, and slide it underneath the door?”
“Yes, and she hath it now. Hark! a sobbing! Thank
God, long arid grief hath found a tear at last. Pity, sympathy
hath done this.—Pierre, for thy dear deed thou art already
sainted, ere thou be dead.”
“Do saints hunger, Isabel?” said Pierre, striving to call her
away from this. “Come, give me the loaf; but no, thou shalt
help me, my sister.—Thank thee;—this is twice over the bread
of sweetness.—Is this of thine own making, Isabel?”
“My own making, my brother.”
“Give me the cup; hand it me with thine own hand. So:
—Isabel, my heart and soul are now full of deepest reverence;
yet I do dare to call this the real sacrament of the supper.—
Eat with me.”
They eat together without a single word; and without a
single word, Pierre rose, and kissed her pure and spotless brow,
and without a single word departed from the place.
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |