 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
II.
She was not risen yet. So, the strange imperious instantaneousness
in him, impelled him to go straight to her chamber-door,
and in a voice of mild invincibleness, demand immediate
audience, for the matter pressed.
Already namelessly concerned and alarmed for her lover,
now eight-and-forty hours absent on some mysterious and undisclosable
affair; Lucy, at this surprising summons was overwhelmed
with sudden terror; and in oblivion of all ordinary
proprieties, responded to Pierre's call, by an immediate assent.
Opening the door, he advanced slowly and deliberately
toward her; and as Lucy caught his pale determined figure,
she gave a cry of groping misery, which knew not the pang
that caused it, and lifted herself trembling in her bed; but
without uttering one word.
Pierre sat down on the bedside; and his set eyes met her
terrified and virgin aspect.
“Decked in snow-white, and pale of cheek, thou indeed art
fitted for the altar; but not that one of which thy fond heart
did'st dream:—so fair a victim!”
“Pierre!”
“'Tis the last cruelty of tyrants to make their enemies slay
each other.”
“My heart! my heart!”
“Nay;—Lucy, I am married.”
The girl was no more pale, but white as any leper; the bed-clothes
trembled to the concealed shudderings of all her limbs;
one moment she sat looking vacantly into the blank eyes of
Pierre, and then fell over toward him in a swoon.
Swift madness mounted into the brain of Pierre; all the
past seemed as a dream, and all the present an unintelligible
horror. He lifted her, and extended her motionless form upon
the bed, and stamped for succor. The maid Martha came running
into the room, and beholding those two inexplicable figures,
shrieked, and turned in terror. But Pierre's repeated cry
rallied Martha from this, and darting out of the chamber, she
returned with a sharp restorative, which at length brought Lucy
back to life.
“Martha! Martha!” now murmured Lucy, in a scarce audible
whispering, and shuddering in the maid's own shuddering
arms, “quick, quick; come to me—drive it away! wake me!
wake me!”
“Nay, pray God to sleep again,” cried Martha, bending over
her and embracing her, and half-turning upon Pierre with a
glance of loathing indignation. “In God's holy name, sir, what
may this be? How came you here; accursed!”
“Accursed?—it is well. Is she herself again, Martha?”
“Thou hast somehow murdered her; how then be herself
me! tell me!” and she bent low over her.
Pierre now advanced toward the bed, making a gesture for
the maid to leave them; but soon as Lucy re-caught his haggard
form, she whisperingly wailed again, “Martha! Martha!
drive it away!—there—there! him—him!” and shut her eyes
convulsively, with arms abhorrently outstretched.
“Monster! incomprehensible fiend!” cried the anew terrorsmitten
maid—“depart! See! she dies away at the sight of
thee—begone! Wouldst thou murder her afresh? Begone!”
Starched and frozen by his own emotion, Pierre silently
turned and quitted the chamber; and heavily descending the
stairs, tramped heavily—as a man slowly bearing a great burden
—through a long narrow passage leading to a wing in the rear
of the cottage, and knocking at Miss Lanyllyn's door, summoned
her to Lucy, who, he briefly said, had fainted. Then,
without waiting for any response, left the house, and went directly
to the mansion.
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |