II.
Mrs. Glendinning walked her chamber; her dress loosened.
“That such accursed vileness should proceed from me!
Now will the tongued world say—See the vile boy of Mary
Glendinning!—Deceitful! thick with guilt, where I thought it
was all guilelessness and gentlest docility to me. It has not
happened! It is not day! Were this thing so, I should go
mad, and be shut up, and not walk here where every door is
open to me.—My own only son married to an unknown—
thing! My own only son, false to his holiest plighted public
vow—and the wide world knowing to it! He bears my name
—Glendinning. I will disown it; were it like this dress, I
would tear my name off from me, and burn it till it shriveled
to a crisp!—Pierre! Pierre! come back, come back, and swear
it is not so! It can not be! Wait: I will ring the bell, and
see if it be so.”
She rung the bell with violence, and soon heard a responsive
knock.
“Come in!—Nay, falter not;” (throwing a shawl over her)
“come in. Stand there and tell me if thou darest, that my
son was in this house this morning and met me on the stairs.
Darest thou say that?”
Dates looked confounded at her most unwonted aspect.
“Say it! find thy tongue! Or I will root mine out and
fling it at thee! Say it!”
“My dear mistress!”
“I am not thy mistress! but thou my master; for, if thou
sayest it, thou commandest me to madness.—Oh, vile boy!—
Begone from me!”
She locked the door upon him, and swiftly and distractedly
walked her chamber. She paused, and tossing down the curtains,
shut out the sun from the two windows.
Another, but an unsummoned knock, was at the door. She
opened it.
“My mistress, his Reverence is below. I would not call
you, but he insisted.”
“Let him come up.”
“Here? Immediately?”
“Didst thou hear me? Let Mr. Falsgrave come up.”
As if suddenly and admonishingly made aware, by Dates,
of the ungovernable mood of Mrs. Glendinning, the clergyman
entered the open door of her chamber with a most deprecating
but honest reluctance, and apprehensiveness of he knew not
what.
“Be seated, sir; stay, shut the door and lock it.”
“Madam!”
“I will do it. Be seated. Hast thou seen him?”
“Whom, Madam?—Master Pierre?”
“Him!—quick!”
“It was to speak of him I came, Madam. He made a most
extraordinary call upon me last night—midnight.”
“And thou marriedst him?—Damn thee!”
“Nay, nay, nay, Madam; there is something here I know
not of—I came to tell thee news, but thou hast some o'erwhelming
tidings to reveal to me.”
“I beg no pardons; but I may be sorry. Mr. Falsgrave,
my son, standing publicly plighted to Lucy Tartan, has privately
wedded some other girl—some slut!”
“Impossible!”
“True as thou art there. Thou knowest nothing of it then?”
“Nothing, nothing—not one grain till now. Who is it he
has wedded?”
“Some slut, I tell thee!—I am no lady now, but something
deeper,—a woman!—an outraged and pride-poisoned woman!”
She turned from him swiftly, and again paced the room, as
frantic and entirely regardless of any presence. Waiting for
her to pause, but in vain, Mr. Falsgrave advanced toward her
cautiously, and with the profoundest deference, which was almost
a cringing, spoke:—
“It is the hour of woe to thee; and I confess my cloth hath no
consolation for thee yet awhile. Permit me to withdraw from
thee, leaving my best prayers for thee, that thou mayst know
some peace, ere this now shut-out sun goes down. Send for
me whenever thou desirest me.—May I go now?”
“Begone! and let me not hear thy soft, mincing voice,
which is an infamy to a man! Begone, thou helpless, and unhelping
one!”
She swiftly paced the room again, swiftly muttering to herself.
“Now, now, now, now I see it clearer, clearer—clear now
as day! My first dim suspicions pointed right!—too right!
Ay—the sewing! it was the sewing!—The shriek!—I saw him
gazing rooted at her. He would not speak going home with
me. I charged him with his silence; he put me off with lies,
lies, lies! Ay, ay, he is married to her, to her;—to her!—
perhaps was then. And yet,—and yet,—how can it be?—
Lucy, Lucy—I saw him, after that, look on her as if he would
be glad to die for her, and go to hell for her, whither he deserves
to go!—Oh! oh! oh! Thus ruthlessly to cut off, at one
gross sensual dash, the fair succession of an honorable race!
Mixing the choicest wine with filthy water from the plebeian
pool, and so turning all to undistinguishable rankness!—Oh
viper! had I thee now in me, I would be a suicide and a murderer
with one blow!”
A third knock was at the door. She opened it.
“My mistress, I thought it would disturb you,—it is so just
overhead,—so I have not removed them yet.”
“Unravel thy gibberish!—what is it?”
“Pardon, my mistress, I somehow thought you knew it, but
you can not.”
“What is that writing crumpling in thy hand? Give it
me.”
“I have promised my young master not to, my mistress.”
“I will snatch it, then, and so leave thee blameless.—What?
what? what?—He's mad sure!—`Fine old fellow Dates'—
what? what?—mad and merry!—chest?—clothes?—trunks?
—he wants them?—Tumble them out of his window!—and if
he stand right beneath, tumble them out! Dismantle that
whole room. Tear up the carpet. I swear, he shall leave no
smallest vestige in this house.—Here! this very spot—here,
here, where I stand, he may have stood upon;—yes, he tied
my shoe-string here; it's slippery! Dates!”
“My mistress.”
“Do his bidding. By reflection he has made me infamous
to the world; and I will make him infamous to it. Listen, and
do not delude thyself that I am crazy. Go up to yonder
room” (pointing upward), “and remove every article in it, and
where he bid thee set down the chest and trunks, there set
down all the contents of that room.”
“'Twas before the house—this house!”
“And if it had not been there, I would not order thee to put
them there. Dunce! I would have the world know that I disown
and scorn him! Do my bidding!—Stay. Let the room
stand; but take him what he asks for.”
“I will, my mistress.”
As Dates left the chamber, Mrs. Glendinning again paced it
swiftly, and again swiftly muttered: “Now, if I were less a
strong and haughty woman, the fit would have gone by ere
now. But deep volcanoes long burn, ere they burn out.—Oh,
that the world were made of such malleable stuff, that we could
recklessly do our fieriest heart's-wish before it, and not falter.
Accursed be those four syllables of sound which make up that
vile word Propriety. It is a chain and bell to drag;—drag?
what sound is that? there's dragging—his trunks—the traveler's—dragging
out. Oh would I could so drag my heart, as
fishers for the drowned do, as that I might drag up my sunken
happiness! Boy! boy! worse than brought in dripping
drowned to me,—drowned in icy infamy! Oh! oh! oh!”
She threw herself upon the bed, covered her face, and lay
motionless. But suddenly rose again, and hurriedly rang the
bell.
“Open that desk, and draw the stand to me. Now wait and
take this to Miss Lucy.”
With a pencil she rapidly traced these lines:—
“My heart bleeds for thee, sweet Lucy. I can not speak—I
know it all. Look for me the first hour I regain myself.”
Again she threw herself upon the bed, and lay motionless.
