"Is love then cold, and glory white? Thy cheek is snowy, Pierre."
"It should be, for I believe to God that I am pure, let the world think how it may."
"What hast thou lost?"
"Not thee, nor the pride and glory of ever loving thee, and being a continual brother to thee, my best sister. Nay, why dost thou now turn thy face from me?"
"With fine words he wheedles me, and coaxes me, not to know some secret thing. Go, go, Pierre, come to me when thou wilt. I am steeled now to the worst, and to the last. Again I tell thee, I will do any thing-yes, any thing that Pierre commands-for, though outer ill do lower upon us, still, deep within, thou wilt be careful, very careful with me, Pierre?"
"Thou art made of that fine, unshared stuff of which God makes his seraphim. But thy divine devotedness to me, is met by mine to thee. Well mayest thou trust me, Isabel; and whatever strangest thing I may yet propose to thee, thy confidence, — will it not bear me out? Surely thou wilt not hesitate to plunge, when I plunge first;-already have I plunged! now thou canst not stay upon the bank. Hearken, hearken to me.-I seek not now to gain thy prior assent to a thing as yet undone; but I call to thee now, Isabel, from the depth of a foregone act, to ratify it, backward, by thy consent. Look not so hard upon me. Listen. I will tell all. Isabel, though thou art all tearfulness to injure any living thing, least of all, thy brother; still thy true heart foreknoweth not the myriad alliances and criss-crossings among mankind, the infinite entanglements of all social things, which forbids that one thread should fly the general fabric, on some new line of duty, without tearing itself and tearing others. Listen. All that has happened up to this moment, and all that may be yet to happen, some sudden inspiration now assures me, inevitably proceeded from the first hour I saw thee. Not possibly could it, or can it, be otherwise. Therefore feel I, that I have some patience. Listen. Whatever outer things might possibly be mine; whatever seeming brightest blessings; yet now to live uncomforting and unloving to thee, Isabel; now to dwell domestically away from thee; so that only by stealth, and base connivances of the night, I could come to thee as thy related brother; this would be, and is, unutterably impossible. In my bosom a secret adder of self-reproach and self-infamy would never leave off its sting. Listen. But without gratuitous dishonor to a memory which-for right cause or wrong-is ever sacred and inviolate to me, I can not be an open brother to thee, Isabel. But thou wantest not the openness; for thou dost not pine for empty nominalness, but for vital realness; what thou wantest, is not the occasional openness of my brotherly love; but its continual domestic confidence. Do I not speak thine own hidden heart to thee? say, Isabel? Well, then, still listen to me. One only way presents to this; a most strange way, Isabel; to the world, that never throbbed for thee in love, a most deceitful way; but to all a harmless way; so harmless in its essence, Isabel, that, seems to me, Pierre hath consulted heaven itself upon it, and heaven itself did not say Nay. Still, listen to me; mark me. As thou knowest that thou wouldst now droop and die without me; so would I without thee. We are equal there; mark that, too, Isabel. I do not stoop to thee, nor thou to me; but we both reach up alike to a glorious ideal! Now the continualness, the secretness, yet the always present domesticness of our love; how may we best compass that, without jeopardizing the ever-sacred memory I hinted of? One way-one way — only one! A strange way, but most pure. Listen. Brace thyself: here, let me hold thee now; and then whisper 5 to thee, Isabel. Come, I holding thee, thou canst not fall."
He held her tremblingly; she bent over him toward him; his mouth wet her ear; he whispered it.
Then they changed; they coiled together, and entangledly stood mute.
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 Glen-dinning! — 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. Palsgrave 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'er-whelming tidings to reveal to me."
"I beg no pardons; but I may be sorry. Mr. Palsgrave, 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. Palsgrave 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!"