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, Pierce! 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 the 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 wrapped him. But a peculiar thought passingly recurred to him here.