“You are an impertinent woman.”
“Ah well, I never broke the Sixth Command. And if I was you, Madame, I wouldn’t put ‘blacks’ on about it. But ‘blacks’ or no ‘blacks,’ you can go to some other body to make them for you; for I want none of your custom, and I’ll be obliged to you to get from under my roof. This is a decent, God-fearing house.”
Madame had left before the end of Griselda’s orders; but she followed her to the door, and delivered her last sentence as Madame was stepping into her carriage. She was furious at the truths so uncompromisingly told her, and still more so at the woman who had been their mouthpiece. “A creature whom I have made! actually made!” she almost screamed. “She would be out at service today but for me! The shameful, impertinent, ungrateful wretch!” She ordered Thomas to drive her straight back home, and, quivering with indignation, went to her son’s room. He was dressed, but lying prone upon his bed; his mother’s complaining irritated his mood beyond his endurance. He rose up in a passion; his white haggard face showed how deeply sorrow and remorse had ploughed into his very soul.
“Mother!” he cried, “you will have to hear the truth, in one way or another, from every one. I tell you myself that you are not guiltless of Sophy’s death—neither am I.”
“It is a lie.”
“Do go out of my room. This morning you are unbearable.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Are you going to permit people to insult your mother, right and left, without a word? Have you no sense of honour and decency?”
“No, for I let them insult the sweetest wife ever a man had. I am a brute, a monster, not fit to live. I wish I was lying by Sophy’s side. I am ashamed to look either men or women in the face.”
“You are simply delirious with the fever you have had.”
“Then have some mercy on me. I want to be quiet.”