Now, left alone with him, the unconscious ruiner of her peace, she felt she could have endured better to nurse a declared enemy than this nerveless, ballastless ally and patient, whose very infirmity of purpose was her bane. Realising the poor emotional thing he was, how weak in self-control, she could have loathed her task enough without this sudden embargo laid on her prescribed methods. No longer to reassure his indecision—rather to confirm it? Why, that very task of comforting his faint spirit, bidding it on to hope, had been her own one reassurance in a world of doubts! And now—?
O, heart! O, heart! What did this change of policy portend? What had happened to make it so imperative all at once? She could think of no answer but one; and that way madness lay.
Ah! her lord, her gentleman! She knew him well enough to know she knew him not at all. His passions were—had been—for her: his confidences were always for himself alone. Blind obedience was what he had exacted of her, and with blinded eyes she had let him lead her, even across that abyss. She would never learn from him. He loved in parables.
O! Why had this stranger ever come between them, with his sighs and moans and irresolution? It was that same irresolution which was the crux of all. What woman could tolerate a diffident lover—and in the face of a masterful one! She, for her part, would grant how alluring by contrast must appear this puissant rival, Cartouche, her own pretty gentleman—if rival he were. Her whole soul rose aghast to combat the thought; yet, if he were not so indeed, what was his interest in ousting this other from the lists?
“The end we designed has become impossible. They cannot ever marry now. She’s not for him. They must be kept apart at any price.”
These positive admonitions scorched her brain: day and night, sleeping and waking they beat fiercely through it. What had M. Saint-Péray done to forfeit his right? Was she to serve as catspaw to those others’ loves, and lay a troublesome rival? A treachery beyond conceiving. “If he’s weak, be strong for him. He’ll thank you some day.” Thank her? her the reward, perhaps, to irresolution for a claim foregone! Had Gaston heard of that scene between them, and chosen, for his own ends, to construe it into infidelity to himself? She could not believe him so credulous or so base, nor fortune so inhuman.
But her poor mad mind dwelt upon the monstrous thought—wrought itself into a frenzy over it—piled fuel on its fuel, in and out of reason. What if it were justified? No disobedience could be too great to counter such a crime! She had been good, good, good—good, and faithful, and self-obliterating—how utterly she herself had never realised, until these visions of her past had risen to renounce her. What had she not sacrificed for him—home—honour—that dear untroubled land of innocence! had made herself an outcast for his sake. And so to be dealt the fate of the heartless, self-qualified wanton! “O, mammy! mammy!” she wept again, rocking and moaning.
But a fiercer thought rose to dry her tears. This other—this woman—this white witch who had come between her love and her! She had not forgotten a word of his description—no, nor the unspoken words, that eloquence of silence which fills the gaps of speech. Eyes will betray what tongue conceals. She’d seen his look beyond her at some vision; she—
O, how she hated her, hated her! A lily? Well, there were lilies and lilies. The scent of some grew rank at close quarters. Sweet and pure of heart? Sweet candour, indeed, to own oneself an apostate from the faith one’s heart had sworn to—and for a fortune’s sake! Scruples, forsooth? They were the opportunity of the unscrupulous. She’d betrayed her love once: why not a second time?
Love’s an elemental passion in poor Mollindas—no finesse, no pose, no self-consciousness about it. They come from near the soil, and follow Nature’s instincts. A mate’s a mate to them; their season is a lifetime. There’s no cuckold in Nature, nor any room for one. Once pledged, the dear doe animal but knows her lord, and holds herself meekly at his pleasure. He may be polygamous; she is never polyandrous: to conceive his condoning, even encouraging, such an offence in her would be monstrous.