“Certainly sir, certainly; I will do any thing;” said Delly trembling; “but,—but—does Mrs. Glendin-din—does my mistress know this?”
“My wife knows all”—said Pierre sternly. “I will go down and get the key of the room; and you must sweep it out.”
“What is to be put into it, sir?” said Delly. “Miss Tartan—why, she is used to all sorts of fine things,—rich carpets—wardrobes—mirrors—curtains;—why, why, why!”
“Look,” said Pierre, touching an old rug with his foot;—“here is a bit of carpet; drag that into her room; here is a chair, put that in; and for a bed,—ay, ay,” he muttered to himself; “I have made it for her, and she ignorantly lies on it now!—as made—so lie. Oh God!”
“Hark! my mistress is calling”—cried Delly, moving toward the opposite room.
“Stay!”—cried Pierre, grasping her shoulder; “if both called at one time from these opposite chambers, and both were swooning, which door would you first fly to?”
The girl gazed at him uncomprehendingly and affrighted a moment; and then said,—“This one, sir”—out of mere confusion perhaps, putting her hand on Isabel’s latch.
“It is well. Now go.”
He stood in an intent unchanged attitude till Delly returned.
“How is my wife, now?”