Mrs. Charmond had first rushed into a mood of indignation on
comprehending Melbury's story; hot and cold by turns, she had murmured,
"Leave me, leave me!" But as he seemed to take no notice of this, his
words began to influence her, and when he ceased speaking she said,
with hurried, hot breath, "What has led you to think this of me? Who
says I have won your daughter's husband away from her? Some monstrous
calumnies are afloat--of which I have known nothing until now!"
Melbury started, and looked at her simply. "But surely, ma'am, you
know the truth better than I?"
Her features became a little pinched, and the touches of powder on her
handsome face for the first time showed themselves as an extrinsic
film. "Will you leave me to myself?" she said, with a faintness which
suggested a guilty conscience. "This is so utterly unexpected--you
obtain admission to my presence by misrepresentation--"
"As God's in heaven, ma'am, that's not true. I made no pretence; and I
thought in reason you would know why I had come. This gossip--"
"I have heard nothing of it. Tell me of it, I say."
"Tell you, ma'am--not I. What the gossip is, no matter. What really
is, you know. Set facts right, and the scandal will right of itself.
But pardon me--I speak roughly; and I came to speak gently, to coax
you, beg you to be my daughter's friend. She loved you once, ma'am;
you began by liking her. Then you dropped her without a reason, and it
hurt her warm heart more than I can tell ye. But you were within your
right as the superior, no doubt. But if you would consider her
position now--surely, surely, you would do her no harm!"
"Certainly I would do her no harm--I--" Melbury's eye met hers. It was
curious, but the allusion to Grace's former love for her seemed to
touch her more than all Melbury's other arguments. "Oh, Melbury," she
burst out, "you have made me so unhappy! How could you come to me like
this! It is too dreadful! Now go away--go, go!"
"I will," he said, in a husky tone.
As soon as he was out of the room she went to a corner and there sat
and writhed under an emotion in which hurt pride and vexation mingled
with better sentiments.
Mrs. Charmond's mobile spirit was subject to these fierce periods of
stress and storm. She had never so clearly perceived till now that her
soul was being slowly invaded by a delirium which had brought about all
this; that she was losing judgment and dignity under it, becoming an
animated impulse only, a passion incarnate. A fascination had led her
on; it was as if she had been seized by a hand of velvet; and this was
where she found herself--overshadowed with sudden night, as if a
tornado had passed by.