THE CLOSET SCENE, WITH THE PART OF POLONIUS OMITTED.
When Magnolia and the major had gone out, each on their several devices,
poor Mrs. Macnamara called Biddy, their maid, and told her, in a
vehement, wheezy, confidential whisper in her ear, though there was
nobody by but themselves, and the door was shut.
'Biddy, now mind--d'ye see--the lady that came to me in the end of
July--do you remember?--in the black satin--you know?--she'll be here
to-day, and we're going down together in her coach to Mrs. Nutter's; but
that does not signify. As soon as she comes, bring her in here, into
this room--d'ye mind?--and go across that instant minute--d'ye see
now?--straight to Dr. Toole, and ask him to send me the peppermint drops
he promised me.'
Then she cross-questioned Biddy, to ascertain that she perfectly
understood and clearly remembered; and, finally, she promised her
half-a-crown if she peformed this very simple commission to her
mistress's satisfaction and held her tongue religiously on the subject.
She had apprised Toole the evening before, and now poor 'Mrs. Mack's
sufferings, she hoped, were about to be brought to a happy termination
by the doctor's ingenuity. She was, however, very nervous indeed, as the
crisis approached; for such a beast as Mary Matchwell at bay was a
spectacle to excite a little tremor even in a person of more nerve than
fat Mrs. Macnamara.
And what could Mary Matchwell want of a conjuring conference, of all
persons in the world, with poor little Mrs. Nutter? Mrs. Mack had done
in this respect simply as she was bid. She had indeed no difficulty to
persuade Mrs. Nutter to grant the interview. That harmless little
giggling creature could not resist the mere mention of a fortune-teller.
Only for Nutter, who set his face against this sort of sham witchcraft,
she would certainly have asked him to treat her with a glimpse into
futurity at that famous-sibyl's house; and now that she had an
opportunity of having the enchantress _tête-à-tête_ in her own snug
parlour at the Mills, she was in a delightful fuss of mystery and
delight.
Mrs. Mack, indeed, from her own sad experience, felt a misgiving and a
pang in introducing the formidable prophetess. But what could she do?
She dared not refuse; all she could risk was an anxious hint to poor
little Mrs. Nutter, 'not to be telling her _anything_, good, bad, or
indifferent, but just to ask her what questions she liked, and no more.'
Indeed, poor Mrs. Mack was low and feverish about this assignation, and
would have been more so but for the hope that her Polonius, behind the
arras, would bring the woman of Endor to her knees.
All on a sudden she heard the rumble and jingle of a hackney coach, and
the clang of the horses' hoofs pulled up close under her window; her
heart bounded and fluttered up to her mouth, and then dropped down like
a lump of lead, and she heard a well-known voice talk a few sentences to
the coachman, and then in the hall, as she supposed, to Biddy; and so
she came into the room, dressed as usual in black, tall, thin, and
erect, with a black hood shading her pale face and the mist and chill of
night seemed to enter along with her.
It was a great relief to poor Mrs. Mack, that she actually saw Biddy at
that moment run across the street toward Toole's hall-door, and she
quickly averted her conscious glance from the light-heeled handmaid.
'Pray take a chair, Ma'am,' said Mrs. Mack, with a pallid face and a low
courtesy.
Mistress Matchwell made a faint courtesy in return, and, without saying
anything, sat down, and peered sharply round the room.
'I'm glad, Ma'am, you had no dust to-day; the rain, Ma'am, laid it
beautiful.'
The grim woman in black threw back her hood a little, and showed her
pale face and thin lips, and prominent black eyes, altogether a grisly
and intimidating countenance, with something wild and suspicious in it,
suiting by no means ill with her supernatural and malign pretensions.
Mrs. Mack's ear was strained to catch the sound of Toole's approach, and
a pause ensued, during which she got up and poured out a glass of port
for the lady, and she presented it to her deferentially. She took it
with a nod, and sipped it, thinking, as it seemed, uneasily. There was
plainly something more than usual upon her mind. Mrs. Mack
thought--indeed, she was quite sure--she heard a little fussing about
the bed-room door, and concluded that the doctor was getting under
cover.
When Mrs. Matchwell had set her empty glass upon the table, she glided
to the window, and Mrs. Mack's guilty conscience smote her, as she saw
her look towards Toole's house. It was only, however, for the coach; and
having satisfied herself it was at hand, she said--
'We'll have some minutes quite private, if you please--'tisn't my
affair, you know, but yours,' said the weird woman.
There had been ample time for the arrangement of Toole's ambuscade. Now
was the moment. The crisis was upon her. But poor Mrs. Mack, just as she
was about to say her little say about the front windows and opposite
neighbours, and the privacy of the back bed-room, and to propose their
retiring thither, felt a sinking of the heart--a deadly faintness, and
an instinctive conviction that she was altogether overmatched, and that
she could not hope to play successfully any sort of devil's game with
that all-seeing sorceress. She had always thought she was a plucky woman
till she met Mistress Mary. Before _her_ her spirit died within her--her
blood flowed hurriedly back to her heart, leaving her body cold, pale,
and damp, and her soul quailing under her gaze.
She cleared her voice twice, and faltered an enquiry, but broke down in
panic; and at that moment Biddy popped in her head--
'The doctor, Ma'am, was sent for to Lucan, an' he won't be back till six
o'clock, an' he left no peppermint drops for you, Ma'am, an' do you want
me, if you plase, Ma'am?'
'Go down, Biddy, that'll do,' said Mrs. Mack, growing first pale, and
then very red.
Mary Matchwell scented death afar off; for her the air was always
tainted with ominous perfumes. Every unusual look or dubious word
thrilled her with a sense of danger. Suspicion is the baleful instinct
of self-preservation with which the devil gifts his children; and hers
never slept.
'_What_ doctor?' said Mrs. Matchwell, turning her large, dismal, wicked
gaze full on Mrs. Mack.
'Doctor Toole, Ma'am.' She dared not tell a literal lie to that
piercing, prominent pair of black eyes.
'And why did you send for Doctor O'Toole, Ma'am?'
'I did not send for the doctor,' answered the fat lady, looking down,
for she could not stand that glance that seemed to light up all the
caverns of her poor soul, and make her lies stand forth self-confessed.
'I did not send for him, Ma'am, only for some drops he promised me. I've
been very sick--I--I--I'm so miserable.'
And poor Mrs. Mack's nether lip quivered, and she burst into tears.
'You're enough to provoke a saint, Mrs. Macnamara,' said the woman in
black, rather savagely, though coldly enough. 'Why you're on the point
of fortune, as it seems to me.' Here poor Mrs. Mack's inarticulate
lamentations waxed more vehement. 'You don't believe it--very well--but
where's the use of crying over your little difficulties, Ma'am, like a
great baby, instead of exerting yourself and thanking your best friend?'
And the two ladies sat down to a murmuring _tête-à-tête_ at the far end
of the room; you could have heard little more than an inarticulate
cooing, and poor Mrs. Mack's sobs, and the stern--
'And is that all? I've had more trouble with you than with fifty
reasonable clients--you can hardly be serious--I tell you plainly, you
must manage matters better, my good Madam; for, frankly, Ma'am, _this_
won't do.'
With which that part of the conference closed, and Mary Matchwell looked
out of the window. The coach stood at the door, the horses dozing
patiently, with their heads together, and the coachman, with a black
eye, mellowing into the yellow stage, and a cut across his nose--both
doing well--was marching across from the public-house over the way,
wiping his mouth in the cuff of his coat.
'Put on your riding-hood, if you please, Madam, and come down with me in
the coach to introduce me to Mrs. Nutter,' said Mrs. Matchwell, at the
same time tapping with her long bony fingers to the driver.
'There's no need of that, Madam. I said what you desired, and I sent a
note to her last night, and she expects you just now; and, indeed, I'd
rather not go, Madam, if you please.'
''Tis past that now--just do as I tell you, for come you must,' answered
Mrs. Matchwell.
As the old woman of Berkley obeyed, and got up and went quietly away
with her visitor, though her dead flesh quivered with fear, so poor Mrs.
Mack, though loath enough, submitted in silence.
'Now, you look like a body going to be hanged--you do; what's the matter
with you, Madam? I tell you, you mustn't look that way. Here, take a sup
o' this;' and she presented the muzzle of a small bottle like a pistol
at her mouth as she spoke--
'There's a glass on the table, if you let me, Ma'am,' said Mrs. Mack.
'Glass be----; here, take a mouthful.'
And she popped it between her lips; and Mrs. Mack was refreshed and her
spirit revived within her.