 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
I.
His second interview with Isabel was more satisfying, but
none the less affecting and mystical than the first, though in the
beginning, to his no small surprise, it was far more strange and
embarrassing.
As before, Isabel herself admitted him into the farm-house,
and spoke no word to him till they were both seated in the
room of the double casement, and himself had first addressed
her. If Pierre had any way predetermined how to deport himself
at the moment, it was to manifest by some outward token
the utmost affection for his sister; but her rapt silence and that
atmosphere of unearthliness which invested her, now froze him
to his seat; his arms refused to open, his lips refused to meet
in the fraternal kiss; while all the while his heart was overflowing
with the deepest love, and he knew full well, that his
presence was inexpressibly grateful to the girl. Never did love
and reverence so intimately react and blend; never did pity so
join with wonder in casting a spell upon the movements of his
body, and impeding him in its command.
After a few embarrassed words from Pierre, and a brief reply,
a pause ensued, during which not only was the slow, soft stepping
but also some slight domestic sounds were heard from the adjoining
room; and noticing the unconsciously interrogating
expression of Pierre's face, Isabel thus spoke to him:
“I feel, my brother, that thou dost appreciate the peculiarity
and the mystery of my life, and of myself, and therefore I am at
rest concerning the possibility of thy misconstruing any of my actions.
It is only when people refuse to admit the uncommonness
of some persons and the circumstances surrounding them, that
erroneous conceits are nourished, and their feelings pained. My
brother, if ever I shall seem reserved and unembracing to thee,
still thou must ever trust the heart of Isabel, and permit no
doubt to cross thee there. My brother, the sounds thou hast
just overheard in yonder room, have suggested to thee interesting
questions connected with myself. Do not speak; I fervently
understand thee. I will tell thee upon what terms I
have been living here; and how it is that I, a hired person, am
enabled to receive thee in this seemly privacy; for as thou
mayest very readily imagine, this room is not my own. And
this reminds me also that I have yet some few further trifling
things to tell thee respecting the circumstances which have
ended in bestowing upon me so angelical a brother.”
“I can not retain that word”—said Pierre, with earnest lowness,
and drawing a little nearer to her—“of right, it only pertains
to thee.”
“My brother, I will now go on, and tell thee all that I think
thou couldst wish to know, in addition to what was so dimly
rehearsed last night. Some three months ago, the people of the
distant farm-house, where I was then staying, broke up their household
and departed for some Western country. No place immediately
presented itself where my services were wanted, but I was
hospitably received at an old neighbor's hearth, and most kindly
invited to tarry there, till some employ should offer. But I did
not wait for chance to help me; my inquiries resulted in ascertaining
which had overtaken her, her aged parents were not only
plunged into the most poignant grief, but were deprived of the
domestic help of an only daughter, a circumstance whose deep
discomfort can not be easily realized by persons who have always
been ministered to by servants. Though indeed my natural
mood—if I may call it so, for want of a better term—was
strangely touched by thinking that the misery of Delly should
be the source of benefit to me; yet this had no practically operative
effect upon me,—my most inmost and truest thoughts
seldom have;—and so I came hither, and my hands will testify
that I did not come entirely for naught. Now, my brother,
since thou didst leave me yesterday, I have felt no small surprise,
that thou didst not then seek from me, how and when I
came to learn the name of Glendinning as so closely associated
with myself; and how I came to know Saddle Meadows to be
the family seat, and how I at last resolved upon addressing
thee, Pierre, and none other; and to what may be attributed
that very memorable scene in the sewing-circle at the Miss
Pennies.”
“I have myself been wondering at myself that these things
should hitherto have so entirely absented themselves from my
mind,” responded Pierre;—“but truly, Isabel, thy all-abounding
hair falls upon me with some spell which dismisses all
ordinary considerations from me, and leaves me only sensible
to the Nubian power in thine eyes. But go on, and tell me
every thing and any thing. I desire to know all, Isabel, and
yet, nothing which thou wilt not voluntarily disclose. I feel
that already I know the pith of all; that already I feel toward
thee to the very limit of all; and that, whatever remains for
thee to tell me, can but corroborate and confirm. So go on,
my dearest,—ay, my only sister.”
Isabel fixed her wonderful eyes upon him with a gaze of
long impassionment; then rose suddenly to her feet, and advanced
reseated herself in silence, and continued so for a time, with
her head averted from him, and mutely resting on her hand,
gazing out of the open casement upon the soft heat-lightning,
occasionally revealed there.
She resumed anon.
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |