- end_line
- 6513
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.921Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 6456
- text
- II.
"My brother, thou wilt remember that certain part of my story which in
reference to my more childish years spent remote from here, introduced
the gentleman--my--yes, _our_ father, Pierre. I can not describe to
thee, for indeed, I do not myself comprehend how it was, that though at
the time I sometimes called him my father, and the people of the house
also called him so, sometimes when speaking of him to me; yet--partly, I
suppose, because of the extraordinary secludedness of my previous
life--I did not then join in my mind with the word father, all those
peculiar associations which the term ordinarily inspires in children.
The word father only seemed a word of general love and endearment to
me--little or nothing more; it did not seem to involve any claims of any
sort, one way or the other. I did not ask the name of my father; for I
could have had no motive to hear him named, except to individualize the
person who was so peculiarly kind to me; and individualized in that way
he already was, since he was generally called by us _the gentleman_, and
sometimes _my father_. As I have no reason to suppose that had I then or
afterward, questioned the people of the house as to what more particular
name my father went by in the world, they would have at all disclosed it
to me; and, indeed, since, for certain singular reasons, I now feel
convinced that on that point they were pledged to secrecy; I do not
know that I ever would have come to learn my father's name,--and by
consequence, ever have learned the least shade or shadow of knowledge as
to you, Pierre, or any of your kin--had it not been for the merest
little accident, which early revealed it to me, though at the moment I
did not know the value of that knowledge. The last time my father
visited the house, he chanced to leave his handkerchief behind him. It
was the farmer's wife who first discovered it. She picked it up, and
fumbling at it a moment, as if rapidly examining the corners, tossed it
to me, saying, 'Here, Isabel, here is the good gentleman's handkerchief;
keep it for him now, till he comes to see little Bell again.' Gladly I
caught the handkerchief, and put it into my bosom. It was a white one;
and upon closely scanning it, I found a small line of fine faded
yellowish writing in the middle of it. At that time I could not read
either print or writing, so I was none the wiser then; but still, some
secret instinct told me, that the woman would not so freely have given
me the handkerchief, had she known there was any writing on it. I
forbore questioning her on the subject; I waited till my father should
return, to secretly question him. The handkerchief had become dusty by
lying on the uncarpeted floor. I took it to the brook and washed it, and
laid it out on the grass where none would chance to pass; and I ironed
it under my little apron, so that none would be attracted to it, to look
at it again. But my father never returned; so, in my grief, the
handkerchief became the more and the more endeared to me; it absorbed
many of the secret tears I wept in memory of my dear departed friend,
whom, in my child-like ignorance, I then equally called _my father_ and
_the gentleman_. But when the impression of his death became a fixed
thing to me, then again I washed and dried and ironed the precious
memorial of him, and put it away where none should find it but myself,
and resolved never more to soil it with my tears; and I folded it in
such a manner, that the name was invisibly buried in the heart of it,
and it was like opening a book and turning over many blank leaves before
I came to the mysterious writing, which I knew should be one day read by
me, without direct help from any one. Now I resolved to learn my
letters, and learn to read, in order that of myself I might learn the
meaning of those faded characters. No other purpose but that only one,
did I have in learning then to read. I easily induced the woman to give
- title
- Chunk 1