- end_line
- 2109
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 2045
- text
- or circular tables, where sit small groups of twos and threes, sewing in
small comparative solitudes, as it were. They would seem to be the less
notable of the rural company; or else, for some cause, they have
voluntarily retired into their humble banishment. Upon one of these
persons engaged at the furthermost and least conspicuous of these little
stands, and close by a casement, Pierre's glance is palely fixed.
The girl sits steadily sewing; neither she nor her two companions speak.
Her eyes are mostly upon her work; but now and then a very close
observer would notice that she furtively lifts them, and moves them
sideways and timidly toward Pierre; and then, still more furtively and
timidly toward his lady mother, further off. All the while, her
preternatural calmness sometimes seems only made to cover the intensest
struggle in her bosom. Her unadorned and modest dress is black; fitting
close up to her neck, and clasping it with a plain, velvet border. To a
nice perception, that velvet shows elastically; contracting and
expanding, as though some choked, violent thing were risen up there
within from the teeming region of her heart. But her dark, olive cheek
is without a blush, or sign of any disquietude. So far as this girl lies
upon the common surface, ineffable composure steeps her. But still, she
sideways steals the furtive, timid glance. Anon, as yielding to the
irresistible climax of her concealed emotion, whatever that may be, she
lifts her whole marvelous countenance into the radiant candlelight, and
for one swift instant, that face of supernaturalness unreservedly meets
Pierre's. Now, wonderful loveliness, and a still more wonderful
loneliness, have with inexplicable implorings, looked up to him from
that henceforth immemorial face. There, too, he seemed to see the fair
ground where Anguish had contended with Beauty, and neither being
conqueror, both had laid down on the field.
Recovering at length from his all too obvious emotion, Pierre turned
away still farther, to regain the conscious possession of himself. A
wild, bewildering, and incomprehensible curiosity had seized him, to
know something definite of that face. To this curiosity, at the moment,
he entirely surrendered himself; unable as he was to combat it, or
reason with it in the slightest way. So soon as he felt his outward
composure returned to him, he purposed to chat his way behind the
breastwork of bright eyes and cheeks, and on some parlor pretense or
other, hear, if possible, an audible syllable from one whose mere silent
aspect had so potentially moved him. But at length, as with this object
in mind, he was crossing the room again, he heard his mother's voice,
gayly calling him away; and turning, saw her shawled and bonneted. He
could now make no plausible stay, and smothering the agitation in him,
he bowed a general and hurried adieu to the company, and went forth with
his mother.
They had gone some way homeward, in perfect silence, when his mother
spoke.
"Well, Pierre, what can it possibly be!"
"My God, mother, did you see her then!"
"My son!" cried Mrs. Glendinning, instantly stopping in terror, and
withdrawing her arm from Pierre, "what--what under heaven ails you? This
is most strange! I but playfully asked, what you were so steadfastly
thinking of; and here you answer me by the strangest question, in a
voice that seems to come from under your great-grandfather's tomb! What,
in heaven's name, does this mean, Pierre? Why were you so silent, and
why now are you so ill-timed in speaking! Answer me;--explain all
this;--_she_--_she_--what _she_ should you be thinking of but Lucy
Tartan?--Pierre, beware, beware! I had thought you firmer in your lady's
faith, than such strange behavior as this would seem to hint. Answer me,
Pierre, what may this mean? Come, I hate a mystery; speak, my son."
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