- end_line
- 13936
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.924Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 13881
- text
- thread into the general riddle, my brother.--Hath she that which they
call the memory, Pierre; the memory? Hath she that?"
"We all have the memory, my sister."
"Not all! not all!--poor Bell hath but very little. Pierre! I have seen
her in some dream. She is fair-haired--blue eyes--she is not quite so
tall as I, yet a very little slighter."
Pierre started. "Thou hast seen Lucy Tartan, at Saddle Meadows?"
"Is Lucy Tartan the name?--Perhaps, perhaps;--but also, in the dream,
Pierre; she came, with her blue eyes turned beseechingly on me; she
seemed as if persuading me from thee;--methought she was then more than
thy cousin;--methought she was that good angel, which some say, hovers
over every human soul; and methought--oh, methought that I was thy
other,--thy other angel, Pierre. Look: see these eyes,--this hair--nay,
this cheek;--all dark, dark, dark,--and she--the blue-eyed--the
fair-haired--oh, once the red-cheeked!"
She tossed her ebon tresses over her; she fixed her ebon eyes on him.
"Say, Pierre; doth not a funerealness invest me? Was ever hearse so
plumed?--Oh, God! that I had been born with blue eyes, and fair hair!
Those make the livery of heaven! Heard ye ever yet of a good angel with
dark eyes, Pierre?--no, no, no--all blue, blue, blue--heaven's own
blue--the clear, vivid, unspeakable blue, which we see in June skies,
when all clouds are swept by.--But the good angel shall come to thee,
Pierre. Then both will be close by thee, my brother; and thou mayest
perhaps elect,--elect!--She shall come; she shall come.--When is it to
be, dear Pierre?"
"To-morrow, Isabel. So it is here written."
She fixed her eye on the crumpled billet in his hand. "It were vile to
ask, but not wrong to suppose the asking.--Pierre,--no, I need not say
it,--wouldst thou?"
"No; I would not let thee read it, my sister; I would not; because I
have no right to--no right--no right;--that is it; no: I have no right.
I will burn it this instant, Isabel."
He stepped from her into the adjoining room; threw the billet into the
stove, and watching its last ashes, returned to Isabel.
She looked with endless intimations upon him.
"It is burnt, but not consumed; it is gone, but not lost. Through stove,
pipe, and flue, it hath mounted in flame, and gone as a scroll to
heaven! It shall appear again, my brother.--Woe is me--woe, woe!--woe is
me, oh, woe! Do not speak to me, Pierre; leave me now. She shall come.
The Bad angel shall tend the Good; she shall dwell with us, Pierre.
Mistrust me not; her considerateness to me, shall be outdone by mine to
her.--Let me be alone now, my brother."
- title
- Chunk 3