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- 14587
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.924Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 14522
- text
- that she was defying the sacred counsels of her mother, she had nothing
to answer but this: that her mother possessed all her daughterly
deference, but her unconditional obedience was elsewhere due. Let all
hope of moving her be immediately, and once for all, abandoned. One only
thing could move her; and that would only move her, to make her forever
immovable;--that thing was death.
Such wonderful strength in such wonderful sweetness; such inflexibility
in one so fragile, would have been matter for marvel to any observer.
But to her mother it was very much more; for, like many other
superficial observers, forming her previous opinion of Lucy upon the
slightness of her person, and the dulcetness of her temper, Mrs. Tartan
had always imagined that her daughter was quite incapable of any such
daring act. As if sterling heavenliness were incompatible with
heroicness. These two are never found apart. Nor, though Pierre knew
more of Lucy than any one else, did this most singular behavior in her
fail to amaze him. Seldom even had the mystery of Isabel fascinated him
more, with a fascination partaking of the terrible. The mere bodily
aspect of Lucy, as changed by her more recent life, filled him with the
most powerful and novel emotions. That unsullied complexion of bloom was
now entirely gone, without being any way replaced by sallowness, as is
usual in similar instances. And as if her body indeed were the temple
of God, and marble indeed were the only fit material for so holy a
shrine, a brilliant, supernatural whiteness now gleamed in her cheek.
Her head sat on her shoulders as a chiseled statue's head; and the soft,
firm light in her eye seemed as much a prodigy, as though a chiseled
statue should give token of vision and intelligence.
Isabel also was most strangely moved by this sweet unearthliness in the
aspect of Lucy. But it did not so much persuade her by any common
appeals to her heart, as irrespectively commend her by the very signet
of heaven. In the deference with which she ministered to Lucy's little
occasional wants, there was more of blank spontaneousness than
compassionate voluntariness. And when it so chanced, that--owing perhaps
to some momentary jarring of the distant and lonely guitar--as Lucy was
so mildly speaking in the presence of her mother, a sudden, just
audible, submissively answering musical, stringed tone, came through the
open door from the adjoining chamber; then Isabel, as if seized by some
spiritual awe, fell on her knees before Lucy, and made a rapid gesture
of homage; yet still, somehow, as it were, without evidence of voluntary
will.
Finding all her most ardent efforts ineffectual, Mrs. Tartan now
distressedly motioned to Pierre and Isabel to quit the chamber, that she
might urge her entreaties and menaces in private. But Lucy gently waved
them to stay; and then turned to her mother. Henceforth she had no
secrets but those which would also be secrets in heaven. Whatever was
publicly known in heaven, should be publicly known on earth. There was
no slightest secret between her and her mother.
Wholly confounded by this inscrutableness of her so alienated and
infatuated daughter, Mrs. Tartan turned inflamedly upon Pierre, and bade
him follow her forth. But again Lucy said nay, there were no secrets
between her mother and Pierre. She would anticipate every thing there.
Calling for pen and paper, and a book to hold on her knee and write,
she traced the following lines, and reached them to her mother:
"I am Lucy Tartan. I have come to dwell during their pleasure with Mr.
and Mrs. Pierre Glendinning, of my own unsolicited free-will. If they
desire it, I shall go; but no other power shall remove me, except by
violence; and against any violence I have the ordinary appeal to the
law."
"Read this, madam," said Mrs. Tartan, tremblingly handing it to Isabel,
and eying her with a passionate and disdainful significance.
- title
- Chunk 2