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- 4188
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 4125
- text
- III.
Most melancholy of all the hours of earth, is that one long, gray hour,
which to the watcher by the lamp intervenes between the night and day;
when both lamp and watcher, over-tasked, grow sickly in the pallid
light; and the watcher, seeking for no gladness in the dawn, sees naught
but garish vapors there; and almost invokes a curse upon the public
day, that shall invade his lonely night of sufferance.
The one small window of his closet looked forth upon the meadow, and
across the river, and far away to the distant heights, storied with the
great deeds of the Glendinnings. Many a time had Pierre sought this
window before sunrise, to behold the blood-red, out-flinging dawn, that
would wrap those purple hills as with a banner. But now the morning
dawned in mist and rain, and came drizzlingly upon his heart. Yet as the
day advanced, and once more showed to him the accustomed features of his
room by that natural light, which, till this very moment, had never
lighted him but to his joy; now that the day, and not the night, was
witness to his woe; now first the dread reality came appallingly upon
him. A sense of horrible forlornness, feebleness, impotence, and
infinite, eternal desolation possessed him. It was not merely mental,
but corporeal also. He could not stand; and when he tried to sit, his
arms fell floorwards as tied to leaden weights. Dragging his ball and
chain, he fell upon his bed; for when the mind is cast down, only in
sympathetic proneness can the body rest; whence the bed is often Grief's
first refuge. Half stupefied, as with opium, he fell into the
profoundest sleep.
In an hour he awoke, instantly recalling all the previous night; and now
finding himself a little strengthened, and lying so quietly and silently
there, almost without bodily consciousness, but his soul unobtrusively
alert; careful not to break the spell by the least movement of a limb,
or the least turning of his head. Pierre steadfastly faced his grief,
and looked deep down into its eyes; and thoroughly, and calmly, and
summarily comprehended it now--so at least he thought--and what it
demanded from him; and what he must quickly do in its more immediate
sequences; and what that course of conduct was, which he must pursue in
the coming unevadable breakfast interview with his mother; and what, for
the present must be his plan with Lucy. His time of thought was brief.
Rising from his bed, he steadied himself upright a moment; and then
going to his writing-desk, in a few at first faltering, but at length
unlagging lines, traced the following note:
"I must ask pardon of you, Lucy, for so strangely absenting myself
last night. But you know me well enough to be very sure that I
would not have done so without important cause. I was in the street
approaching your cottage, when a message reached me, imperatively
calling me away. It is a matter which will take up all my time and
attention for, possibly, two or three days. I tell you this, now,
that you may be prepared for it. And I know that however unwelcome
this may be to you, you will yet bear with it for my sake; for,
indeed, and indeed, Lucy dear, I would not dream of staying from
you so long, unless irresistibly coerced to it. Do not come to the
mansion until I come to you; and do not manifest any curiosity or
anxiety about me, should you chance in the interval to see my
mother in any other place. Keep just as cheerful as if I were by
you all the time. Do this, now, I conjure you; and so farewell!"
He folded the note, and was about sealing it, when he hesitated a
moment, and instantly unfolding it, read it to himself. But he could not
adequately comprehend his own writing, for a sudden cloud came over him.
This passed; and taking his pen hurriedly again, he added the following
postscript:
- title
- Chunk 1