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- text
- II.
He stands before the door; the house is steeped in silence; he knocks;
the casement light flickers for a moment, and then moves away; within,
he hears a door creak on its hinges; then his whole heart beats wildly
as the outer latch is lifted; and holding the light above her
supernatural head, Isabel stands before him. It is herself. No word is
spoken; no other soul is seen. They enter the room of the double
casement; and Pierre sits down, overpowered with bodily faintness and
spiritual awe. He lifts his eyes to Isabel's gaze of loveliness and
loneliness; and then a low, sweet, half-sobbing voice of more than
natural musicalness is heard:--
"And so, thou art my brother;--shall I call thee Pierre?"
Steadfastly, with his one first and last fraternal inquisition of the
person of the mystic girl, Pierre now for an instant eyes her; and in
that one instant sees in the imploring face, not only the nameless
touchingness of that of the sewing-girl, but also the subtler expression
of the portrait of his then youthful father, strangely translated, and
intermarryingly blended with some before unknown, foreign feminineness.
In one breath, Memory and Prophecy, and Intuition tell him--"Pierre,
have no reserves; no minutest possible doubt;--this being is thy sister;
thou gazest on thy father's flesh."
"And so thou art my brother!--shall I call thee Pierre?"
He sprang to his feet, and caught her in his undoubting arms.
"Thou art! thou art!"
He felt a faint struggling within his clasp; her head drooped against
him; his whole form was bathed in the flowing glossiness of her long and
unimprisoned hair. Brushing the locks aside, he now gazed upon the
death-like beauty of the face, and caught immortal sadness from it. She
seemed as dead; as suffocated,--the death that leaves most unimpaired
the latent tranquillities and sweetnesses of the human countenance.
He would have called aloud for succor; but the slow eyes opened upon
him; and slowly he felt the girl's supineness leaving her; and now she
recovers herself a little,--and again he feels her faintly struggling in
his arms, as if somehow abashed, and incredulous of mortal right to hold
her so. Now Pierre repents his over-ardent and incautious warmth, and
feels himself all reverence for her. Tenderly he leads her to a bench
within the double casement; and sits beside her; and waits in silence,
till the first shock of this encounter shall have left her more composed
and more prepared to hold communion with him.
"How feel'st thou now, my sister?"
"Bless thee! bless thee!"
Again the sweet, wild power of the musicalness of the voice, and some
soft, strange touch of foreignness in the accent,--so it fancifully
seemed to Pierre, thrills through and through his soul. He bent and
kissed her brow; and then feels her hand seeking his, and then clasping
it without one uttered word.
All his being is now condensed in that one sensation of the clasping
hand. He feels it as very small and smooth, but strangely hard. Then he
knew that by the lonely labor of her hands, his own father's daughter
had earned her living in the same world, where he himself, her own
brother, had so idly dwelled. Once more he reverently kissed her brow,
and his warm breath against it murmured with a prayer to heaven.
"I have no tongue to speak to thee, Pierre, my brother. My whole being,
all my life's thoughts and longings are in endless arrears to thee; then
how can I speak to thee? Were it God's will, Pierre, my utmost blessing
now, were to lie down and die. Then should I be at peace. Bear with me,
Pierre."
"Eternally will I do that, my beloved Isabel! Speak not to me yet
awhile, if that seemeth best to thee, if that only is possible to thee.
This thy clasping hand, my sister, _this_ is now thy tongue to me."
"I know not where to begin to speak to thee, Pierre; and yet my soul
o'erbrims in me."
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