On a second and read through a new materialist critical lens, it becomes apparent how cunningly the female sculptor Cecil negotiates her creativity with the societal demands on the true woman and the marriage doctrine of her time. Barnard Rostenberg Yet, in the final scene, there is a sensational twist when the heroine comes out as a masterful manipulator.
Only then is it revealed that, from the outset, Cecil had far more agency than the narrative seemingly gave her credit for; that Cecil, who has been secretly in love with her guardian-husband for years, schemed to not only win his love but make him express that he reciprocated hers. As they together retrace and reveal to the other the actions that created their present situation, the dialogical structure of the final chapter foreshadows the course of their relationship in the future.
Seeing eye to eye as adult partners, even their age difference is nullified. Alcott dismisses the shrill Gothic thrills of incest and sadomasochism in favor of rounded characters who evolve into equal partners. Hence, we claim, that Cecil does not ever relinquish the arts just like she never stops being a woman. Just as the stone from which their images are carved, they are perceived as dead matter, and thus lack agency. Again, the use of names is indicative.
Yorke overpowers the girl in an act of linguistic violence and, confining her to his house and his exclusive companionship, further inhibits her social and sexual development. His dominance is undisputed, or re-asserted whenever clues suggest that Cecil might be less docile than she seems.
Yorke is reassured, yet the attentive reader cannot help noticing a hint at shifting power relations in the mere fact that Cecil kept a secret from her master. Alcott redirects the reader's focus onto Yorke's perspective and by chapter VI, even the narrator who has been adding observations that did not originate in the characters is virtually suspended.
