Villette
It was low and long; a sort of “Why hast thou forsaken me?” During an
ensuing space of some minutes, I perceived she endured agony. She went
through, in that brief interval of her infant life, emotions such as
some never feel; it was in her constitution: she would have more of
such instants if she lived. Nobody spoke. Mrs. Bretton, being a mother,
shed a tear or two. Graham, who was writing, lifted up his eyes and
gazed at her. I, Lucy Snowe, was calm.
The little creature, thus left unharassed, did for herself what none
other could do—contended with an intolerable feeling; and, ere long, in
some degree, repressed it. That day she would accept solace from none;
nor the next day: she grew more passive afterwards.
On the third evening, as she sat on the floor, worn and quiet, Graham,
coming in, took her up gently, without a word. She did not resist: she
rather nestled in his arms, as if weary. When he sat down, she laid her
head against him; in a few minutes she slept; he carried her upstairs
to bed. I was not surprised that, the next morning, the first thing she
demanded was, “Where is Mr. Graham?”
It happened that Graham was not coming to the breakfast-table; he had
some exercises to write for that morning’s class, and had requested his
mother to send a cup of tea into the study. Polly volunteered to carry
it: she must be busy about something, look after somebody. The cup was
entrusted to her; for, if restless, she was also careful. As the study
was opposite the breakfast-room, the doors facing across the passage,
my eye followed her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, pausing on the threshold.
“Writing,” said Graham.
“Why don’t you come to take breakfast with your mamma?”
“Too busy.”
“Do you want any breakfast?”
“Of course.”
“There, then.”
And she deposited the cup on the carpet, like a jailor putting a
prisoner’s pitcher of water through his cell-door, and retreated.
Presently she returned.
“What will you have besides tea—what to eat?”
“Anything good. Bring me something particularly nice; that’s a kind
little woman.”
She came back to Mrs. Bretton.
“Please, ma’am, send your boy something good.”
“You shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my boy have?”
She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table; and, ere
long, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which was
not there. Having got it, however, (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair
nothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies;
promising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be his
housekeeper, and perhaps—if she showed any culinary genius—his cook;
and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I found
Graham and her breakfasting _tête-à-tête_—she standing at his elbow,
and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which she delicately
refused to touch, lest, I suppose, it should appear that she had
procured it as much on her own account as his. She constantly evinced
these nice perceptions and delicate instincts.
The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastily
dissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstances
served rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the two were
in age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to
each other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little character never
properly came out, except with young Bretton. As she got settled, and
accustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs. Bretton;
but she would sit on a stool at that lady’s feet all day long, learning
her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencil on a slate, and
never kindling once to originality, or showing a single gleam of the
peculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch her under such
circumstances: she was not interesting. But the moment Graham’s knock
sounded of an evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head
of the staircase. Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a threat.
“You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell your
mamma.”
“Little busybody! Are you there?”
“Yes—and you can’t reach me: I am higher up than you“ (peeping between
the rails of the banister; she could not look over them).
“Polly!”
“My dear boy!” (such was one of her terms for him, adopted in imitation
of his mother.)
“I am fit to faint with fatigue,” declared Graham, leaning against the
passage-wall in seeming exhaustion. “Dr. Digby“ (the headmaster) “has
quite knocked me up with overwork. Just come down and help me to carry
up my books.”
“Ah! you’re cunning!”
“Not at all, Polly—it is positive fact. I’m as weak as a rush. Come
down.”
“Your eyes are quiet like the cat’s, but you’ll spring.”
“Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn’t in me. Come down.”
“Perhaps I may—if you’ll promise not to touch—not to snatch me up, and
not to whirl me round.”
“I? I couldn’t do it!” (sinking into a chair.)
“Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off.“
This being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes from the
feeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to new and
spasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she
would be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and
we could hear her say as she led him up-stairs: “Now, my dear boy, come
and take your tea—I am sure you must want something.”
It was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham,
while he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, but
with him the most officious, fidgety little body possible. I often
wished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no—herself was
forgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, nor
carefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk in her
estimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates before him,
and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was within his
reach, she would find out something else: “Ma’am,” she would whisper to
Mrs. Bretton,—“perhaps your son would like a little cake—sweet cake,
you know—there is some in there“ (pointing to the sideboard cupboard).
Mrs. Bretton, as a rule, disapproved of sweet cake at tea, but still
the request was urged,—“One little piece—only for him—as he goes to
school: girls—such as me and Miss Snowe—don’t need treats, but _he_
would like it.”
Graham did like it very well, and almost always got it. To do him
justice, he would have shared his prize with her to whom he owed it;
but that was never allowed: to insist, was to ruffle her for the
evening. To stand by his knee, and monopolize his talk and notice, was
the reward she wanted—not a share of the cake.
With curious readiness did she adapt herself to such themes as
interested him. One would have thought the child had no mind or life of
her own, but must necessarily live, move, and have her being in
another: now that her father was taken from her, she nestled to Graham,
and seemed to feel by his feelings: to exist in his existence. She
learned the names of all his schoolfellows in a trice: she got by heart
their characters as given from his lips: a single description of an
individual seemed to suffice. She never forgot, or confused identities:
she would talk with him the whole evening about people she had never
seen, and appear completely to realise their aspect, manners, and
dispositions. Some she learned to mimic: an under-master, who was an
aversion of young Bretton’s, had, it seems, some peculiarities, which
she caught up in a moment from Graham’s representation, and rehearsed
for his amusement; this, however, Mrs. Bretton disapproved and forbade.
The pair seldom quarrelled; yet once a rupture occurred, in which her
feelings received a severe shock.
One day Graham, on the occasion of his birthday, had some friends—lads
of his own age—to dine with him. Paulina took much interest in the
coming of these friends; she had frequently heard of them; they were
amongst those of whom Graham oftenest spoke. After dinner, the young
gentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, where they soon
became very merry and made a good deal of noise. Chancing to pass
through the hall, I found Paulina sitting alone on the lowest step of
the staircase, her eyes fixed on the glossy panels of the dining-room
door, where the reflection of the hall-lamp was shining; her little
brow knit in anxious meditation.
“What are you thinking about, Polly?”
“Nothing particular; only I wish that door was clear glass—that I might
see through it. The boys seem very cheerful, and I want to go to them:
I want to be with Graham, and watch his friends.”
“What hinders you from going?”
“I feel afraid: but may I try, do you think? May I knock at the door,
and ask to be let in?”
I thought perhaps they might not object to have her as a playmate, and
therefore encouraged the attempt.
She knocked—too faintly at first to be heard, but on a second essay the
door unclosed; Graham’s head appeared; he looked in high spirits, but
impatient.
“What do you want, you little monkey?”
“To come to you.”
“Do you indeed? As if I would be troubled with you! Away to mamma and
Mistress Snowe, and tell them to put you to bed.” The auburn head and
bright flushed face vanished,—the door shut peremptorily. She was
stunned.
“Why does he speak so? He never spoke so before,” she said in
consternation. “What have I done?”
“Nothing, Polly; but Graham is busy with his school-friends.”
“And he likes them better than me! He turns me away now they are here!”
I had some thoughts of consoling her, and of improving the occasion by
inculcating some of those maxims of philosophy whereof I had ever a
tolerable stock ready for application. She stopped me, however, by
putting her fingers in her ears at the first words I uttered, and then
lying down on the mat with her face against the flags; nor could either
Warren or the cook root her from that position: she was allowed to lie,
therefore, till she chose to rise of her own accord.
Graham forgot his impatience the same evening, and would have accosted
her as usual when his friends were gone, but she wrenched herself from
his hand; her eye quite flashed; she would not bid him good-night; she
would not look in his face. The next day he treated her with
indifference, and she grew like a bit of marble. The day after, he
teased her to know what was the matter; her lips would not unclose. Of
course he could not feel real anger on his side: the match was too
unequal in every way; he tried soothing and coaxing. “Why was she so
angry? What had he done?” By-and-by tears answered him; he petted her,
and they were friends. But she was one on whom such incidents were not
lost: I remarked that never after this rebuff did she seek him, or
follow him, or in any way solicit his notice. I told her once to carry
a book or some other article to Graham when he was shut up in his
study.
“I shall wait till he comes out,” said she, proudly; “I don’t choose to
give him the trouble of rising to open the door.”
Young Bretton had a favourite pony on which he often rode out; from the
window she always watched his departure and return. It was her ambition
to be permitted to have a ride round the courtyard on this pony; but
far be it from her to ask such a favour. One day she descended to the
yard to watch him dismount; as she leaned against the gate, the longing
wish for the indulgence of a ride glittered in her eye.
“Come, Polly, will you have a canter?” asked Graham, half carelessly.
I suppose she thought he was _too_ careless.
“No, thank you,” said she, turning away with the utmost coolness.
“You’d better,” pursued he. “You will like it, I am sure.”