Villette
escaped him. He did not miss one characteristic movement, one
hesitation in language, or one lisp in utterance. At times, in speaking
fast, she still lisped; but coloured whenever such lapse occurred, and
in a painstaking, conscientious manner, quite as amusing as the slight
error, repeated the word more distinctly.
Whenever she did this, Dr. Bretton smiled. Gradually, as they
conversed, the restraint on each side slackened: might the conference
have but been prolonged, I believe it would soon have become genial:
already to Paulina’s lip and cheek returned the wreathing, dimpling
smile; she lisped once, and forgot to correct herself. And Dr. John, I
know not how _he_ changed, but change he did. He did not grow gayer—no
raillery, no levity sparkled across his aspect—but his position seemed
to become one of more pleasure to himself, and he spoke his augmented
comfort in readier language, in tones more suave. Ten years ago this
pair had always found abundance to say to each other; the intervening
decade had not narrowed the experience or impoverished the intelligence
of either: besides, there are certain natures of which the mutual
influence is such, that the more they say, the more they have to say.
For these out of association grows adhesion, and out of adhesion,
amalgamation.
Graham, however, must go: his was a profession whose claims are neither
to be ignored nor deferred. He left the room; but before he could leave
the house there was a return. I am sure he came back—not for the paper,
or card in his desk, which formed his ostensible errand—but to assure
himself, by one more glance, that Paulina’s aspect was really such as
memory was bearing away: that he had not been viewing her somehow by a
partial, artificial light, and making a fond mistake. No! he found the
impression true—rather, indeed, he gained than lost by this return: he
took away with him a parting look—shy, but very soft—as beautiful, as
innocent, as any little fawn could lift out of its cover of fern, or
any lamb from its meadow-bed.
Being left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time: we both
took out some work, and plied a mute and diligent task. The white-wood
workbox of old days was now replaced by one inlaid with precious
mosaic, and furnished with implements of gold; the tiny and trembling
fingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now
swift and skilful: but there was the same busy knitting of the brow,
the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and
movements—now to replace a stray tress, and anon to shake from the
silken skirt some imaginary atom of dust—some clinging fibre of thread.
That morning I was disposed for silence: the austere fury of the
winter-day had on me an awing, hushing influence. That passion of
January, so white and so bloodless, was not yet spent: the storm had
raved itself hoarse, but seemed no nearer exhaustion. Had Ginevra
Fanshawe been my companion in that drawing-room, she would not have
suffered me to muse and listen undisturbed. The presence just gone from
us would have been her theme; and how she would have rung the changes
on one topic! how she would have pursued and pestered me with questions
and surmises—worried and oppressed me with comments and confidences I
did not want, and longed to avoid.
Paulina Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet but penetrating
glance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened, as if to the
impulse of coming utterance: but she saw and delicately respected my
inclination for silence.
“This will not hold long,” I thought to myself; for I was not
accustomed to find in women or girls any power of self-control, or
strength of self-denial. As far as I knew them, the chance of a gossip
about their usually trivial secrets, their often very washy and paltry
feelings, was a treat not to be readily foregone.
The little Countess promised an exception: she sewed till she was tired
of sewing, and then she took a book.
As chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton’s own
compartment of the bookcase; and it proved to be an old Bretton
book—some illustrated work of natural history. Often had I seen her
standing at Graham’s side, resting that volume on his knee, and reading
to his tuition; and, when the lesson was over, begging, as a treat,
that he would tell her all about the pictures. I watched her keenly:
here was a true test of that memory she had boasted; would her
recollections now be faithful?
Faithful? It could not be doubted. As she turned the leaves, over her
face passed gleam after gleam of expression, the least intelligent of
which was a full greeting to the Past. And then she turned to the
title-page, and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. She
looked at it long; nor was she satisfied with merely looking: she
gently passed over the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying
the action with an unconscious but tender smile, which converted the
touch into a caress. Paulina loved the Past; but the peculiarity of
this little scene was, that she _said_ nothing: she could feel without
pouring out her feelings in a flux of words.
She now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly an hour; taking
down volume after volume, and renewing her acquaintance with each. This
done, she seated herself on a low stool, rested her cheek on her hand,
and thought, and still was mute.
The sound of the front door opened below, a rush of cold wind, and her
father’s voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the hall, startled her at
last. She sprang up: she was down-stairs in one second.
“Papa! papa! you are not going out?”
“My pet, I must go into town.”
“But it is too—_too_ cold, papa.”
And then I heard M. de Bassompierre showing to her how he was well
provided against the weather; and how he was going to have the
carriage, and to be quite snugly sheltered; and, in short, proving that
she need not fear for his comfort.
“But you will promise to come back here this evening, before it is
quite dark;—you and Dr. Bretton, both, in the carriage? It is not fit
to ride.”
“Well, if I see the Doctor, I will tell him a lady has laid on him her
commands to take care of his precious health and come home early under
my escort.”
“Yes, you must say a lady; and he will think it is his mother, and be
obedient. And, papa, mind to come soon, for I _shall_ watch and
listen.”
The door closed, and the carriage rolled softly through the snow; and
back returned the Countess, pensive and anxious.
She _did_ listen, and watch, when evening closed; but it was in
stillest sort: walking the drawing-room with quite noiseless step. She
checked at intervals her velvet march; inclined her ear, and consulted
the night sounds: I should rather say, the night silence; for now, at
last, the wind was fallen. The sky, relieved of its avalanche, lay
naked and pale: through the barren boughs of the avenue we could see it
well, and note also the polar splendour of the new-year moon—an orb
white as a world of ice. Nor was it late when we saw also the return of
the carriage.
Paulina had no dance of welcome for this evening. It was with a sort of
gravity that she took immediate possession of her father, as he entered
the room; but she at once made him her entire property, led him to the
seat of her choice, and, while softly showering round him honeyed words
of commendation for being so good and coming home so soon, you would
have thought it was entirely by the power of her little hands he was
put into his chair, and settled and arranged; for the strong man seemed
to take pleasure in wholly yielding himself to this dominion-potent
only by love.
Graham did not appear till some minutes after the Count. Paulina half
turned when his step was heard: they spoke, but only a word or two;
their fingers met a moment, but obviously with slight contact. Paulina
remained beside her father; Graham threw himself into a seat on the
other side of the room.
It was well that Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home had a great deal to say to
each other—almost an inexhaustible fund of discourse in old
recollections; otherwise, I think, our party would have been but a
still one that evening.
After tea, Paulina’s quick needle and pretty golden thimble were busily
plied by the lamp-light, but her tongue rested, and her eyes seemed
reluctant to raise often their lids, so smooth and so full-fringed.
Graham, too, must have been tired with his day’s work: he listened
dutifully to his elders and betters, said very little himself, and
followed with his eye the gilded glance of Paulina’s thimble; as if it
had been some bright moth on the wing, or the golden head of some
darting little yellow serpent.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A BURIAL.
From this date my life did not want variety; I went out a good deal,
with the entire consent of Madame Beck, who perfectly approved the
grade of my acquaintance. That worthy directress had never from the
first treated me otherwise than with respect; and when she found that I
was liable to frequent invitations from a château and a great hotel,
respect improved into distinction.
Not that she was fulsome about it: Madame, in all things worldly, was
in nothing weak; there was measure and sense in her hottest pursuit of
self-interest, calm and considerateness in her closest clutch of gain;
without, then, laying herself open to my contempt as a time-server and
a toadie, she marked with tact that she was pleased people connected
with her establishment should frequent such associates as must
cultivate and elevate, rather than those who might deteriorate and
depress. She never praised either me or my friends; only once when she
was sitting in the sun in the garden, a cup of coffee at her elbow and
the Gazette in her hand, looking very comfortable, and I came up and
asked leave of absence for the evening, she delivered herself in this
gracious sort:—
“Oui, oui, ma bonne amie: je vous donne la permission de cœur et de
gré. Votre travail dans ma maison a toujours été admirable, rempli de
zèle et de discrétion: vous avez bien le droit de vous amuser. Sortez
donc tant que vous voudrez. Quant à votre choix de connaissances, j’en
suis contente; c’est sage, digne, laudable.”
She closed her lips and resumed the Gazette.
The reader will not too gravely regard the little circumstance that
about this time the triply-enclosed packet of five letters temporarily
disappeared from my bureau. Blank dismay was naturally my first
sensation on making the discovery; but in a moment I took heart of
grace.
“Patience!” whispered I to myself. “Let me say nothing, but wait
peaceably; they will come back again.”
And they did come back: they had only been on a short visit to Madame’s
chamber; having passed their examination, they came back duly and
truly: I found them all right the next day.
I wonder what she thought of my correspondence? What estimate did she
form of Dr. John Bretton’s epistolary powers? In what light did the
often very pithy thoughts, the generally sound, and sometimes original
opinions, set, without pretension, in an easily-flowing, spirited
style, appear to her? How did she like that genial, half humorous vein,
which to me gave such delight? What did she think of the few kind words
scattered here and there—not thickly, as the diamonds were scattered in
the valley of Sindbad, but sparely, as those gems lie in unfabled beds?
Oh, Madame Beck! how seemed these things to you?
I think in Madame Beck’s eyes the five letters found a certain favour.
One day after she had _borrowed_ them of me (in speaking of so suave a
little woman, one ought to use suave terms), I caught her examining me
with a steady contemplative gaze, a little puzzled, but not at all
malevolent. It was during that brief space between lessons, when the