Villette
And she settled herself, resting against my arm—resting gently, not
with honest Mistress Fanshawe’s fatiguing and selfish weight.
“A few minutes since you asked whether we had not heard from Graham
during our absence, and I said there were two letters for papa on
business; this was true, but I did not tell you all.”
“You evaded?”
“I shuffled and equivocated, you know. However, I am going to speak the
truth now; it is getting darker; one can talk at one’s ease. Papa often
lets me open the letter-bag and give him out the contents. One morning,
about three weeks ago, you don’t know how surprised I was to find,
amongst a dozen letters for M. de Bassompierre, a note addressed to
Miss de Bassompierre. I spied it at once, amidst all the rest; the
handwriting was not strange; it attracted me directly. I was going to
say, ‘Papa, here is another letter from Dr. Bretton;’ but the ‘Miss’
struck me mute. I actually never received a letter from a gentleman
before. Ought I to have shown it to papa, and let him open it and read
it first? I could not for my life, Lucy. I know so well papa’s ideas
about me: he forgets my age; he thinks I am a mere school-girl; he is
not aware that other people see I am grown up as tall as I shall be;
so, with a curious mixture of feelings, some of them self-reproachful,
and some so fluttering and strong, I cannot describe them, I gave papa
his twelve letters—his herd of possessions—and kept back my one, my
ewe-lamb. It lay in my lap during breakfast, looking up at me with an
inexplicable meaning, making me feel myself a thing double-existent—a
child to that dear papa, but no more a child to myself. After breakfast
I carried my letter up-stairs, and having secured myself by turning the
key in the door, I began to study the outside of my treasure: it was
some minutes before I could get over the direction and penetrate the
seal; one does not take a strong place of this kind by instant
storm—one sits down awhile before it, as beleaguers say. Graham’s hand
is like himself, Lucy, and so is his seal—all clear, firm, and
rounded—no slovenly splash of wax—a full, solid, steady drop—a distinct
impress; no pointed turns harshly pricking the optic nerve, but a
clean, mellow, pleasant manuscript, that soothes you as you read. It is
like his face—just like the chiselling of his features: do you know his
autograph?”
“I have seen it: go on.”
“The seal was too beautiful to be broken, so I cut it round with my
scissors. On the point of reading the letter at last, I once more drew
back voluntarily; it was too soon yet to drink that draught—the sparkle
in the cup was so beautiful—I would watch it yet a minute. Then I
remembered all at once that I had not said my prayers that morning.
Having heard papa go down to breakfast a little earlier than usual, I
had been afraid of keeping him waiting, and had hastened to join him as
soon as dressed, thinking no harm to put off prayers till afterwards.
Some people would say I ought to have served God first and then man;
but I don’t think heaven could be jealous of anything I might do for
papa. I believe I am superstitious. A voice seemed now to say that
another feeling than filial affection was in question—to urge me to
pray before I dared to read what I so longed to read—to deny myself yet
a moment, and remember first a great duty. I have had these impulses
ever since I can remember. I put the letter down and said my prayers,
adding, at the end, a strong entreaty that whatever happened, I might
not be tempted or led to cause papa any sorrow, and might never, in
caring for others, neglect him. The very thought of such a possibility,
so pierced my heart that it made me cry. But still, Lucy, I felt that
in time papa would have to be taught the truth, managed, and induced to
hear reason.
“I read the letter. Lucy, life is said to be all disappointment. _I_
was not disappointed. Ere I read, and while I read, my heart did more
than throb—it trembled fast—every quiver seemed like the pant of an
animal athirst, laid down at a well and drinking; and the well proved
quite full, gloriously clear; it rose up munificently of its own
impulse; I saw the sun through its gush, and not a mote, Lucy, no moss,
no insect, no atom in the thrice-refined golden gurgle.
“Life,” she went on, “is said to be full of pain to some. I have read
biographies where the wayfarer seemed to journey on from suffering to
suffering; where Hope flew before him fast, never alighting so near, or
lingering so long, as to give his hand a chance of one realizing grasp.
I have read of those who sowed in tears, and whose harvest, so far from
being reaped in joy, perished by untimely blight, or was borne off by
sudden whirlwind; and, alas! some of these met the winter with empty
garners, and died of utter want in the darkest and coldest of the
year.”
“Was it their fault, Paulina, that they of whom you speak thus died?”
“Not always their fault. Some of them were good endeavouring people. I
am not endeavouring, nor actively good, yet God has caused me to grow
in sun, due moisture, and safe protection, sheltered, fostered, taught,
by my dear father; and now—now—another comes. Graham loves me.”
For some minutes we both paused on this climax.
“Does your father know?” I inquired, in a low voice.
“Graham spoke with deep respect of papa, but implied that he dared not
approach that quarter as yet; he must first prove his worth: he added
that he must have some light respecting myself and my own feelings ere
he ventured to risk a step in the matter elsewhere.”
“How did you reply?”
“I replied briefly, but I did not repulse him. Yet I almost trembled
for fear of making the answer too cordial: Graham’s tastes are so
fastidious. I wrote it three times—chastening and subduing the phrases
at every rescript; at last, having confected it till it seemed to me to
resemble a morsel of ice flavoured with ever so slight a zest of fruit
or sugar, I ventured to seal and despatch it.”
“Excellent, Paulina! Your instinct is fine; you understand Dr.
Bretton.”
“But how must I manage about papa? There I am still in pain.”
“Do not manage at all. Wait now. Only maintain no further
correspondence till your father knows all, and gives his sanction.”
“Will he ever give it?”
“Time will show. Wait.”
“Dr. Bretton wrote one other letter, deeply grateful for my calm, brief
note; but I anticipated your advice, by saying, that while my
sentiments continued the same, I could not, without my father’s
knowledge, write again.”
“You acted as you ought to have done; so Dr. Bretton will feel: it will
increase his pride in you, his love for you, if either be capable of
increase. Paulina, that gentle hoar-frost of yours, surrounding so much
pure, fine flame, is a priceless privilege of nature.”
“You see I feel Graham’s disposition,” said she. “I feel that no
delicacy can be too exquisite for his treatment.”
“It is perfectly proved that you comprehend him, and then—whatever Dr.
Bretton’s disposition, were he one who expected to be more nearly
met—you would still act truthfully, openly, tenderly, with your
father.”
“Lucy, I trust I shall thus act always. Oh, it will be pain to wake
papa from his dream, and tell him I am no more a little girl!”
“Be in no hurry to do so, Paulina. Leave the revelation to Time and
your kind Fate. I also have noticed the gentleness of her cares for
you: doubt not she will benignantly order the circumstances, and fitly
appoint the hour. Yes: I have thought over your life just as you have
yourself thought it over; I have made comparisons like those to which
you adverted. We know not the future, but the past has been propitious.
“As a child I feared for you; nothing that has life was ever more
susceptible than your nature in infancy: under harshness or neglect,
neither your outward nor your inward self would have ripened to what
they now are. Much pain, much fear, much struggle, would have troubled
the very lines of your features, broken their regularity, would have
harassed your nerves into the fever of habitual irritation; you would
have lost in health and cheerfulness, in grace and sweetness.
Providence has protected and cultured you, not only for your own sake,
but I believe for Graham’s. His star, too, was fortunate: to develop
fully the best of his nature, a companion like you was needed: there
you are, ready. You must be united. I knew it the first day I saw you
together at La Terrasse. In all that mutually concerns you and Graham
there seems to me promise, plan, harmony. I do not think the sunny
youth of either will prove the forerunner of stormy age. I think it is
deemed good that you two should live in peace and be happy—not as
angels, but as few are happy amongst mortals. Some lives _are_ thus
blessed: it is God’s will: it is the attesting trace and lingering
evidence of Eden. Other lives run from the first another course. Other
travellers encounter weather fitful and gusty, wild and variable—breast
adverse winds, are belated and overtaken by the early closing winter
night. Neither can this happen without the sanction of God; and I know
that, amidst His boundless works, is somewhere stored the secret of
this last fate’s justice: I know that His treasures contain the proof
as the promise of its mercy.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE.
On the first of May, we had all—i.e. the twenty boarders and the four
teachers—notice to rise at five o’clock of the morning, to be dressed
and ready by six, to put ourselves under the command of M. le
Professeur Emanuel, who was to head our march forth from Villette, for
it was on this day he proposed to fulfil his promise of taking us to
breakfast in the country. I, indeed, as the reader may perhaps
remember, had not had the honour of an invitation when this excursion
was first projected—rather the contrary; but on my now making allusion
to this fact, and wishing to know how it was to be, my ear received a
pull, of which I did not venture to challenge the repetition by
raising, further difficulties.
“Je vous conseille de vous faire prier,” said M. Emanuel, imperially
menacing the other ear. One Napoleonic compliment, however, was enough,
so I made up my mind to be of the party.
The morning broke calm as summer, with singing of birds in the garden,
and a light dew-mist that promised heat. We all said it would be warm,
and we all felt pleasure in folding away heavy garments, and in
assuming the attire suiting a sunny season. The clean fresh print
dress, and the light straw bonnet, each made and trimmed as the French
workwoman alone can make and trim, so as to unite the utterly
unpretending with the perfectly becoming, was the rule of costume.
Nobody flaunted in faded silk; nobody wore a second-hand best article.
At six the bell rang merrily, and we poured down the staircase, through
the carré, along the corridor, into the vestibule. There stood our
Professor, wearing, not his savage-looking paletôt and severe
bonnet-grec, but a young-looking belted blouse and cheerful straw hat.
He had for us all the kindest good-morrow, and most of us for him had a
thanksgiving smile. We were marshalled in order and soon started.
The streets were yet quiet, and the boulevards were fresh and peaceful
as fields. I believe we were very happy as we walked along. This chief
of ours had the secret of giving a certain impetus to happiness when he
would; just as, in an opposite mood, he could give a thrill to fear.
He did not lead nor follow us, but walked along the line, giving a word
to every one, talking much to his favourites, and not wholly neglecting
even those he disliked. It was rather my wish, for a reason I had, to
keep slightly aloof from notice, and being paired with Ginevra