Villette
appeared that she had proposed to herself the task of hiding that
feeling, and bridling her lover’s ardour. But how could such letters
serve such a purpose? Graham was become dear as her life; he drew her
like a powerful magnet. For her there was influence unspeakable in all
he uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With this unconfessed
confession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, from greeting to
adieu.
“I wish papa knew; I _do_ wish papa knew!” began now to be her anxious
murmur. “I wish, and yet I fear. I can hardly keep Graham back from
telling him. There is nothing I long for more than to have this affair
settled—to speak out candidly; and yet I dread the crisis. I know, I am
certain, papa will be angry at the first; I fear he will dislike me
almost; it will seem to him an untoward business; it will be a
surprise, a shock: I can hardly foresee its whole effect on him.”
The fact was—her father, long calm, was beginning to be a little
stirred: long blind on one point, an importunate light was beginning to
trespass on his eye.
To _her_, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at, or perhaps
thinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her.
One evening—Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, to
Graham; she had left me in the library, reading—M. de Bassompierre came
in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me to
remain—gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. He
had taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened a
desk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this book
he studied a certain entry for several minutes.
“Miss Snowe,” said he, laying it down, “do you know my little girl’s
age?”
“About eighteen, is it not, sir?”
“It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of
May, in the year 18—, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the
just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve—fourteen—an
indefinite date; but she seemed a child.”
“She is about eighteen,” I repeated. “She is grown up; she will be no
taller.”
“My little jewel!” said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated
like some of his daughter’s accents.
He sat very thoughtful.
“Sir, don’t grieve,” I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken
as they were.
“She is the only pearl I have,” he said; “and now others will find out
that she is pure and of price: they will covet her.”
I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had
shone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom
embellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus
of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which
compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate
the origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. de
Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the
direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he
was logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided
him through a long labyrinth.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“She is up-stairs.”
“What is she doing?”
“She is writing.”
“She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?”
“None but such as she can show me. And—sir—she—_they_ have long wanted
to consult you.”
“Pshaw! They don’t think of me—an old father! I am in the way.”
“Ah, M. de Bassompierre—not so—that can’t be! But Paulina must speak
for herself: and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate.”
“It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems.”
“Sir, till you approve, nothing is done—only they love each other.”
“Only!” he echoed.
Invested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I was
obliged to go on: “Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point
of appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears you
mortally.”
“He may well—he may well fear me. He has touched the best thing I have.
Had he but let her alone, she would have remained a child for years
yet. So. Are they engaged?”
“They could not become engaged without your permission.”
“It is well for you, Miss Snowe, to talk and think with that propriety
which always characterizes you; but this matter is a grief to me; my
little girl was all I had: I have no more daughters and no son; Bretton
might as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich and
pretty women who would not, I daresay, dislike him: he has looks, and
conduct, and connection. Would nothing serve him but my Polly?”
“If he had never seen your ‘Polly,’ others might and would have pleased
him—your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance.”
“Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly!—I
can’t let him have her. No—I can’t. He is not her equal,” he affirmed,
rather gruffly. “In what particular is he her match? They talk of
fortune! I am not an avaricious or interested man, but the world thinks
of these things—and Polly will be rich.”
“Yes, that is known,” said I: “all Villette knows her as an heiress.”
“Do they talk of my little girl in that light?”
“They do, sir.”
He fell into deep thought. I ventured to say, “Would you, sir, think
any one Paulina’s match? Would you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Do
you think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference in your
feelings towards a future son-in-law?”
“You touch me there,” said he.
“Look at the aristocracy of Villette—you would not like them, sir?”
“I should not—never a duc, baron, or vicomte of the lot.”
“I am told many of these persons think about her, sir,” I went on,
gaining courage on finding that I met attention rather than repulse.
“Other suitors will come, therefore, if Dr. Bretton is refused.
Wherever you go, I suppose, aspirants will not be wanting. Independent
of heiress-ship, it appears to me that Paulina charms most of those who
see her.”
“Does she? How? My little girl is not thought a beauty.”
“Sir, Miss de Bassompierre is very beautiful.”
“Nonsense!—begging your pardon, Miss Snowe, but I think you are too
partial. I like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks—but then I
am her father; and even I never thought about beauty. She is amusing,
fairy-like, interesting to me;—you must be mistaken in supposing her
handsome?”
“She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of your
wealth and position.”
“My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thought
so——”
“Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, M. de
Bassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would—as _you_ would
yourself, under the same circumstances—but they are not his baits. He
loves your daughter very much; he feels her finest qualities, and they
influence him worthily.”
“What! has my little pet ‘fine qualities?’”
“Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men of eminence
and learning dined here?”
“I certainly was rather struck and surprised with her manner that day;
its womanliness made me smile.”
“And did you see those accomplished Frenchmen gather round her in the
drawing-room?”
“I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation—as one might amuse
one’s self with a pretty infant.”
“Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the French
gentlemen say she was ‘pétrie d’esprit et de graces.’ Dr. Bretton
thought the same.”
“She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I _do_ believe she has
some character. When I think of it, I was once ill; Polly nursed me;
they thought I should die; she, I recollect, grew at once stronger and
tenderer as I grew worse in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeam
she was in my sick-room! Yes; she played about my chair as noiselessly
and as cheerful as light. And now she is sought in marriage! I don’t
want to part with her,” said he, and he groaned.
“You have known Dr. and Mrs. Bretton so long,” I suggested, “it would
be less like separation to give her to him than to another.”
He reflected rather gloomily.
“True. I have long known Louisa Bretton,” he murmured. “She and I are
indeed old, old friends; a sweet, kind girl she was when she was young.
You talk of beauty, Miss Snowe! _she_ was handsome, if you will—tall,
straight, and blooming—not the mere child or elf my Polly seems to me:
at eighteen, Louisa had a carriage and stature fit for a princess. She
is a comely and a good woman now. The lad is like her; I have always
thought so, and favoured and wished him well. Now he repays me by this
robbery! My little treasure used to love her old father dearly and
truly. It is all over now, doubtless—I am an incumbrance.”
The door opened—his “little treasure” came in. She was dressed, so to
speak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes with the
close of day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimson
heightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lily
neck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she
had brought in her hand the letter just written—brought it folded but
unsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping step
faltered a little, paused a moment—the colour in her cheek flowed rosy
over her whole face.
“Polly,” said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile,
“do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new.”
“I don’t blush—I never _do_ blush,” affirmed she, while another eddy
from the heart sent up its scarlet. “But I thought you were in the
dining-room, and I wanted Lucy.”
“You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just
been called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter
for you; it will save Matthieu a ‘course,’ as he calls it.”
“I don’t post letters,” said she, rather pettishly.
“What do you do with them, then?—come here and tell me.”
Both her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second—to say “Shall I
come?”—but she approached.
“How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seems
yesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutely
with both hands at the pen.”
“Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag;
they are only notes, which I give now and then into the person’s hands,
just to satisfy.”
“The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?”
“No, papa—not Lucy.”
“Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?”
“No, papa—not Mrs. Bretton.”
“Who, then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth.”
“Oh, papa!” she cried with earnestness, “I will—I _will_ tell you the
truth—all the truth; I am glad to tell you—glad, though I tremble.”
She _did_ tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and also
gathering courage, shook her.
“I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love you
above everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address.”
She laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his hand
shaking, his eyes glistening meantime.
He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful
amaze.
“Can _she_ write so—the little thing that stood at my knee but
yesterday? Can she feel so?”
“Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?”
“There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it pains
me.”
“But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me. I would give up
everything—almost” (correcting herself); “I would die rather than make
you unhappy; that would be too wicked!”
She shuddered.
“Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? It
shall, for your sake, if you order it.”
“I order nothing.”
“Order something, papa; express your wish; only don’t hurt, don’t
grieve Graham. I cannot, _cannot_ bear that. I love you, papa; but I
love Graham too—because—because—it is impossible to help it.”